Living with cancer, the comments I received tended to wash over me, and I never thought too deeply about them. But with Richard's death, the internet is aflood with inane words of sympathy and encouragement, and suddenly they have swum into focus. The sort of comments we see are: Be positive! Oh I am, positive - positive I am going to die; and a favourite, more to Annie and me than for Richard's death, Keep making memories! Again, we do; we have multiple hospital visits and blood tests to look back on, for Annie always comes along to support me, or less frequently I have accompanied her for to her cardiac clinics.
Other comments are, You are very brave, as though I have much choice; perhaps the alternative might be to take to my bed and moan, Pity me, the wife and the wains, in the words of Annie's Glaswegian father. I am fortunate that there is not much pain with the cancer at the moment. and I am still mobile and independent, so it's easy to "be brave", but I know that could change in an instant. Believe me, if I start to get uncontrolled pain, the world will see little bravery in this soldier. I know what it feels like, is another remark gets under Annie's skin: "No you don't," is the response, unless you too have had seven years of being told your husband is living under a death cloud, yet somehow he is still here; we can make no long-term plans, or hopes for much of a future together. Another little hiccup, is a more true appraisal, but We are here for you! gets the rejoinder, "Yes, but you're 300 miles away!"
Regular phrases that pop up are: It's not a good day; It's not the end of the line; No one knows when the end will come; Make every day count; We are so proud of you; There is always hope. Though well intentioned, these trite comments do not really bring comfort, except to the people making them, for there is little people can say who have not lived through it, who have not experienced the night-time dreams of lonely despair. This remains well suppressed in the day, when I live a cheerful everyday existence, but in the dark night of my deep being does this dread emerge; of treading a barren path through empty hills, or of inhabiting a large, once glorious, house whose walls are cracking and falling away, a house that is becoming a ruin even while it is occupied; or tracking through a cold, bare mountain pass on a road to nowhere. Know these dreams, and perhaps then you can truly say, I know your pain. For, in the words of Chesterton,
Yea, naught for your desire,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher.
I have not chosen hymns; I suppose my conscious being doesn't like to face the inevitable end, but they will be expected. I like the opening to The St Matthew Passion, "Come, daughters of Zion, and weep!" More emotionally, I always feel a deep empathy to Berlioz Les nuits d'été, with their message of hope and love, finally turning to despair and inevitable loss in what is surely some of the most melancholic poetry written, yet set to incredible music that stirs the heart. For anyone looking for morbid songs, I cannot recommend them enough, with verses such as:
Annie at least has firmly stated to Edwin she doesn't want The Lord is My Shepherd at her funeral, or she will come back to haunt him. Edwin's response was, "In that case, I will play it, so I can see you again."
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