On Friday 24th July last year, I was finally and officially given the ‘all clear’ of cancer. I observed this on the same date this year in 2020 but it wasn’t until today that I had the test at the hospital to prove it.
In the midst of stress, one doesn’t see the big picture and focuses
only on immediate needs (do I need to eat, wee, sleep, put one foot in
front of the other etc). It’s an evolutionary coping mechanism because
the big picture looks so shit it’s impossible to comprehend. It’s the
unfortunate people (friends and family) forced to see it objectively who
realise actually how serious the situation is. There are a few lucky
people who get to see both the direct experience and the objective one.
Today, I was one of them.
It was really a foregone conclusion; if I hadn’t told them I’d felt ill by now, then there probably wasn’t anything wrong. Nevertheless, it was nice to be told by someone that I’m officially cancer free. I was essentially going through the motions of turning up, getting prodded and being congratulated - none of which gave me any particular feeling of achievement, but it was good news! And I was happy!
It was only when I then walked out of the hospital into the grounds, stood on the hottest day of the year in newly cut grass of Basford Mill Cricket Club that I sat on a bench, turned around to look at the place that had been my home last year and burst into tears.
This was where I’d lain in my death bed. .. and walked away from it. A place I’d been more intimate with strangers than with lovers, been fed and infused, nursed, helped and hugged. This was the place I’d written my will, where I’d put my effects in order, contacted childhood friends, found peace with enemies and accepted the losses of friends. It was where I’d realised the value of time with family and friends and where I’d found a peace with myself in the knowledge they’d be happy with the memories they had of me.
I’d always hoped to walk out strong... stronger. I hadn’t. A year ago I’d been helped into a car and stayed strong on the twenty minute ride home where I'd used my walking stick to get to a bed and sleep.
Today, I walked out healthy and looked back at the building I’d called home for so long. My tears were not those of joy nor those of sadness. I cried at the knowledge I was walking away from something many people don’t. A place my parents must have been so familiar with, distraught at the statistical possibilities, but that I’d been evolutionarily oblivious to. I was walking away from a place I loved but was so nearly the last place I knew.
So goodbye deathbed, I’ll see you one day, but not just yet. And until I do, I shall celebrate the moments I have left. Of course, the traditions of birthdays, and Christmas and all the usual shite that now means something more than it ever did. But I’ll celebrate every other moment too: the birds and the leaves on the trees, the smile on my daughters' sleeping faces, the smell of a pizza that’s nearly cooked and the feeling of love between family and friends.
I’ve been given the gift of knowing the true value of stuff in life. It’s not alcohol or wifi or the shit on your phone; It’s you. And it’s me. And us. And the smell of cut grass on Basford Cricket ground. And love. And friends. And tomorrow. And I’ll be there to see it with you.
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