Death is coming undeferred

Death in old age seems to come in two forms: sudden and unexpected, like my brother Richard or our son Mike, both taken in a moment with no expectation or preparation. Or, as with myself, insidiously at first, leaving one barely conscious of its presence, coming truly slowly like some horror story, creeping along like an injured beast since that first dull diagnosis nine years ago of malignant melanoma; now throwing its dark shadow deeply to emphasise that, like the man with the billboard message, this end surely is nigh. 

We may debate which form of death might be the easier. Certainly, for the victim, sudden death may spare pain or remorse, with no time for thought or regret, but for the remaining partner, there is anger and frustration mixed with the grief and it leaves may questions - why did it happen? Could it have been prevented? How dare they leave me with all this mess to sort out and clear up? The slow death of cancer is harder for the victim, for there is pain and, in my case, years of slow deterioration. But I also know this form of death is much worse for the partner too. Annie has lived for years under its deep and unforgiving shadow, wondering if each coughing fit will be my last; suffering from watching while still having to be an involved carer. She has lost several eagerly anticipated holidays when I had radiotherapy; we have lost too many fun times away, when I have been too ill to travel; now her life is reduced to choosing small, nutritious meals, and ordering rubber rings, while she too is ill from her own heart attack and the fear of another coming suddenly upon her; yet for this, she gets little sympathy - people tend only to ask, "how is John?" 

And how am I? This week, the oncology nurse phoned with the result of my recent PET scan; the news is not good, but nothing I had not anticipated, for I am covered in lumps and very breathless on exertion. Some of the lumps are the size and hardness of golf balls; others like over-cooked fried eggs, diffuse and rubbery. Even the name of the cancer, metastatic malignant melanoma, sounds worse than a simple "cancer of the bowel"; for it is among the most insidious and hard to treat of all the cancers, and is renowned for spreading to each and every organ of the body. Thus far, it is in many muscles (hence the lumps), a large mass in the lung, and surrounding the heart, the kidneys and the bowel. It has thus far spared the bones (which would cause unbearable pain), and the brain - so I haven't gone completely loopy yet, and my eccentricities can be put down to my normal, innate behaviour, not blamed on cancer.

Our lives are built of many strands, coming together in a unique clash of parenting, friends, schooling and chance as we each find our own ways to grow to the characters we become. Ambitions may not always be achieved, despite the modern mantras of "You can be anything you want," or "If you want something badly enough, it will come to you". No, it doesn't. Frustrated ambition seems to be a key characteristic of most people in the world. Consider even the trite "Fortune smiles on the brave;" no, it doesn't. Look at eternal slaughter in the world - most of the dead were bravely fighting for their beliefs, or fighting for their families, or fighting under orders. Fortune smiled not upon them. Death comes to all - that is the surest statement we may make about our existence, more certain even than taxes.

In youth, we live without caring for a vague, mostly far-away, death. Now, in old age, with death not so much creeping forward as sprinting up in the fast lane, I can look back on my wasted days, my misdemeanours and poor choices, not with vain wishes that I could live them again but differently, but only in the knowledge that they made me who I have become. I have long held that most people are responsible for their own misfortunes; they do not have to become drunken sots, or dependent on drugs to get through each day; they take the first step, yes, but do not stop to ask, perhaps I shouldn't take the next step. 

But what do I know? True, I have known bleakness in my life, but perhaps luck, or God, has stepped in and shown a way through. Perhaps I've never known that utter blackness where only the next drink will ease the pain. May it never come. Looming death certainly emphasises the need to make the most of each moment; my mantra now is, "do a bit, rest a bit," which enables me to move slowly through the remaining days. Now, I sit with a fine, single malt, Glenlivet whisky in hand. This of course is purely medicinal - it takes away the foul taste of the necrosed cancer cells I cough up from my lungs. The rubber ring eases the ache from sitting on my lumps where they have spread to the gluteal muscles; and cocodamol eases the worst of the rest. Now for a truely relaxing deep, warm, bath where I can float and ease the pressures of my life.