Naught for your comfort...

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, 

I tell you naught for your comfort,
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:

My beautiful friend is dead,

I shall weep always;

Under the tomb she has taken

My soul and my love.

To Heaven, without waiting for me,

She has returned;

The angel who took her

Did not want to take me.

How bitter is my fate!

Ah! Without love to sail on the sea!

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." 

Putting up the tree

Britain has been battered by a series of storms, the latest of which hit yesterday with winds of 90+ miles per hour when it struck the west coast of Wales, but it seems a poor thing when we read of the hurricanes experienced abroad with winds of over 150. Certainly, walking between squalls in Clare Park yesterday it seemed little more than a bit breezy; my hat didn't blow off, and it wasn't even raining. 

While in Clare, I picked up the paper from outside the Co-Op and was about to go in to pay when a loose dog ran in front of me. I looked around wondering where it had come from, then realised it was my dog. For some mysterious reason the boot of the car had opened, so naturally Byron jumped out and ran up to me. Lucky he is such a good dog, or he might have run off in the traffic. He walked at heel back to the car, when I noticed I still had the paper in my hand. Luckily, I was not stopped for shoplifting as well as having a dog wandering the roads off his leash. The boot does not usually open itself, but I did once drive home with the boot open and both dogs in the back. Happily, when I realised, they were just sitting there looking bemused and wondering just what idiot they had for a master. 

Our Tree

After last weeks dispirited blog when they oncologists told me nothing more could be done (Hope was but a timid friend), I feel a more cheerful again. I do not know how long is left to me, and we did not ask, for last time they had said only twelve months, but I am still here two and a half years later, so I shall press on with life as though, as in childhood, we have for ever and will never die. I can't say I stride onward, for like all of us of a certain age, I have many little aches that pop up uninvited in unexpected places, but I will continue to limp forward and get on with what I may. Yesterday, in a spirit of festivity and hope, we put up our modest Christmas decorations. We only have a miniature tree these days that sits atop the bureau, but we are going to look for some suitable windfall small branches to make a display that Ann sprays with snow and glitter to complete the display. Not that many will see it; for even Mary-Anne and the girls will not come round on Christmas Day, as Mae will be covering Christmas dinner in the pub where she works part-time. She gets double pay at Christmas, as well as good tips, so is looking forward to a boost in her income.

Hope was but a timid friend -

Brandy at The Rose

The news yesterday was bleak. A junior registrar was tasked with telling us the two tumours were inoperable and nothing more could be done. He did his job professionally without emotion, with nothing in his voice or look to suggest sympathy or loss; unlike the maternity unit where a box of tissues was at hand when the news of Annie's miscarriage was given, we left dry eyed to take in the news of certain death, and walked out in silence. We stopped at The Rose in Cambridge on the way home, for drinks and a Thai meal, and let the future sink in. The barman greeted us, saying "I've only just come out of Addenbrooke's", and went into great detail about the complications of his hip replacement, requiring a second batch of cement after they'd reached the bone, and breaking the leg to lengthen it so he wouldn't walk with a tilt. I refrained from trumping his story by relating mine, by telling him I too had just come out of hospital, but they could do nothing for terminal cancer. The worst thing for us both is not the inevitability of the ending, which we have had to live with for seven years now, but the removal of hope, so ably summarised by Emily Brontë:

Hope - whose whisper would have given
Balm to all that frenzied pain -
Stretched her wings and soared to heaven;
Went- and ne'er returned again!

Many commentators seem to consider Emily's poem reflects a general loss of hope in the Victorian era. I disagree with this assessment; I believe her poetry to be deeply personal, and always to reflect Emily's own moods or beliefs, and I suggest this poem too must reflect a period when she felt deeply alone, with little to live for. Certainly it reads deeply personal to me: hope has always brought balm, but the message from the junior doctor underlines that she, hope, has finally fled, ne'er to return again! 

