As further tests revealed the prognosis to be more serious, I revised my original plan not to tell my parents about my illness for now, and Irene and I went for a flying visit to see them.
As they live on a European island, it was a pretty lengthy trip by train, bus, two ferries, bus, walk - a day to get there, a day there, a day back - but I can’t imagine why I thought it was anything but the right thing to do. Quite apart from the effort of travel, it was far better that they see me while I’m fit and well, than to horrify them by shuffling in with no hair and ill from chemotherapy.
Dad and my stepmother were both brilliant: they were obviously upset, but they have a reassuring strength from long and difficult lives (Dad is a military veteran who survived major hardship). In recent years, I’ve found him amiable but a little ‘disconnected’ and prone to monologues, but I realised this time that this was simply because of his deafness. He’s had his hearing aids adjusted, and is an entirely different man, easy to have a conversation with. We talked for a long time, about his recollections from when I was a baby, the island, his interest in cookery, and what family means to him. It was good, as was getting some time to talk with my stepmother and a couple of my siblings, who I rather regret neglecting to see as much as I'd like, as Dad tends to be the focus of these infrequent visits.
It was a bittersweet trip, because at every stage - the journey, talking with Dad and other family members, and later when Irene and I went for a walk to one of the coves we like - I had to juggle possibilities. On the one hand, I have my hopes and intentions to come back, many times more; and on the other, there's the very real possibility that this could be my last visit. I explained this to Dad in particular - that I didn’t come to say goodbye, but just in case, I didn’t want to waste the chance to tell him how much I love and respect him. I've made use of that opportunity. That part of the trip was a success.
But it was a very difficult time for Irene: the journey brought home to me the truism about cancer sufferers having to do as much caring for loved ones as vice versa. She had a cold recently, which left her with an intermittent cough that (the doctor says) has an anxiety-related element. Last week (when I was out) she needed to call the paramedic when she had breathing difficulties due to what turned out to be a hyperventilation episode. She has a tendency to underplay these problems, and on the trip, despite plentiful halts for tea, we went through repeated scenarios of her saying she was fine to do something or go somewhere, then coming down with another hyperventilation attack while doing it. We’re both clearly tired and stressed - how could we not be? - as I also had a minor anxiety attack on the bus. In both our cases, I think it largely stems from a feeling that there’s no time left, and that we have to wear ourselves out cramming everything in on top of normal anxieties. Prescription: slow down.
Next week I start my chemotherapy.
- James
