I'm the niece of a man with cancer. A man with quick wit; creative genius; boundless intelligence; an affinity with the natural world; unique handwriting; scratchy woollen jumpers; a distinguished beard; an eye for light and colour; a taste for coffee and red wine; an aptitude in conversation with anyone approaching or at a crossroads; an interest in history; an apetite for culture; humility; humour; a genuinely original way with words; and cancer; terminal cancer.
He was just diagnosed a few weeks ago in hospital. The cancer had already spread, so when his release from the infirmary came, it was straight to a hospice. He has just a matter of weeks or months left apparently. I say apparently because I hear everything second or third hand; after the nurses have told two designated relatives who take turns calling each day; who then relay information to my mother; who in turn informs me.
I'm told he wants to avoid any 'family around the death bed scenes' and so everyone is respecting his wishes by keeping at a distance, difficult though that is for us all. I have heard talk of being grateful for small mercies; namely that he's not leaving behind any children at least. I beg to differ. He's been a cornerstone of my life for the last three decades.
I wrote to him the week I found out. I sent photographs, of landscapes and happy memories. I included an old poem of mine about grief; and a recent one scene play which was much more irreverent. And then, at the first opportunity that presented itself, I went up (from London where I live) to Scotland. It was the most immediate and natural reaction; to stay locally for a few days so he'd know I was near if he felt up to seeing me. I assured the ward nurse I wanted to put no pressure on him but that I had positive news about achievements in my own life, which he'd played a role in, which I felt I could focus on sharing with him without draining him or upsetting him. I never had any intention of sitting crying in front of him about his prognosis and my loss. The ward sister spoke briefly with him and left me an answer phone message saying, very bluntly, no.
Friends, relatives and co-workers have all lost family to cancer; I've been there to support many of them in my time. I've lost friends to cancer myself and have a number of friends currently fighting it. I'm experienced enough to know that the role of a relative or friend requires empathy, strength, patience, grace, and most significantly acceptance of the wishes, beliefs, needs, fears, etc of their loved one.
I know my uncle must be exhausted and struggling to come to terms with things himself. I know too he's a proud and private person. He lost a sister to cancer himself about fourteen years ago and I know he was haunted by that experience. People say he won't want to suffer through my grief. Or that saying yes to seeing me would oblige him to say yes to everyone who wanted some final time with him before the end. They say he would want me to remember him when he was well and when we shared happier moments. That he might find it too difficult to say goodbye to me because of our close bond. I understand and empathise with all those things, but I can't understand not being there, with no demands, for someone you love when they're dying. He's a man of such wit, such intelligence; I believe that surely there's still some laughter, some conversation yet to be shared.
My family and friends imply that's because I'm selfish, because I'm angry. That it's my own need for him I'm fighting for, rather than my desire for him not to be alone. The whole situation strikes me as grossly inhumane. I feel suddenly an external hierarchy of nurses and relatives are enforcing his conditions about how I must act in a relationship which has been one of the defining features of my life. It seems to me, as someone who has spent considerable time with him independently over the years, that the biggest factor driving his current choices is fear; and I don't think love should defer to fear. Yet I'm powerless to articulate or act upon that belief any further than I already have.
I don't know how to be true to him, especially without having even spoken to him since his diagnosis. I don't know how not to be true to myself; a girl whose outlook on life and inspiration drawn from it has been influenced by her friendship with a much loved uncle. Which is the lesser of the two evils: confronting the issues that cancer has introduced to our relationship, or condoning the cancer in ending our relationship before it ends his life?
