Adversity

Sitting on the train station, you talk to your brother.  After the conversation, it occurs to you how just brilliantly well he is coping in the face of his own adversity.  What was that description of your nanna - not flashy, with little glimpses of determination?  It clearly runs in the family.

Enjoy the Silence

In February, Gav and yourself down tools and fly to Switzerland, for a weekend's skiing in Leysin.  For Gav, it is the first taste of Val and Brian's hospitality, for you, the 704th.  Before you arrive, it snows and snows and snows.  For a while at least, somebody up there likes you.  It is a perfect few days, a beautiful chalet in a quiet resort, and you rub along together like two friends of over twenty years should.  Gav is happily bemused by the empty well-covered slopes, bombing gleefully down them while you follow behind almost with your eyes closed, able to navigate from familiarity alone.  Often, as you zip along, it is as though you have the resort to yourself, a glorious, almost meditative stillness broken only by the muted whirr of a lift overhead.  At one point in the weekend, at the Solepraz station, you have to queue, that is, wait twenty seconds for four people in front of you.  You look at each other and pretend it's a disgrace, not on, both grinning from ear to ear.  Later you sit in the Top Pub, lazily decide where to have dinner, feel at peace while working your way through ruinously expensive Hoegaarden.

You had ummed and arrhed about coming, in particular because the Swiss Franc is so strong, and even with use of the chalet, it's a costly weekend.  But in the end, like all the best decisions, you think - screw it, let's have some fun.  Wracking your brains now, you can't think of a single time in your life when that attitude hasn't been the right one.  Credit card bills are quickly paid off, while opportunities for photos like the one above are few and far between.  

Meanwhile, you recover from chemotherapy.  The week expires and you are yourself again.  Standing in the bank queue, while H is next door ram-raiding Fat Face, from nowhere you experience a moment of absolute peace and tranquility.   Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence" fills the air, the chill bought about by the changing seasons makes you think of Leysin, Courchevel, Val Thorens, and you wonder if you'll ever see these places again.   The cashier calls you forward, and the spell is broken, save for a daft dreamy smile on your lips.

Nanna

Bill makes you think of your Nanna, Letchworth Nanna.  We grouped our grandparents geographically, Letchworth Nanna, Hitchin Nanna - you get the idea.

They were all lovely, your grandparents, although Letchworth granddad did like to sit quietly pickled most of the time.  Each to their own.  By the time you were at Cambridge, he had gone on.  As Letchworth was only three stops from Cambridge, from time to time you would take the train down and see Nanna, just to say hello.  Quiet, not flashy, with little glimpses of determination.  One day she did the kindest thing you've ever seen - not being flush herself - and gave you £100.  You said no, she snorted and ignored you.  You said, OK, but don't do it again, this isn't what I've come for, which seemed to please her.  Then you said, you know I'll probably spend it on beer?  She said good, although maybe with an eye on the empty armchair in the corner.  Then, no doubt, you walked the dogs over the common, to see family, Amy and Sonny, pottered back to the train station, three stops back to a different world, connected only by an unbreakable intersection on the venn diagram.

Later, Nanna moved to be nearer younger family, your Aunt.  One day you visited her there, away from her old network, away from Amy, Sonny, the common, away from the empty armchair.  Things didn't seem to be working out.  You helped her to get her boiler working.  She made a cup of tea, then sat down, looked around the place, said, I never see anyone, I don't know what the point is, there's no point to me anymore. Shocked, you can't remember your response.  You hope you told her you loved her.

Years later again, she moved once more, nearer to your mum and brother, and it seemed to work out better this time.  Then, at the end, cancer.  You visit and sit in her little room in the home with her.  She is a husk now and she says - I wish someone could end it for me.  Gently you explain that that person would get into terrible trouble.  She knows, and sighs.

Bill

During Chemo, you talk to Bill, who is in the chair opposite you.  Bill is in his seventies, and has been in out of hospital with various complaints for about 15 years.  Now, obviously, he has some form of cancer.

You like Bill.  Bill tells you that his wife is ill too.  Bill tells you he doesn't want to be here anymore, and you don't think he's referring to the chair that he's in.  Suddenly, you don't know how to respond.  For once,  you apply the brake that means you don't - like normal - say literally the first thing that comes into your head.  It's almost worse though because his words just...hang, solidify, in the air.

Maintenance

This unit will shortly be undergoing essential maintenance, and will be offline for a while.

Chemo 1.3

Chemo 1.3 tomorrow.  You take your steroids, which make you feel a bit...peculiar.  People take these voluntarily?  Chemo is necessary, but - as discussed at length on this blog - not a pleasant experience. It is not something anyone would ever look forward to, but the effects are good.  So you are caught between a rock and a hard place really - to have it or not to have it.  It reminds me of an old joke I once heard and, never having progressed past the mentality of a 15 year old, always rather liked.  Don't follow the link if you are easily offended, it is juvenile, stereotypical, exceedingly crude, and generally un-pc.

Another thing that occurs to me - when I'm not around, someone else will have to learn the joke about the pianist who can't stop swearing (my money, for what it's worth, is on Rupert) - and there's no way I'm posting a link to that one.

Decompartmentalisation

Either it's just me - and I don't think it is - or we all compartmentalise our lives, our friends, our relationships.  I have friends - sometimes just one, sometimes a group - from Uni, Lincoln, Law School, London, Home (work) and so on and so on.

It is like a big complicated venn diagram.  Lots of people know each other, lots of people have never met (and probably wouldn't get on), some people have lots in common, some people have literally nothing but you in common.  Over the years, the diagram drifts, changes, sometimes quickly, sometimes at a glacial rate, imperceptibly slowly.

Some friendships have a natural shelf life, but some are too strong to really die even after 15 years of not being in contact, they are just...latent.  A time like this is the acid test of those relationships - you quickly realise that there are some people who are important to you - and you to them - that it's great to be back in touch with, great to hear from.  Their voices, either on the phone or on email, are unmistakeable.

But really, aren't we silly for letting these people drift out of our lives in the first place.