‘We Will Fight This to the End’

After years championing for others, a veteran firefighter faces a stage 4 prostate cancer diagnosis with honesty, resolve, and family at his side

I started getting regular blood work done in 2006, after my first heart scare. Nothing too crazy, but my cardiologist put me on a few meds and a requirement of blood tests every few months. Contained with the blood tests was a simple PSA test. Fast forward to March 2025 and getting results from another series of blood tests from my family doctor.

As we’re going through the numbers, I’m mentally preparing myself for something heart related when out of the blue he says, “your PSA is abnormally high and I’m sending you to a urologist for more tests, to determine if this is accurate.” Before I had left his office, I had an appointment to see a urologist, the next day.

Sitting in the car after the appointment, the thoughts kept running through my mind of the years spent lobbying our provincial governments for the first and then successive presumptive legislation on job-related cancers.

A Career Protecting Others Becomes Personal

From 2005 through to 2023, I had worked tirelessly with other firefighters, to achieve benefits for others, never once considering that these changes would ever apply to me or my family. I had spoken to widows and families, attended too many funerals over the years, and now here I was taking the first step on my own journey.

Driving home, all I could think about was what to tell my wife, Pam. We were alone fortunately, so we sat down and I told her I was being sent for additional tests resulting from my abnormal PSA results. Our first thought was, “What do we tell the kids?” We made the decision not to immediately tell anyone until the follow-up tests were completed and we knew definitively one way or the other. It was a roller coaster of emotions: guilt, anxiety, some frustration, and lots of debate, but in the end I believe the right decision was made. They did not need any extra stress.

Then we got the call on July 11, a beautiful sunny day, and heard the words I was somewhat suspecting but truly not ready for, “Gord, you’ve got cancer. It’s prostate, but not to worry, you’re in good hands. I’m away for the next couple of weeks and then we will meet to discuss treatment options.” I’m not sure anyone is truly ready for those words, and yes it was a gut punch, but I had been through worse and I wasn’t going to let this knock me down. It just didn’t seem that serious, as prostate cancer alone is “curable” and that was my thought.

Telling the Kids

It was then we decided to tell the kids and let them know what had been happening. At some point over the weekend, we told both our daughters the news and that we were going to beat whatever was in front of us. Surprisingly they were more upset at being kept in the dark versus what we were telling them.

A few days later was a different matter. We received a follow-up call from my urologist with a different diagnosis. It was determined that the cancer had metastasized into the nearby lymph nodes and the strategy had changed to be a lot more aggressive in containing it and stopping the growth. “I’ve referred you to the Cancer Agency, and they will initiate the next steps.”

This was the second gut punch in as many days, and this one stung. It knocked me to my knees, and it was all I could do to not break down in front of my wife. I needed to be strong.

So Many Questions and Emotions

We were advised that medications were ordered, as were consultations with various doctors at the BC Cancer Agency in Surrey, B.C., it was without a doubt a whirlwind of emotions as we came to terms with the fact I indeed had cancer, stage 4 at that. During one of the consultations, we were advised that this cancer “was treatable, not curable.” There was no cutting it out, just living with it. How was this going to change us? How would we tell people? It was all so surreal.

I remember asking Pam how she was doing, and without missing a beat she said, “we’re in this together and we will fight this to the end.” Pam had lost her own father to cancer, watching him suffer through the last months of his life, and I know this was certainly replaying in her mind, even though she wouldn’t say it. I am so grateful to have her by my side in all of this, stoically telling our story, and never losing hope. It was later that Pam confided in me that she had had her cry and was now ready to face the challenge as a couple, as a family.

We committed to staying the course with a preplanned family vacation and to not let it keep us from enjoying time away. I had started one hormone therapy drug prior to leaving and it was agreed that once we returned, I would start six weeks of radiation treatments. Sounds pretty simple until that first time you empty your bowel for two days prior and then fill your bladder for best results. I remember laying on the bed as the laser machine did its magic, whirling around me and thinking “what have I got myself into?” And then it was all I could do to run to the bathroom and empty the bladder once they said I was done. Still have to move quickly to the bathroom when the urge hits, not sure it will ever leave.

The Reality of Treatment

When you’re lying on the table looking at the ceiling, a lot of thoughts run through your mind as the laser machine does its work, your favorite music turned up for the next seven minutes, and your emotions just take over. Wondering just how aggressive this cancer was? Am I being told everything? Is there a timeline? What if the drugs and radiation don’t work? What will this do to me physically? Will I have a sex life again? Then the session was over. All to be repeated with every radiation session. The mind is a wonderful but cruel thing at times.

And of course, somehow all I was seeing were ads for leakage protection, insurance, plans for erectile dysfunction, and living life with prostate cancer. Getting out of the car with wet pants, not getting it up anymore, and more just seemed to bombard my TV and social media feeds. I just could not get away from it, I’m like, is this my f’ning future?

I made the decision not to share my journey openly. I wasn’t about shouting it from the rooftops or posting to social media. Others had it way worse. A couple of my brothers were in their final stages, and they deserved the attention, the support and the love our sister and brotherhood gave them. There were no complaints from me, I was in good hands, trusting of the medical process, but through it all there remained the mental anguish.

Sources of Strength

Thankfully, through this journey of ups and downs, the tears, and the laughter, we have been supported by our daughters Brittany, Kimberley (and son-in-law Cameron), family, friends near and far, and of course the sisterhood and brotherhood. We’ve never felt alone.

Early this past January, I shared my story as part of Fire Fighter Cancer Awareness Month, and did so in hopes of raising awareness to get tested. I was pretty blunt in saying, “If your doctor says no, be your best advocate and push harder for the testing, it’s your life.” So much is being done to eliminate cancer from our profession, but it remains your priority to get tested, do your proper decons, wear the right equipment and be healthy. Do it for you and your family.

Gord Ditchburn joined the Vancouver Fire Department in 1997. He was promoted to captain in 2021, before retiring from suppression duties on Engine 14 in 2024. Gord has served in a variety of union leadership roles during his career, including president of Local 18, president of the BC Professional Fire Fighters and Burn Fund, as well as a senior executive with the IAFF’s Canadian Office.