The registrar had explained our three options: "first, with the cancer now spread to two sites, one large and difficult to access without removing much of the lung, we do not recommend surgery. Second, we can reserve radiotherapy as an option to treat pain if they start to be troublesome or ulcerate. The third is to just leave it alone, and that is what we have to recommend in your case."

Without hope, suddenly the future has darkened, its light extinguished in a few words. The only uncertainty now is time, but that is the same position for every one of us, not knowing how long we've got. But it has changed my outlook in an instant. Yesterday, I was pontificating about world leaders, Trump and Borris; today, none of that matters. The world will roll on. Macron's government collapsing? European unity in disarray? Russia may bomb us all or cut all the undersea data links? Starmer continuing as a piss-artist? Miliband continuing to gurn his way into the Guiness Book of Records as Britain's silliest clown? All this will continue without my bemused commentary. 

Without hope, we are truly alone, and life suddenly seems very empty. Belief in God may give hope for a life to come, but it is the life here and now I have always enjoyed, and always lived with hope of more to come. Without hope, we wonder if any plans are worth making, for without hope, all is dark with nothing to illumine things to come, and we may only await external events beyond our control.

Predicting the future

 Politics is a dangerous area for the blogwritter to tread, for any view invariably falls between two contrary opinions, so I will try to avoid giving any opinion. Instead, I will venture two predictions. This too may be a vain venture, but if I am right, I shall have written evidence rather than the trite "I said that would happen", and if wrong they will be buried beneath the rolling seas of history. 

The first concerns Trump and Musk, two figures so far from my own modest circle I would normally barely notice them; but I can't help but be struck how two such massive egos have come together for mutual benefit. The only speculation here is how long the relationship will last. Both men are renown for using the law to attack their enemies: "Trump sues for billions from media he says is biased against him", says one headline, and "Trump has sworn he'll get revenge on a long list of enemies" is another. In the case of Musk, his love of litigation is legendary. He and his companies have filed at least 23 lawsuits in federal courts in the last twelve months. They have sued competitors, startups, law firms, watchdog groups, individuals, the state of California, federal agencies, and pop star Grimes, who is the mother of three of his children. Musk has been so legally aggressive that one judge decided his litigation was more about revenge than justice: “This case is about punishing the defendants for their speech,” the judge said. Two such self-centred, volatile, opinionated people will clash and when they do, there will be consequences. The relationship will explode, wrecking all who are too close; neither will win, for Trump will have all the power, and regards himself as a deity who sets the law; Musk has his billions and a massive popular following and will seek revenge in generating reams of avenging publicity. The only question, really, is how soon will it happen? Probably within a few months is my guess.

My second prediction, somewhat less certain, is about Boris. I have just completed his autobiography, Unleashed, which in fairness is a well-written and insightful account of his time in power as Mayor of London and Prime Minister, although inevitably somewhat biased towards his accomplishments and achievements while somewhat lacking in his failures. Notably lacking is any mention of his future direction; thoroughly enjoyed his time of power, and shows no wish to move on from politics, although the world of journalism remains wide open to him. The conservative party is beginning to increase in popularity, perhaps not surprising considering how low it had plunged, but at the moment it seems to be at the expense of labour. With the inexorable rise of the Reform party, especially if backed by money from Musk, its continuing rise will come from both parties, and the Torys' popularity will stall. Worse, from Johnson's point of view, there is no way they will want him back. I see his only avenue for political re-entry as through Reform, and I suspect in the next year or two, he may seek to join Reform as I way to rebuild his public reputation, perhaps by becoming a candidate for them to see what popularity he still draws. That should be an interesting future. 

On a more personal note, which this blog is supposed to be about, Annie and I meet the oncology team again at Addenbrookes this afternoon when they will discuss my options, and decide if I might be a candidate for further surgery or radiotherapy, or if they will simply wash their hands of me as they did two and a half years ago, when they told me I had less than twelve months to live and just to go away and die quietly (no, not in such blunt terms, obviously!) On this, I will make no prediction, but I will keep people posted. Incidentally, no one else seems to want to read Unleashed, but if readers know anyone who wants a very clean copy, I will pass it on.

