Spine

In the hospital, they say, the tumour has spread to your spine, which is causing the weakness in your hand. They will give you radiotherapy to try and combat it.

There are no words, or poetry for this. There seems little respite or consolation from this thing attacking you from all sides. Outside, in the rain, your wife and family live their lives, burdened by worry. For now, you have nothing to give them, or anyone. It is a bleak time. Knowing you are loved, your head is still above the water. 

Progress

You see Dr D.  You tell her the pain has increased, and you discuss and agree how much to increase the painkillers by.  You say, it's not just the pain, explain that your right hand has gone numb, there is no strength in it.  

At the appointment with Dr E, Dr G's registrar, she says, I think things are continuing to progress, and you think, no shit sherlock.  You are shorter of breath than ever.  Dr E says, I'll send you for an x-ray, right now.  So she writes out a form, hands it to you, says I'll see you in a few minutes.  As you exit the room, H takes a look at you, shuffling slowly with a grimace on your face, says, do you need a wheelchair?

You take a deep breath, for once let your common sense take precedence over your pride, say yes.  H, face impassive, conjures one out of thin air.  You sit down, stare into space think - how did we get here.  But today it seems inevitable, long walks down endless hospital corridors are out of the question.

H wheels you along, and for a second you're glad she can't see your face.  Immediately the world changes.  You become invisible, mostly people don't look at you, while you look at the floor.  

Later, Dr E looks at the x-ray result, says, yes, there is definite progression, and you think, in more ways than one.

Lucky

In some ways I am lucky.  I am, always have been, naturally self-reliant, happy with my own company, solitary, a listener, not a talker.  

These days, when I'm not feeling up to much, I am happy pottering around at home, with painkillers and the fire for company, while H dashes about, sorting everything out.  She says sorry if anything is less than perfect, and I repeat, over and over, stop apologising, you're doing a brilliant job.  

It is lucky that I like my own company,  which for better or worse over the years has manifested itself in many different ways.  I've never been much of a drinker either, and on nights out would often be the first to leave, happy to drift home before the serious drinking started - I can still see the uncomprehending faces now - Tim, Andy B, Gav.  But we're just getting warmed up, they'd say, while I was slowly turning white in the corner, patting my pockets to see where my tube pass was.  

And these characteristics allow me to cope now.  It's important to talk, I get that, and I don't bottle anything - or at least, I try not too.  Sometimes, right out of nowhere, something sets me off, and I'm suddenly overwhelmed, and there is nothing to do but let it out.  I'm pretty sure this is normal.  And while the knowledge of my condition never leaves me, not for more than a few seconds, I can cope because I often get absorbed by something else - a favourite old book, the football on the radio.  And because I have thought it through, and accepted what is going on.  Yes it's unfair, yes, it's not right, but it is what it is.  And the light it has shone on many of my relationships is something extraordinary to behold.  My wife, I run out of superlatives for.  But there are many other little acts of kindness, none of which go unnoticed, toward us.  And it is these that make me amazed that, solitary as I am, I've somehow managed to collect an awful lot of friends along the way.

If I knew then....

...what I know now.

How often have you heard that phrase?  It used to puzzle me.  I think in my youthful arrogance, I thought it was nonsense.  After all, what on earth could years and years of practical experience, and the chance to learn from your mistakes, give you that you couldn't get from a book?  Eh?  Oh.

As I'm still actually - relatively - young (although I'm probably technically classed as middle aged, I really don't feel that like mentally, although physically I feel like I'm 104) really I'm still at an age where I should be learning every day.  I am, I guess, although mostly about a subject not too many people want to become familiar with.

I think it's particularly relevant when it comes to choosing a partner.  So many people seem to make rash decisions, which have an enormous effect on the rest of their lives, based on a pretty face or whatever.

And, with my wife, I'm no different, although as each day passes, I realise a little bit more just how lucky I got.  I was at first attracted by this huge smile and impish good looks.  It quickly became apparent though that there was a lot more there than that.  And these days, I am constantly taken aback by H's capacity to cope, work hard, juggle three things at once, not get exasperated by the hand she has been dealt (i.e. me).

I often talk about my support network.  And often, subconsciously, I mean H.

She really is amazing.  I am so lucky.  And if I knew then what I know now, I wouldn't swap her for anyone.