Post 85: Thunderstorm Sounds.
It’s the seventh day and all is well — but it’s the eighth day I’ve got my eye on, if last cycle is anything to go by.
———
I’ve been musing over how I feel about this whole cancer experience now that I’m coming up on the third year since diagnosis in August.
On the surface, I’m genuinely happy with how things have gone — the treatment, the care, the love from those around me. But I still wish, deeply, that it had never touched us in such a malevolent way. And beneath that surface calm, I’m not quite so cheerful about anything, really.
Lately, I’ve been trying to get my finances in order. I’m six years away from official retirement — something I never really planned for or was remotely interested in — and even now, it feels too far off to take seriously.
My plans, leaving school, weren’t grand.
I just wanted to bump along, keep my head down, and let fate decide. No big ambitions. No roadmaps. Just life, unfolding.
I’d enjoyed snooker, darts, and the Boys Brigade — especially the social side of things — and my mum and dad signed my four-year apprenticeship indentures for a place at work. It sounds rough now, but it suited me fine. I didn’t want another minute of hateful school. I had no interest in prolonging the pain.
So I walked out of that place — the comprehensive prison — after my last O-Level exam, alone but perfectly happy to be alone. While the others stood around, grouped in admiration and plans, I just strode home.
The casting off of school life was uplifting.
For the first time, I was free to do as I liked.
(As long as it didn’t cost money. I had none.
But still — you know what I mean.)
That summer didn’t last.
A few weeks after leaving, the engineering company phoned Mum and asked if I’d like to start early — work through the summer until college kicked off in September. We said yes, and that was that.
Off I went to join the grown-ups who worked for a living.
Freedom was over — but I didn’t mind too much. I fell into the rhythm of working life easily. It kept me going… right up until now.
Maybe I was always a serious kid, really. I thought I was a happy-go-lucky idiot at home. But the looming storm of divorce changed all that I guess.
———
So here I am, confused about the future.
Will I be able to work? I want to.
Should I draw down my little pension early and use it for some memory-making with My Darling, before medical storms blow us off course?
These questions weigh heavy — not just on finances, but on identity. I’ve always found joy in giving, in providing, in sharing. That’s when I feel strong. That’s when I feel like me.
Not in receiving. Not in being treated.
Why can’t I be normal?
———
Life with My Darling has slowly become mostly home-based — days without structure or gain, just soft shapes that shift depending on my energy. Sometimes we manage a little spontaneous something — and that’s enough. It has to be.
I hope that changes. I hope for more. But right now, I need to stay out of trouble, health-wise.
Still, drawing on the pension might let us sneak in a few treats after chemo. Who knows what “full strength” will look like — but whatever it is, we’ll make the most of it.
———
Maybe I’m in a funk of my own making.
Maybe what I need is to get outside — to smell the rain on the tarmac, to watch the trees bow in the wind, and to breathe in that warm summer air before autumn creeps in and winter pulls its icy cloak around us.
Or maybe I’m just overthinking everything.
———
The thunderstorm sounds Alexa plays every night for My Darling have become her lullaby. I wake up to the same low grumbles playing from the speaker next to the bedroom TV.
I used to mess with the sounds — change it to music or birdsong — but I’ve given up. My Darling sleeps soundly with the rumbles, and the thunder helps mute my tinnitus.
We are a weird couple, and no mistake.
But it works.
———
Tomorrow is the eighth day of chemo.
My heart will go on.
(Yes — that one. The big ballad from the film about the sinking ocean liner.)
I’m confident the Sotalol and Tinzaparin will carry me through, better than before.
I’m feeling well. I’m resting, though tired.
I’m positive — and I’m counting down the days to the next cycle.
And now, I’d better feed the Mr Vicious.
