Lady Shady

Having metastatic (or Stage 4) cancer is rather like having a constant shadowy companion. A spectre that follows you around and refuses to leave, no matter how unwelcome you make it. It arrived with the words your professional used – “we’re sorry, this is treatable but incurable” – in other words, we can’t make you better; we can only help you to keep going and hopefully not to suffer too much. Of course, they didn’t use that second set of words, but that’s what it boils down to. They don’t say “terminal” these days, but it is the thing that you will most likely die from and it will most certainly shorten your life expectancy. When those words were delivered to me, my shadowy companion arrived and is now always there to remind me – my life is short and it won’t be completely what I dreamed it might be.

We’ll all die of course – that is a certainty. But as a race, we’ve come to expect longer, healthier lives. We take it for granted that we’ll still be around at a “ripe, old age” and that we’ll remain fit enough to take those long-planned-for excursions and see our grandchildren grow to be adults and possibly even parents themselves. We don’t even see much of death these days – it takes place more often than not in hospitals or nursing homes. It’s no longer part of what happens regularly in the family home. It’s been cleaned-up, sanitised and removed from the ‘nice’ parts of life. It’s not really something that we talk about very often. Somehow, we’ve almost convinced ourselves that it’s ‘way off in the future’ and to be dealt with ‘later’ when we absolutely have to. When we no longer have a choice. Well, that’s me now. I don’t have a choice. I have to face it. I am going to die and am reminded of that stark fact every single day – repeatedly.

She is with me always – that shadowy companion. Asking troubling questions. “Are you really going to need another winter coat?” Sowing seeds of doubt, “Do you think you’ll be here next Christmas?” “Is it worth getting new glasses?” I did not invite her to walk with me. I never said, come along for the ride; help me keep my feet on the ground. I want to forget, you see. I would like to live as I always have – without care for the years to come.  I want to take my time left here for granted. I don’t want someone raising their eyebrows questioningly at what I’m planning. I won’t want to hear that whisper – is it really worth thinking about that? But I can’t seem to shake her off. She follows me everywhere; it seems I am stuck with her.

I read a wonderful book recently, with a fairy tale in it about a man who was able to flick his shadow off by kicking his foot a certain way. He became lighter and freer without it. People noticed how much brighter he was and they found him attractive because of it. I was rather taken with this idea. I even tried physically to ‘flick’ my death-reminding-companion away with my foot. “Be gone!” – I even tried to command it. To no avail though. She continued to follow me. Sometimes being quiet for a while, but mostly just niggling away – reminding me that my time is short.

What’s the impact, you ask? Well, you know these conversations that we tend to have – sort of daydreaming really, but taking place between friends, often when we’ve had a few drinks, or over good food. “Why don’t we do that thing?– walk the Coast-to-coast/ all of us go to Spain/ rent a cottage in the Highlands…” It could be anything. We like to dream, don’t we? That’s the time she appears and makes her presence known most strongly. “Are you likely to be here? Is it fair to let people think you’re going to be?” She doesn’t even need to speak – she just sits there, looking glum and sucking the colour out of my dreams. And I feel myself suddenly retreating from the conversation – from the whole idea of daydreaming. The joy melts away like bubbles on wet concrete and I hold myself in check. I can’t offer any more to this conversation.

Even worse are those times with family when we’re talking of the children’s futures. When someone says, “He’ll be at school by then”, and right now, he’s just 2 years old and this voice pops up to say, “That’s 3 years off. Very unlikely you’ll be here.” And I get this pain in my heart – an ache where there should be a gentle squeeze as we imagine that day when a little boy in a shiny new uniform – shorts too long and a little bit afraid – and I think, yep, she’s right. And I feel myself withdraw from those imaginings. It’s just too painful to envisage a picture of what will be when I may not be here to see it to fruition.

I’ve spoken before of how cancer is a thief that steals the life we should be living. It can take the joy out of the present. It also tries to steal away our dreams – the pleasure of looking forward to something wonderful. Even the things we perhaps think are unattainable or almost impossible to reach. Dreaming is good for us – it revives hope. So my uninvited companion does a good job of crushing hope. I can’t flick her off. She is firmly attached, like my shadow is when the sun is out. However, as I read the fairy story of the man who was able to cast off his shadow I started to wonder if I’d really want to live without this companion, now that I’ve met her and become acquainted. You see, he became lighter and lighter – until he was so bright that people couldn’t bear to look at him; they even started to be afraid of him. Maybe we need that darker side to us, I pondered. Maybe it’s possible we can be just that little bit too bright, too shiny.

Instead of battling with my companion I’ve decided I’ll try making my peace with her. Learning to accommodate her and integrate her into my life. You see, this is me now. I have had to let go of some of my dreams – they’re not going to be possible. If I hadn’t accepted that, I think I might have gone slightly mad. I’ve grieved over some. Like the picture of me being a crazy old lady with bright pink hair who disrupts every occasion she attends and always has something to say! Like the dream of returning to Vietnam and seeing Huey and Danang and visiting Ha Noi again. Or travelling to South America and seeing the Rain Forests. Or being at the weddings of some of my grandchildren. They were never realities, or even certainties. They were just dreams and they were wonderful to have. Many of them may never come true for me now, but they can for

someone else.

Of course, I don’t want to always live vicariously, but I can actually experience joys through seeing others experience what I missed and there’s something incredibly meaningful for that person who lives out that dream. Like when we went to Hell Fire Pass in Thailand, near the River Kwai, in 2019. It had been a dream of my dad’s for most of his life to go there – he was so taken with the story of the prisoners-of-war building that infernal railway. There was something so precious about his dream that I carried that day as we visited and walked that rail track in the burning heat. In that act, I somehow drew closer to someone I lost 30 years previously.

So we have to make peace, Lady Shady! You’re clearly sticking around, being tiresome

and I’m exhausted with trying to rid myself of you. If you’re coming along for the ride then you’d better meet my other constant companion; his name is Jesus. (Oh don’t start groaning, you non-Christian readers – just accept I love him and get over it!) He’s been with me through all this and has never backed away no matter how tough it got. A source of strength, joy and deep inner peace; he’s the one providing it all. And I trust him to take me through this and to “tread softly on my dreams”. I read this from Brian McLaren a few days ago and I’ve been reflecting on it ever since:

'We have to prepare ourselves to live good lives of defiant joy even in the midst of chaos and suffering'

It’s like a refusal to absorb the atmosphere around us. In the middle of the mess, we rise, strong and resilient. We might get knocked about, but we don’t crumble. We can mourn for what we lose; grieve and lament – but we can come through those times still imagining, celebrating again and striving for something more. It seems to me to be what makes us human.

There you go, Lady Shady, do your worst! Be as doleful and as miserable as you like. You may be reciting the facts, but they are not necessarily the truth. Have a chat with my other friend – see what his take is on all of this. He went through quite a tough time himself you know. And he always knew his life was short – and how it would end!