Cancer 33

I am a dead man walking. It sounds so dramatic, and I suppose at one level it is, but generally speaking I don’t feel that different to how I felt before I got the news that I was terminally ill. Currently I am trying to recover from my operation, which takes up most of my energy so I am probably not thinking normally – I know I am not. I keep forgetting words, I am tired, life is a little blurry. I am moving slowly. I am eating little. What resources I have are going towards mending my body. Perhaps if I recover from the operation then I might start to worry.

People keep asking me about the results of the biopsies taken durng my operation. I can only reply that there is nothing that can be done until I recover from the operation so I am in no hurry to find out. I am a little concerned that if I find out prematurely, and the conclusion is there is no point to chemotherapy or other treatment then I might give in to despair (though I hope not). I am fighting one battle at a time. Now is the battle for physical recovery from the operation. If I win this then I can start the battle against cancer.

If I ever thought about death and dying in the past, then I assumed I would be depressed, anxious, despairing, a whole host of negtive emotions. In reality I feel very little. I am not depressed, though one morning I did cry. I am not despairing. I am only anxious that I become so ill that I am forced to return to hospital. That is my most negative thought. I do not want to go to hospital; it frightens me. My thoughts regarding missing out on seeing things in the future do not get me down. This is because at the time I won’t exist so it has no relevance. That thought feels wrong, am I letting people down? It is a fundamental outlook, this matter of non-existence. It ensures that I do not fear death.

We don’t usually know we are going to die, except when there is a diagnosis of terminal illness, or sitting on death row in some uncivilised nation such as Iran or the USA. I suppose older people in the last stages of life know they are going to die. I wonder whether my reltive lack of concern is because I am just emotionally numbed or because I am struggling to recover from my operation rather than a clever attempt at a philosophical outlook on death.

Should I call it an existential crisis? I am not sure. I suppose it is because it is leading to non-existence. That is not a problem for me (unlike the fear of returning to hospital)., so perhaps it is not an existential crisis because I have little interest in whether I exist or not. If I exist, which I do, then I am happy that I exist and can interact to some extent with the world around me. If I don’t exist, which I won’t, then that won’t matter simply because I don’t exist.

When I reflect on death I keep coming back to my views on whether my life was in some sense worthwhile, as Cormac McCarthy says in his latest book, Stella Maris, “The best way to die well is to live well”. I agree with that, which is probably why I also agree with a comment someone made to a previous blog, comparing how I am reacting to The Clash song, I’m not down, written by Mick Jones as a response to some difficult times he had faced:

I’ve been beat up, I’ve been thrown out
But I’m not down, no I’m not down.