Memento mori; memento vivere
A month on from the initial call, I’m learning to exist in chiaroscuro.
Knowing you’ve got cancer when you’ve not long been alive should be terrifying.
And it is, but the mind and body cannot maintain a scream. Sure, in the hospital I howled; I nearly gave into my basest instinct to throw my treacherous body to the ground and roar with pain, anger, fear - the usual suspects. “I have a five year old,” I begged the nurses between gasps and sobs, “Felix needs me. Please don’t let me die!”
But, now, I go on about my day. With the
URGENT
Unexpected
Significant
Finding
Like poetry, each syllable making my heart leap: a warning that danger lurks within, lodged in my mediastinum, a malignant little fucker, and not so little at half of a lung in size.
I apply makeup to my eyes - this is a decorating ritual that has always brought me creative joy, though it is changing its shape, morphing into emotional armour. I am not tempted to cry when shadows and liner have been so meticulously arranged around these windows, through which my soul is far less perceivable if the frames serve as a distraction. Mascara tracks are a dead giveaway, and I’m never sure how I want people to react at the blatantness of my terror: the downplaying - even indifference - of some strikes a vindictive fire in me, whilst an hitherto unfamiliar look of horror etched on a loved one’s face is traumatising to behold. In (almost) everyone, there is a flicker of relief behind their expression - ‘thank God it isn’t me.’ That’s understandable.
So, I carry on. I do the school run in varying states of disarray, as is my custom, and I take my sedatives that ease the incessant whirring of my already-and-always troubled mind. To vapid pop songs from our childhood, I dance with my sister and lifelong friend on a Tuesday night, laughing, panting and punching the air to ‘…its true what they say / Things are sent to try you / But your time’s coming around / So don’t you stop trying!’ I look forward to my ordinary evenings, when I get to be with David, who is extraordinary and the love of my life. I utilise my sparkling wit to amuse myself and friends with musings on how they better start saving now, since I have a pretty extravagant vision for my funeral, at which - by the way - I would like This Bitter Earth / On the Nature of Daylight played and, crucially, enjoyed.
I do all of this, of course, because I must. We all must. When all roads lead to cancer, the journey becomes precarious and precious - some arrangement of letters, anyway. Nothing matters; everything matters.
In the infinite strangeness of life, I feel better than I have in a long time. But, I am afraid that a time is soon coming when I will not have the courage or inclination to write. ‘Watch this space,’ I’ll say, for now. Watch this space, and hope.
…
So sorry to hear you’re going through this. Thank you so much for writing so beautifully and sharing it.
You write so beautifully.
So sorry to hear your news and the journey you face.
Keep sharing and remember your story will always be an opportunity to help others, in so many different ways.
Take care Rose