The Man Demon II

They say it’s in the spine now.

The oncologist spoke with measured words, careful and slow, but I stopped listening after “metastasised.” I nodded politely, as if he had told me rain would fall tomorrow — distant, half-denying.

Alone later, I searched the translation: advanced. Incurable. Progressive. I read it six times. Nothing shifted.

It wasn’t fear that rose. Shame did — dense, immediate, a weight pressing along my chest, as though I had been caught cheating at a game I barely understood.

Because of course I knew.

The nightly trips that went from once to twice to four times. The dull ache low in my back I blamed on the chair. The stream that lost its arc, the sex that lost its heat. The quiet slipping, decade by decade, of body warnings — brushed off, laughed off, drunk off.

I told myself I was fine. Tired. Busy. A man.
We wear decline like a badge: “Still working,” “Still driving.” As if competence proved health, as if function guaranteed immunity.

And now I’m here.
Not yet dying — just dissolving.

Cell by cell. Man by man.

What kills me isn’t the cancer. It’s the knowing. How long I ignored whispers that became white noise. How willingly I let my body’s alerts fade into background. I wore my symptoms like secrets. Not just from others — from myself.

I remember a day, maybe thirteen years ago.
At a urinal, counting the seconds to start. Thirteen. Then sixteen.
I joked with a mate: “middle-aged splashdown.”
He laughed. We all laughed. Men joke to convince themselves it’s temporary.

Time was already peeling me. Quietly. Systematically.

Opportunities missed. Physicals skipped. Blood tests ignored.
A GP once suggested follow-up; I told her, “Just stress.” She looked through me, knowing she would not see me again.

Regret feels soft. I want none of it.
I resent the arrogance, the laziness, the refusal to imagine a future where I wasn’t fine.
What do you call a man who walks willingly into his own unravelling?
I call him me.

Now I watch. Mirrors. Clinic reflections.
I look for who I was.
Not just the body thinning — the premise of me.
What am I without denial?
What do I believe in, when belief didn’t save me?

Metastatic cancer is not invasion. It is erasure.
Not dying — being rewritten in reverse.
You start as a man. End as a caution. A grief-shaped hole in lives that believed early meant lucky.

I wish I could end this with grace. With hope.
I won’t lie.
All I have left is honesty.

Early is not a number. It’s a choice. To stop mistaking survival for strength.

If your body has been trying to speak — listen.
The man demon doesn’t roar.
He waits. Whispers.
Carves a home cell by cell.
Until one day someone tells you he has already moved in.

Years of subtle drift. Morning stiffness curling through shoulders, spine aching, chest tight with shallow breaths. Afternoon fatigue fogging conversation. Joints whispering discontent after long chairs. Nights restless, stomach uneasy, hands tingling with tension.

Every signal was an invitation.
Ignored. Dismissed. Laughably normal.

The story of decline is never dramatic. It is slow, cumulative. A ledger of small betrayals. Habit becomes identity.

And yet, moments of clarity persist — frost-bright mornings at the bus stop, amber city light spilling across a balcony, laughter drifting from open windows. The body whispers through these fragments, reminding me of what is alive, of what is still mine.

Recognition arrives quietly. A breath held longer than usual. Fingers pressing the spine, feeling vertebrae shift. Eyes catching the light differently. A pause, a small realignment — a reclamation of presence.

––

These stories aren’t rare.
They are counted by the organs that remember. Each strain, each skipped signal, each tremor ignored — all tallied in quiet vigilance.

Most decline begins in silence — a cough dismissed, a breath shortened, a muscle that tires without warning. The body speaks first in whispers, then in tremors, before it can speak no more.

This is not a story of cure.
It is a story of listening. Of noticing, attending, moving with care — is not weakness. It is survival. Daily attention and respect for the body’s signals are the acknowledgments your organs have been demanding. 

Listening is awareness, not diagnosis.

––– Pause Here –––


If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.

Advisory

These stories are educational and reflective. They are not medical diagnoses. Individuals experiencing symptoms or existing conditions should consult a qualified healthcare professional.

Lingzhi is a traditional food, long used to support balance and general well-being.
It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease.
Individuals with existing medical conditions or those taking medication should consult a qualified healthcare professional before use. 

#SubHealthStories #HealthIsAHabit #EarlyIntervention #DailyCare #SilentSymptomsMatter #AwarenessBeforeIllness #MindfulBody #PreventiveWellbeing