Courage

One small part of a much greater tale has kept replaying itself over the past few months. Its the series of events that lead Atticus Finch to show his children that courage isn’t standing in the street with a gun in your hand, courage is knowing you’ve lost before you start but fighting all the same. That’s the battle I witnessed in the last year. Not to ‘win’ the fight against cancer, but the struggle to maintain dignity and courage in the face of a certain end.

Cancer is a strange beast, it’s not one disease but a million different variations. Some of them get attention and some of them don’t. The type of cancer this involves isn’t one that gets any attention, it hasn’t been branded and shoved at the top of the news agenda.

It began with unexplained weight loss, then jaundice, and it soon spiralled into scans and hospital visits. Soon came the diagnosis, talk of treatment and palliative care. As a family we had little choice but stand by as we watched a grandmother and mother crumble before us. Walking quickly became difficult and her hearing became so poor she struggled to be part of the conversation. The joy she got from her social life disappeared and she withdrew more, becoming ever more frustrated. I can’t help but think how hard those last months must have been for her, and I often wonder what made her worse the illness or the chemo. I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t visit her as often as I could have. Instead I allowed myself to be scared at how much worse the illness could be as the time crept by.

One of the last times I saw her conscious in hospital she said how long the days were now and how much of a burden she felt. On these last visits I see now how she must have summoned her strength to put on a brave face for her family. Not long after the illness took over.

I hope she made the decision to stop fighting and that she had some control. She slept more, lost interest in eating and soon it became clear that she wouldn’t be with us much longer.

If I had to describe horror it would be rushing to the hospital and seeing her delirious, shouting for the grandma who raised her as her own, before the morphine gave her peace.

I’ll remember the sounds of the bed filling with air and adjusting the pressure. I’ll remember the advertising on the bedside screens and Jeremy Hunt’s self aggrandising propaganda. I’ll remember cups of tea, walks to look out at the hospital grounds and feeling like I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I’ll remember holding her hand and telling myself it’s not the same person anymore. I’ll remember watching her breathing, searching for her breaths as they became slower and further apart. I’ll remember being woken up to find she’s gone, of more tea and numbness. I’ll remember seeing her body, small and cold. Seeing her skin tired and yellow, her hair thin, her face gaunt and realising how much the illness had stripped away from her. I’ll remember feeling like I wasn’t feeling enough.

When I think of her now I don’t think of the illness. I think of her bustling round her kitchen baking to feed the five thousand. I think of how happy her family made her, and how much she loved her life. She was content with everything she had built for herself and cared so much more about the people around her than the things she could buy.

There is one quote which sums up everything she was and it always pops into my head when I think of her. It’s from one of my favourite writers growing up, and probably still one of my favourite today.

“If you think lovely thoughts sunbeams will shine from your face and you will always look lovely”

Roald Dahl