Cancer 47

We are on holiday in a lovely place, the island of Seil in western Scotland. It is an area where even I, a sea hater (it smells, it is wobbly, it is flat, it makes me seasick, it drowns people, it is full of fish piss, it is noisy), like the sea here, as it is usually enclosed by views of islands rather than the flat featureless and dangerous place it usually is. The weather is wonderful, bright sunshine, long days; there are midges but they are not causing too many problems.

Inevitably, as this is our last holiday before my chemo starts, there are reminders regarding how well I am not. Last night was the most spectacular stoma explosion yet. I will spare you the details but remember those images of the emergence of Surtsey from the Atlantic in the 1970s, with lava flying around? I have eaten too many meals, large meals, in the last few days. It is difficult when staying in hotels, as it is compulsory to have the fried breakfast, and then a three course evening meal. I have learned to avoid eating too much in the day but it is not enough. Now we are at the holiday cottage it should be easier. I am cutting down on my intake. Last night we shared a single chicken breast last night (with haggis of course). No pudding. No first course. Give the stoma a chance to settle.

As I live now it is often the small things that cause a twinge of hurt. One of the essentially meaningless things we do when we are on holiday in a nice place is to imagine living there. We pick the house we want, and just generally chatter about it. Don’t all couples have their own sense of meaningless meaning? We were doing this yesterday and it gave me that twinge of hurt. While our past conversations were not particularly serious, they did have an underlying element that if we suddenly came into money (eg one of my books turned into a best seller), perhaps we could retire and move to one of these places, whether it was France, Spain, Scotland, the Lake District, Ireland, etc. There was a sense of possibility, however remote. Now when we have a similar conversation there is no chance of such a move. Even if my newest book, Applied Narrative Psychology, which is due to be published in January 2024 for those of you desperate to buy a copy, sells a million we won’t be moving, even if I am still alive. As it is an academic book with a price of about a billion pounds even for the paperback I very much doubt it could become a best seller. That sense of no future is what gives the twinge of hurt. I can still talk about such things but there is something missing from inside me.

Back to reality. Today I feel the sun on my face, the birds are singing, earlier my bare feet wandered across the spongy dewy grass, I watched a deer pass through the garden, and I am looking at a very calm stretch of the Atlantic Ocean – really a narrow stretch of water separating the island from the mainland connected by the Bridge over the Atlantic a few hundred metres north of here. We only have three full days here before returning home so I can start my treatment. I must make the best of these days as there is a fair chance of this being my final holiday. Must? Nonsense. If I start thinking like that, like every day is my last good day then I may as well die now. I like sitting around doing nothing, essentially wasting my time, why should I start rushing around fulfilling that non-existent bucket list just because I have cancer?

Even if this is not my last holiday, in the future (such as it is) I will inevitably think each holiday is my last, so why am I wasting my time writing this bloody blog? I am off to read a book.