The attack was the signal for a carefully laid Taliban ambush. Villagers scattered in all directions as the platoon came under withering fire from across the river, but amazingly there were no other casualties. Kevin called in for a dustoff chopper and ordered that smoke grenades be popped to mark our position but they landed too far away, so Kevin helped hustle my 200-pound carcass over a hundred metres to the chopper, where my Canadian stretcher had to be shoehorned into the American Black Hawk.
I never was comfortable with being called a cancer survivor. To me it gives too much power to cancer and not enough to the person. I like the term cancer veteran. Veteran is a much more active and participatory term than survivor.