Rogue trader's cancer battle

Nick Leeson tells Lorna Siggins he had one more shock when he passed through prison gates.

Nick Leeson tells Lorna Siggins he had one more shock when he passed through prison gates.

He's known as the "man who sank the bank". Nick Leeson still believed he was immortal when he was sent to prison for his role in the Barings collapse with losses of £860 million almost a decade ago.

"I was 31 years old when I got sick, and my only thought then was that I might have a heart attack. Really, I believed I was undefeatable (sic). The last thing I ever expected was to be diagnosed with cancer," he says.

Yet in August, 1998, he learned that he had colo-rectal cancer, and underwent emergency surgery to remove a third of his colon. The colonic resection was followed by chemotherapy and further treatment. Released from prison in July 1999 after a four-year sentence, Leeson is back in the full of his health living with his second wife, Leona, in Barna, Co Galway, and the couple are expecting their first child in August.

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He firmly believes that empowerment was the key to his recovery. "It was then that I started to get better," he recalls. "A friend sent me Chicken Soup for the Surviving Soul, and I also got a book on everything one needed to know about colon cancer. It was when I studied the success stories that I began to turn around."

However, Leeson admits that the first hurdle was in accepting that he was so seriously ill - and in convincing the prison doctor that he wasn't a malingerer. "It was back in February 1999, there were three of us in the cell, and the system in the prison involved changing your cellmates periodically. On that particular occasion, I refused. They sent me to the punishment cells and I got diarrhoea."

"Everyone was remarking on my weight loss. I had a base weight of 79 to 80 kilos, and I used to exercise two to three hours a day because there was nothing else to do. I began to notice that I felt quite dizzy after finishing. I remember the doctor gave me an ECG, tested me for AIDS and just about everything else. When I explained about my dizziness he told me that I was getting old.

"Because the doctor wasn't worried, I wasn't worried. He was testing my haemoglobin levels monthly after that, and they continued to drop. Then I found that I couldn't take the iron that he had prescribed for me."

He was referred to another doctor who found a lump immediately and "warded" him. "As colon cancer isn't so prevalent in Asia, I remember that I aroused a lot of interest among the medical staff."

He had an endoscopy, a colonoscopy, was told that he had a tumour and was sent back to his prison ward. "A doctor came around six or seven hours later and told me it was cancer. The operation was scheduled for August 15th, and on the 9th I woke up and couldn't eat, couldn't pass water, my stomach was distended. They gave me shots and a colonic irrigation."

Prisoners were chained to the bed, and had to put their hands up to draw the attention of an armed warder if they wanted to go to the toilet. "On this occasion, I collapsed. They found me curled around the toilet, and did X-rays and operated immediately. I was very lucky in a sense that the prison was terrified of any bad publicity, and so I think I got one of the top specialists in Singapore."

During the chemotherapy, he began to inform himself. "The doctors had told me that I had a 60 per cent chance of living for five years. It is a ludicrous way of explaining it to someone who doesn't know too much. At the same time, you don't want a lot of information at the beginning. I now realise that fear is only a lack of knowledge - about something that you can actually do something about."

When Leeson returned to Britain, his first wife, Lisa, had already divorced him. His mother had passed away when he was a teenager. "She had lung cancer, but in fact she died of a blood clot." His father was diagnosed with myloma about the same time that he became ill. "It is a condition that he has been able to live with."

Leeson had colonoscopies every year and other tests, but has now passed the "five-year mark" which allows him to extend the period between checks. "I am far more conscious of diet, exercise and all that now, and I run most days a week."

He believes that the lifestyle he led before his arrest and imprisonment was a contributory factor to his illness. "There was a lot of drinking, not exercising, and nobody I could turn to when I found that I was keeping a lot of what was happening at work to myself.

"I don't eat so much red meat any more, and eat lots of vegetables and fruit. I never smoked, so I was lucky. It has never changed my life in that it has never stopped me doing things I want to do." He was told there was a chance he might be sterile, but is delighted now that this is not so.

He hates calling cancer a disease, and also wonders about spending so much money on finding a cure when there is a relative dearth of resources on support services. "Prevention, through information, is the first priority. After that, counselling and general support is so invaluable," he says. Lesson had no counselling for his condition when in prison, but kept a diary. In his work with several British charities, he had discovered the value of drop-in centres which allow those diagnosed with the condition to talk to someone.

"It can be very difficult to discuss it with someone close to you, because of the fear factor," he says. "Doctors can rarely give you the time you need, and that is where good, informed counselling comes in."

Though now the picture of health, Leeson says he doesn't feel "right" until he has passed a motion every day. "It's a psychological thing, but I find myself checking my stool and making sure it is regular. It is not the sort of thing you can talk about in the pub. I suppose I am so much more aware of the warning signs, and I would urge anyone who has unusual symptoms to seek medical advice immediately - and to seek a second opinion."

Leeson currently earns his income by public speaking and journalism. He is a contributor to a new magazine for gamblers, called Inside Track. "Yes, I know," he laughs, and recalls how someone compared it to "George Best writing for publicans"