As a young man, I never really aspired to be an MP. I always thought that it would be out of reach for a Kiwi battler like myself. But there was one life event that flipped the switch for me. Eight years ago, I was diagnosed with a cancer brick, and I'll never forget the day my doctor sat me down and said I had leukaemia. As a 33-year-old fit young man with a young family, it hit me hard. In an instant, I felt like I had moved from that strong father figure—the provider—to a patient whom my family wanted to wrap in cotton wool. I would lie awake at night wondering what would happen if I could no longer work full time. Would I have to sell the family home? Were my kids going to miss out on everyday things? No one could tell me. And then there was the crash course into the public health system and ongoing appointments. We would sit in the haematology department waiting room wondering what the results would be. As I sat there, I'd look at the faces of those who were in the hospital with me. You would see the despair of the daughter who was sitting with a newly diagnosed father, the comforting company of the nurse with the woman who had outlived her husband and now had no one to support her in her fight, and the young man who was contemplating how this could happen to him.