Mike Willesee - Mike Willesee: Memoirs

About Memoirs

After thousands of stories, a legend finally tells his own.

Mike Willesee has been Australias most revered television journalist for over fifty years. And behind the lens, a businessman, powerbroker, trailblazer and enduring enigma.

Son of a minister in the Whitlam cabinet, Willesee was a football star before finding fame as a crusading journalist, and Vietnam War correspondent, for This Day Tonight and Four Corners. Later, as creator of A Current Affair, his interviews became news in themselves, attracting blockbuster ratings, wielding huge political power and transforming him into an icon.

In life, Willesee was a husband and father of six. He made a fortune in radio and television then lost it saving the Sydney Swans and battling his demons.

After a live on-air interview with gunmen secured the release of two children being held hostage, Willesee left ACA. He made acclaimed documentaries on subjects as diverse as stigmata and ancient tribes. He survived a plane crash, found God and fought cancer. But he never stopped seeking truth.

Memoirs is that truth the extraordinary story of Mike Willesees epic life.

For my youngest brother Peter, a very lovable larrikin, who defied his cancer prognosis to hold on and fly from Perth to Melbourne to witness his beloved Swans win the 2012 AFL Premiership.

He passed away soon after.

As legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans famously wrote, There are three sides to every story: your side, my side, and the truth. And no one is lying. Memories shared serve each differently.

I was in Los Angeles to interview Mel Gibson and Paul Hogan for Channel Sevens Sunday Night program when the crew came to me in my hotel room in a sombre mood.

Id had a bad night. The painkillers werent working so I had started alternating pills with alcohol. I thought I was okay, but clearly I wasnt.

I think weve got to cancel the Hogan interview tomorrow, one of the crew said. We need to take you to the hospital.

Why the hospital? I asked.

Well, he said, youve had too much to drink.

Id been drunk often enough in the past to know the feeling, though I usually controlled my drinking when I was working. Apparently not this time but hospital? Why the hospital? I repeated.

Theres something wrong with you. It looks like it could be a stroke or something.

I knew he was right. This wasnt just booze. I had never felt like this. I was frightened.

I went to the hospital where they ran a bunch of tests, including a brain scan, but they found nothing: This guys just had too much to drink.

I couldnt understand it. Why didnt I realise I was drinking this much? Why did the crew think Id had a stroke? Something wasnt right.

Wed already done the Mel Gibson interview but we canned the Paul Hogan story and returned to Australia. I did my voiceover for the Gibson piece but I was still in bad shape. My voice didnt sound right; when the story went to air some viewers thought it wasnt me.

I was having trouble sleeping too because the right side of my face the side I sleep on had started to hurt when I lay on it. If I rolled over, a terrible pain would shoot down my jaw and wake me. I chewed through the painkillers but they didnt help.

My doctor presumed there was an infection but couldnt find it so sent me to a dentist who pulled out two teeth. He sent me for some root canal work. I went to about seven dental appointments I hate the dentist and, at the end of it all, the pain was still there.

I dont think were getting anywhere, the dentist said. I think weve got it wrong. He sent me to an ear, nose and throat specialist.

The specialists rooms were the same as almost every other surgery in Australia, the ones we spend hours waiting in. He didnt look special.

He put his camera up my nose and down into my throat. Pulled it out again and looked at the pictures, zeroing in on an ugly, open red sore near my epiglottis. Finally, this guy who Id never met before put his hand on my shoulder and looked at me with soft eyes.

Im gone, I thought. Doctors youve never met before dont put their hands on your shoulder. Im fucked. Its cancer.

This is the hardest part of my job, he said.

Its harder for me than it is for you, pal.

I left the clinic and walked back to my car surprised that I was feeling so calm. Well, other people get cancer. Millions of them. I cant feel sorry for myself. Im just another person. No reason Im any different. Nothing has really changed. I just have a better idea of the future. Its my turn.

My thoughts turned to my six kids. How it would affect them. I had five adult children, but also a twelve-year-old son, Rok, who moved between his mothers house and mine. In recent months, he had lived with me. Just the two of us.

How am I going to tell them all?

That question dominated my thoughts; it seemed like the hardest part. I didnt want to say I had cancer out loud, but I knew I had to let them know. Did I tell one of my kids first? Did I tell Katie, my eldest? No, shed be too upset. Michael, my eldest son? Amy? Lucy? Jo? No, it would hurt them too much.

I was still calm as I drove through the narrow, winding streets of Sydneys inner-east back towards my home in Paddington. I settled on telling Susan, my PA of nearly forty years. We are very close. But shes not blood, I thought to myself. She would be the best person to tell the others.

I gave her the bad news, hands-free, and asked her to break it to the kids. Tell them Im not ready to talk yet. I asked her to cancel my trip to the AFL Grand Final the next day. I needed time to analyse the news and understand it for myself. We hung up and I congratulated myself for being so stoic.

The next fortnight blurred in an onslaught of tests and appointments, eventually culminating in a roundtable meeting of specialists at Darlinghursts St Vincents Hospital. They showed me the scans, which made it worse. The tumour had metastasised to my lungs. There were lumps in my neck. Suddenly a lot of the treatment options that had originally been on the table were being ruled out.

Its much worse than we thought, the oncologist said. We dont know how long its been there. Theres not much we can do now. He gave me six to twelve months.