Of Papworth and Paris

On Monday, whilst still dark at 6a.m., Andre came to take me into Papworth Hospital for the lung biopsy. He had been to Paris with his parents, only returning at 1a.m., yet was up again at five to collect me, as Annie is unable to drive at night. 

I gave my date of birth at the desk, and the receptionist said, "Oh, that's the same date as me!" Another patient overheard and said, "but not the same year. I too was born in 1942." I guess one in every 365 people must be born on 27th December, although the receptionist was the first person I have met to make the match; strangely, I calculated the odds of other people born in 1942 and they must be very similar: approximately 1:300. 

PET scan: metastasis
in the lung 

The radiologist came onto the ward to share her intimate pictures of my insides. She pointed out the area of the new tumour metastasis: a massive bright area of the lower lung, glowing in brilliant yellow and orange like the sun where the rapid metabolism of the cancer had avidly taken up the lion's share of the radioactive sugar tracer. "But unfortunately, we found a second metastasis," she added. Then, by way of compensation, she said, "but it's much smaller." She then showed a small, inconspicuous, yellow spot high on my back in the muscle layer. They then laid me down on the CT scanner on my abdomen and poked about for nearly an hour. The first biopsy, though to a much smaller target, was easily done in a few minutes, but unexpectedly, the second to a much larger target was more difficult. Initially, a trainee doctor was doing it, but after a few attempts with the senior consultant guiding him, she took over to complete the job; it was clearly not straightforward, and she too was a long time poking the long needle in and out until she was finally satisfied and a loud click announced she had taken the sample. The hospital keep the heating low, and I was shivering in just a flimsy hospital gown on the cold metal table, being constantly slid in and out of the scanner to check the position of the needle tip, although they threw a thin blanket over my legs. When they finished, I asked her outright, "what was the problem?" "It was its position," she said, "the diaphragm kept getting in the way every time you breathed."

Later, the check X-ray showed a small pneumothorax where air had escaped into the pleural space between the lung and the chest wall and I was kept for longer until a repeat X-ray confirmed it was not continuing to enlarge, so I was cleared to go home. It was well dark by this time, so again Annie could not collect me, so the taxi service was provided by Edwin.

Andre's parents will be with them all week. The boys brought them up from Heathrow; they had five large suitcases for Edwin's small car, so the parents had to sit in the back with a suitcase each on their knees. November is not a good time to bring older people from just south of the equator, where the summer temperature is 30C, to a snow-covered Suffolk, but they were so keen to visit and see Andre's and Edwin's house. They called in to visit us last week, and his mother sat wrapped in a blanket, saying she wanted to stay with us and abandon their cold, wet, Paris trip. She did of course actually go, and I think they will have enjoyed it: they saw Rome and Florence on their last European visit, and wanted Paris to complete the itinerary. They will be coming to stay with us tomorrow for one night, so we shall have a full house.

Death - the herald of change

He Is Gone…

He is gone, my gentle brother,

He who felt the sun upon him,

He who walked the fields in summer,

He who loved the green-treed pathways,

Over whom the birds soared skyward,

He is gone with summer’s end.

He is gone, the gentle father,

He who loved his grieving daughters,

He who loved them from their birthing

And who coddled them through childhood,

Loved them through the hours of darkness,

He has followed swallows’ flight.

He is gone: such quiet friendship,

He with care his garden tending, 

He who loved to walk with nature,

Driving through the rolling country.

He who lived a life so peaceful,

Gone to peace for evermore.

He is gone, the steadfast husband,

Through the years of tears and laughter,

Through the hours of quiet disaster,

Through the pain of grief shared with her,

Through sweet moments spent together,

With night’s darkness he is gone.

