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Last chemo

My father instilled a sense of adventure in us three children. We were raised without fear: jumping into the river from the highest rock, daring each other to go deep into the sea and bodysurf the huge waves out. I skinned my knees roller skating and later, my leg paragliding through a barbed wire fence – I still see the scars. We feared him emotionally but were, and still are, physically brave. He loved to travel, and I often see him out of the corner of my eye, although he’s long dead, sat in a Portuguese café or lying on a beach on a Greek island when it was still uncommon for South Africans to travel that far.

My friend, Ian, asked me recently (in the hot tub, where all our deep conversations take place) whether it would make sense to build a vision board when I’m not able to travel anymore. When I become too weak. I gave it a moment’s thought and concluded that I would find what freedom means to me then, when the time comes. In the meantime, I’ll carry on travelling, to connect to my family, people, and places.

But recently my travelling has gotten a strange, very specific twist. I realised I crave something that would stir me, deeply touch me. Before, it was being exposed to the elements – rain, wind, sunshine, camping, cycling, hiking. Now, I yearn for comfort – a bed, a view, the soft feeling of warm water, a delicious meal.  No, it’s more that: I yearn for luxury that will stun me out of chemo-induced dulling of emotions. Selfish indulgence, as if am the only one suffering, ignoring the tsunamis, and earthquakes and volcanic eruptions and wars.  I haven’t got the energy to look outward to the suffering, I just want to spend time while I am still alive, arguing with my brother, laughing with my sister, hugging my mother, loving Frank, and having light moments with my sons. Creating memories with my friends. Feeling the warmth on my skin, not the bitter cold. Being kind to this body which has endured so much.

My last chemo has arrived. I am going alone, cycling my Bumblebee Yellow Brompton. Talking to the nurses about this and that, crocheting my granny squares. I still have adventures planned for this year – I remind myself to look at three months at a time, and not further. To be excited, reflective, mindful. To look for something to be excited about: that the dull, grey winter will change into spring, that the trees will don their most luminous, green leaves. I have given myself a year of travelling and then we’ll see. I wish my father could see me – he’d be proud of me. And if he wasn’t, that will be ok too.

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Bumbling along the Mosel

We’d just crossed the border from France to Germany along the Mosel River. Frank and I decided to cycle this stretch in my chemo break because it is flat, and I didn’t know how I’d feel after my third round of weekly treatment. I was looking forward to spending a longer amount of time in his birth country, which he wasn’t keen to show off. ‘They’re all rude, you’ll see’, he generalised, as Frank does. ‘You ask them the way, and they say leck mich am Arsch.’ I didn’t have to look that up. They were, of course, without exception, very friendly.

I had in my mind that we’d cycle through the autumnal vines in soft sunshine. Instead, we got rain, and we could hardly see the river or the vines. We cycled 60km on that first day, reverting to our former selves who could cycle the whole day. I thought we’d decided on the Mosel together, but it became clear it was my idea and Frank went with it. Frank was all for guaranteed sunshine on the Canary Islands. ‘I hate Tenerife,’ I said through gritted teeth and cycled my Bumblebee yellow Brompton, concentrating on this happy thought. When we next stopped, he hugged me. ‘I want sunshine, but I mostly want to be with you.’

I had a scheduled telephone call with Dr Walji. He had made peace with my travelling (or he didn’t say anything) and on the second day of cycling, we found a café to dry off in, socks and coats on the radiator. Dr Walji had the result of my CT-Scan the week before. ‘The cancer is all but gone,’ he said into my earphones, after asking how I was feeling. ‘We’ll continue treatment as planned.’

I should have been jubilant. Frank knows by now not to get excited. He knew that it was just a marker along the way. A positive scan meant everything and nothing: it meant the therapy was working but could stop working at any time.  But nonetheless the therapy was effective and I could plan the months ahead. But I felt tired. It was like a marathon or an ultramarathon or an all-night cycle, Frank reminded me – if your body can’t take it any longer, if you’re tired, the battle has only started. It just takes another perspective, a song, or a conversation to give you new courage to carry on. I needed time to regroup. These ups and downs. This not knowing. ‘Nobody knows when we’re going to die,’ a well-meaning friend says. I hear that often, so often that I don’t react anymore. I want to shout: ‘You don’t know what it’s like to stare in the mirror and see death lurking in the shadows behind you.’ We took the train to the next town.

