People ask how I can approach a horrible, ghastly death from liver cancer with a sense of humour. Maybe they think that terminally ill people should be lying on the sofa with a pillow over their head, listening to 'slit yer throat' music like Radiohead or Muse. Well, I've shed just as many tears as the next person - probably more, as I'm a dreadful crybaby. I've wept through interviews, performance appraisals, office Christmas parties, Proms concerts - you name it. Remembrance Sunday promises to be one huge blubathon.
It helps me if I always remember that:
We've all got to die someday. It's amazing how many people think they're going to live forever, or, failing that, die in their sleep, in their own bed, at the age of 85. Take my 83 year old next door neighbour, who has leukaemia. In one of our cancer chats over the garden fence he admits that he's feeling low after the chemotherapy, but is pretty certain that he'll be able to get his yacht (manned by himself and his wife) out on the ocean next summer. Makes Barack Obama look like a bit of a pessimist.
I'm a good deal more fortunate than many people, and for this I should be grateful. My husband tells me this every time he comes back from his Carers' Group, run by our local hospice. Some people's suffering is truly shocking, and you almost feel guilty for not feeling that way too.
And writing this blog helps a lot!
I tell my son about my latest range of drugs, a selection of opiate pain killers. "Do you get high and have hallucinations?" he asks. "Well, last night I dreamt that you'd got a proper job and a nice girlfriend" I say. "Mother, can't you ever be serious about anything?" he sighs. I guess we're going to have to have a frank chat one day.
Well, the opiates are gradually working their way into my system, and that awful liver pain is subsiding so I no longer have to walk doubled up. Maybe I'll be able to take the dog for a walk tomorrow. Small pleasures are becoming increasingly important.