                                            JHM

Chris has phoned with the date for Richard's funeral, in mid-December. The death of my younger brother, barely three weeks ago, has induced an introspective depression and heralded more troubles, though mostly of my own making. As always, I know the pain for Chris and her family must be immense, yet like so many of us, I become self-centred even in the presence of death. Most recently, I had felt a rough edge on a tooth with food wedging. A visit to the dentist on Monday diagnosed a split lower molar, which now faces extraction. I am booked for this cruel procedure tomorrow morning. Having suffered the gruelling pain of a previous molar extraction, I do not welcome this news; I should not have vainly crunched hard nuts.

On Sunday, we went to a magnificent broadcast production of The Phantom of the Opera at the Abbeygate cinema, with the rare encore of five previous phantoms singing with Sarah Brightman in the presence of Andrew Lloyd Weber. Returning to the car, I had a parking ticket - the first for many years. Again my own fault - I had neglected to renew my disability badge in time (it takes up to 16 weeks to come through).

Now, in addition to the tooth, I am faced with a series of hospital visits to Papworth and Addenbrooke's following a PET scan last week. This was an impressive procedure where I was given a personal dose of highly radioactive glucose that arrived hot from Amersham in a huge steel syringe contained in a lead box. I was told not to go near pregnant women or children for a minimum of four hours, and avoid close contact with anyone on trains or buses. Once again, poor Annie had to suffer waiting in a chilling hospital cafeteria for nearly four hours for me to be done. That poor girl suffers much in her life, mainly through me: my decaying body, my actions, my thoughtlessness. 

Death is the herald of change. For some, the changes are unimaginable; for some, minor inconveniences, but always the ripples spread and disturb all they touch. Perhaps, if we get through all this, I will whisk Annie off to a glorious break away from here where she will be pampered and fussed for once. Alas, I can also imagine Annie rolling her eyes and saying, "very likely!"

Richard & Chris with Edwin

He is gone, my brother

 

Chris and Richard with Annie and me at Ed's Wedding. 2024

We have always been three brothers: myself, Richard in the middle, and the youngest, Peter. One episode of Still Game, the Glasgow sitcom centred round a group of old men, sees them in their local pub in the depths of a viciously cold winter, running a book on which of the group will die first. I do not know how common such thoughts are, but Annie and I too would sometimes run through the ever-shortening list of friends and relatives wondering which of us would be next. Richard was always placed last in the running order; he was rarely ill, had no major disease, never smoked, drank little, ate healthily, and took good, regular exercise. When Chis phoned early on Monday, 21st October, with her voice and tone conveying bad news, my immediate thought was one of her family was ill and she was phoning to excuse them from next day's planned visit; how very wrong was my assumption. 

Richard had complained of a slight headache in the evening so they'd retired at 10pm. In the night, he'd woken then lay still; Chris tried to rouse him, but he was already dead. The ambulance was called and resuscitation attempted, but finally abandoned. Chris was left alone to contact her daughters and then myself and Peter. The shock and the loss are immeasurable. They were in Barnstable celebrating his eightieth birthday only a few days ago, and he has been part of my life for the full eighty years. As children close in age, we did so much together and had such shared memories. Our meetings always tended to centre round those childhood memories, now silenced for ever. 

Clare Priory, In Memory of Richard

It is said that people only speak well of people at their death, saying all the things that should have been said while the person might have benefited from knowing how much they were loved and missed. This is especially true of Richard. Looking back now, I see a good man, a man who always placed himself unselfishly at the centre of his family, with total love for his children, grandchildren, and of course Chris herself. He was quiet; self-contained; a man I never heard shout or swear; a man who never spoke viciously or gave gossip; a man with a love of life and simple pleasure. Even under my tongue, which may have teased or sometimes even been cutting, he took no offence and was always ready to forgive. He lived as he always wanted, a man of peace, and there are few of whom we can say such. Goodnight my brother, and 'God Bless'. We miss you deeply.