A diagnosis like this is a huge kick in the guts. It changes your life instantly and the lives of those close to you. It changes who you think you are, how others see you. It’s made me scared and sad and I cannot stop thinking about my mortality. How would I wrap up my life if I had to? What can I do to smooth the path forward? This time I have teenagers so there are now four people in the direct line of fire. How do I manage that?
I am trying to be positive. At this stage I am thinking of the diagnosis as the lowest point in a cancer journey of many steps. As long as each step goes up, I will eventually reach higher ground again.
“ Being angry is okay. Being sad is okay. But there is a job to do and I don’t have time for either .”
I honestly felt quite relieved when the diagnosis came because I had been so sick for months. It was good to have something to blame, something to fight, a way forward. The first step up. My wife felt entirely different. When I called her from the hospital with the news, she was minutes away and, by the time she reached me in an empty day surgery ward at 9pm, she was angry at the universe. All Penni wanted to do was punch and kick walls. The one nurse on duty said that would be just fine because the three of us were all that were left in the ward at that time of day. Instead, she let fly with the expletives. Being angry is OK. Being sad is OK. But there is a job to do and I don’t have time for either.
We caught the tumour early and so the prognosis for survival is good. The second step up. But just surviving isn’t really the goal. I bounced back pretty well from cancer as a kid but round two – oesophageal cancer – really took its toll. With survival likely although never guaranteed, my thoughts turned to quality of life. It was hard to listen to the surgeon explain the operation. I’m losing another body part. The human body is carefully engineered to have two legs, an oesophagus and a rectum. They all have a role to play and, although you can live without all three, it really is not advisable. That felt like a step down.
bowel cancer felt like an act of defiance – a little “FU cancer”, the
tiniest step towards recovery.
The next step is surgery. I’m banking on that being a big step up. The recovery will be tough, even with the best outcome. But I’ve done it before. Twice. I know it gets better. I know I can heal. I know I can not only survive but also get back to doing at least some of the things I love: rollerblading, cycling, skiing, living. I’m looking forward to reaching that top step and walking on level ground, even if it’s only some days.
Penni and I had travelled to Sydney and the wonderful Chris O’Brien Lighthouse for the colonoscopy and subsequent diagnosis. The first thing we did that night when we left the hospital was to call the kids, back home in Canberra to share the crappy news. We sat in the car in a dark alley out the back of the hospital and told them I had bowel cancer. We tried to answer their questions as best we could but all we wanted to do was be there to hold them, reassure them and just cry or scream together as a family. Our daughter asked a bunch of questions and our son almost none. Shell-shocked or just not taking it all in? We had to leave the aftermath to our 17-year-old daughter.
I decided it was time for ice cream. Lots of ice cream. But not just any ice cream: my favourite. So, that’s what Penni and I did, because three separate cancer diagnoses before 50 is a lot to digest but ice cream goes down super easy. It felt defiant, like a small step in the right direction.
He will be targeting qualification in all five alpine events: slalom, giant slalom, super-G, downhill, and the combined – an event that didn’t exist at his last games.
“After everything I’ve been through – two cancer battles since my retirement from ski racing 20 years ago, surgeries, post-cancer fatigssssue – it might sound crazy to be thinking about elite racing again,” said Milton.
“But skiing is what I love. It’s who I am. Setting a big goal like this gives me focus, motivation, and energy. I don’t want to sit still; I want to live as fully as I can.”
As he is not part of the current Australian Winter Paralympic squad and therefore not funded by any official program, Michael is self-funding the training, travel and competitions on the journey to the Paralympic Games in Italy in March. The window is short and the funding is scarce.
“I would love to work with a sponsor, or two, to help cover the costs. I can’t do this on my own and perhaps there is an exec at a big company out there who can see an opportunity to use my journey back to the Paralympic Games to encourage people to dream big, set goals and live life with passion.”
Michael’s imminent departure means leaving behind his family and his business, Quizzic Alley in Canberra, for up to four months.
“I am so fortunate to have the full support of my family. My kids have never seen me compete and I would love to have them and my wife there in Italy in March to watch.”
His return comes at a time of significant growth in Australia’s Winter Paralympic program. Cortina 2026 will see the debut of an Australian Para Nordic team and the largest contingent of winter athletes ever sent.
“I know it’s going to be hard. But that’s not a reason not to go for it,” said Michael.