Ben, Argentina

I can pinpoint the exact moment I knew something was wrong.

We were on holiday in Miami with my brother-in-law’s family. Normally I’m the one arguing for my choice of restaurant, my choice of plan — I always have an opinion, and I usually defend it. But that week I kept giving in. I told myself it was maturity. In reality, I just didn’t care.

One morning I was standing on the balcony, looking out at the sea, and it hit me — not dramatically, just plainly — that I was dying. I didn’t know why yet, but I knew.

The diagnosis confirmed it quickly enough. Sitting across from the doctor, hearing the words “colon cancer,” my first thought was: unpleasant, but operable. Then came “metastasis in the liver,” and there was the real blow. Stage 4. Long-term chemo. The kind of prognosis you don’t want to Google.

But even then there was a tiny crack of light: about 1% of patients manage to beat the odds. And I realised immediately that I had only one option. If there was a 1% to aim for, I’d go all-in. No hesitation, no saving things “for later.” There wasn’t going to be a later unless I made one.

So I sold my business. I walked away from thirty years in the film industry. I made surviving my full-time job. I took apart every area of my life — food, training, stress, habits, everything — and rebuilt it.

By the end of 2022, the cancer had settled down enough that for the first time surgery became an option. The plan was simple: remove the primary tumour. Six days in hospital.

It didn’t turn out like that.

I woke up from surgery knowing something didn’t feel right, but everyone assumed I was just being weak with pain. On the third day, sitting up in bed, I felt the rupture — excruciating pain, a bubble of fluid rising through my abdomen. I knew instantly: this was serious. Emergency surgery saved my life, but I woke with a colostomy and a raging infection. Six days became six weeks. I dropped 15 kilos and could barely walk round the block. And on top of that, the cancer was having a fiesta!

I asked my oncologist what the point of the surgery had been. It felt like I’d gone backwards. That’s when she told me there was something new — experimental, barely done anywhere — a living-donor liver transplant. But there was no point talking about it earlier because I wasn’t anywhere near eligible. Not yet.

So I started nine months of brutal chemo with one objective: get myself into the tiny window where the surgeons might consider me. I trained like an athlete because I had to tolerate the chemo, gain my weight back and get myself physically fit enough to tolerate major surgery. Swimming twice a week with a colostomy (which baffled the doctors), weights three times a week, six meals a day, psycho-oncology, anthroposophic oncology — if it could help, I did it. Every three months: tests. And every three months: “not yet.”

And then, out of the blue, during a chemo session, the surgeon called:

My levels were finally good enough.

I just needed a donor.

My brother-in-law offered. Incredibly, he was a match, he was fit enough & Even more incredibly, he was willing.

In December 2023 we checked into the hospital together. It was strange and comforting — walking in with someone who was literally going to give me a piece of himself. The transplant went perfectly. Smooth, precise, not a single hiccup. And immediately, I could feel it: the disease load had dropped so sharply that I had energy I hadn’t felt in years.

Even though chemo continued, something opened up in me. I picked up my camera again after four years of not touching it. At first it was a trickle. Then everything poured out — all the fear, strength, confusion, and stubborn hope of the last few years. I realised I had something I needed to express, something I felt an obligation to put into the world. That became my project BREATHE.

One thing I’ve learned is that cancer is extremely personal. My disease is mine — no two experiences line up exactly. So I don’t feel comfortable telling anyone how they should face theirs. People talk about “fighting cancer” as if it’s an external enemy. I’ve never felt that. I don’t hate it. I’ve taken ownership of it. My body — battered, stitched together, transplanted — still turns up every day. And I try to honour that by doing my part: clean food, no alcohol, sport, discipline, gratitude.

These days I swim, I lift, I walk my dogs, and — somehow — I’m back to making work again. A year ago I couldn’t have imagined having the energy for any of this. So yes, my health is undercontrol, but so is my life, my career — the whole thing is moving forward again. And as strange as it sounds, cancer doesn’t show up empty-handed. If you’re willing to rummage around, it brings a few gifts: clarity, urgency, and a new talent for not wasting time. Everything is good until it’s not, but whatever turns up next, I’ll face it with everything I’ve got, backed by the people who’ve literally kept me alive.

And right now — today, this hour — that’s enough.