The next day there was a break in the rain and after an unhurried breakfast we cycled along the Mosel river in soft sunshine amongst the autumn leaves. We took our time, stopping to have our sandwiches on a bench in a sleepy town. On our next break, we finished a fruity bottle of Riesling with a curried pumpkin soup, the conversation not shying away from my need to pull myself together, set new goals.

I got home to a card from my friends, Karen and Anita. Since Karen’s visit, the cards come regularly with an encouraging message or a quote. This time it’s a quote from Churchill: ‘Success is not final; failure is not fatal – it is the courage to continue that counts’. Ian fetched me from the airport, Gill offers to cook for me. We hot tub and decide to catch up with The Crown before the next series starts. I settle into the moment and breathe. I know it’s this moment that counts, but it’s hard not to think what the next moment is going to be like, and whether  I will suffer. But I look left and right of me, Gill crocheting and Ian eating a piece of chocolate that I brought him back from the Netherlands. And deep in me I know, I’ll have the courage to continue.

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I can’t keep up with the changes

My body is changing weekly, growing weaker. At first, it was sporadic; now the tiredness is permanent. I wake up with it and go to sleep with this weariness. If I take an afternoon nap, I can’t sleep at night, tossing and turning. I don’t know whether it’s the CT scan results I’m waiting for or the covid injection I received or the culmination of the chemotherapy. But the tiredness I feel at ordinary things seems extraordinarily large.  

I don’t know whether it’s permanent – that the cancer is finally taking its toll. I wonder if fighting it will help or just take precious energy. I discuss this with my friends, Ian and Gill, in the hot tub over a glass of wine. We take turns comparing our lives, so I don’t feel like I’m hogging the conversation (they know me well). Ian complains that he doesn’t have a partner at the moment and Gill talks about the divorce she is going through. I complain that I do the things that give me energy like cycling and taking a plane somewhere and don’t have the energy to dust, change beds and to make food – things that are important to me to create a welcoming atmosphere. I have employed a cleaner, but she cleans only superficially.  I used to like dusting and cleaning windows with my audio book or ironing in front of the TV, but recently I just postpone the chores until they become overwhelming. I berate myself over it – I feel lazy. I don’t want to complain because I love having people come to stay. I need it. But the change crept up on me and now I don’t have the energy to deal with domestic chores.

Friends think because I travel, I can cope with ordinary things like housework. It helps talking all of this through with Ian. He doesn’t tell me to take it easy. He starts with my identity: my identity is being strong, handling the cancer differently. It has worked for me thus far. But perhaps it’s time for a change of identity: look after me.

It has always been my opinion that you can’t look after others if are in a dismal state yourself. You can only ‘overflow’ to others, otherwise the risk is being needy and taking more energy that you give. Julie suggests I ask for help. It is difficult because I have nothing to give back. Julie, in her wisdom, suggest that giving empowers people (I know this: it’s much easier to give than to stand with empty hands). I shouldn’t take away from those who want to give.

One danger is that I forget what I can give. Alexander asked last Sunday for advice on making pita bread and I said I couldn’t give any advice to him, thinking he’d surpassed my cooking skills. Afterwards, I realised that of course I could help him; I had just lost confidence in my abilities – all abilities.

My tendency is to go for all or nothing, but perhaps I should prioritise which buckets I’ll put my energy in. Sometimes, saying yes to something you don’t want to do leads to a life you want.  Practising saying yes to help, saying no more often, saying yes to cycling or strength training which gives me energy. And the wisdom to know which to prioritise. I’ll build a vision board.

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7 Questions To Ask Your Mom From A Hiker Who Lost Theirs 

Recently, an Instagram post entitled 7 Questions To Ask Your Mom From A Hiker Who Lost Theirs did the rounds. My eldest son, Ben, forwarded it to me with the message: ‘Think of some answers to these, would you. Good questions!’ Ben thinks in statements, not questions.

It got me thinking – perhaps I should ask my mother some questions about things that happened when I was growing up. My guess is that she would answer: ‘My child, I live in the present. The past is the past.’ Perhaps I should answer Ben’s questions first. 

What’s the happiest memory of us? My happiest memories of you are when we went camping in France in the summer and skiing in the winter. I suppose I was relaxed then, and I would notice you developing year after year: making friends in the campsite and eventually growing up, having to apologize to Didi, the French campsite manager, for keeping the other campers awake with your raucous behavior. And to see your ski skills grow until they surpassed mine and you both did a ski season. You became excellent skiers. Aside from these holidays, I was busy just coping with work and home life.

What was your first year of motherhood like? Busy. I was in South Africa, working. Your father was on business when the sale came through on our small-holding and I got my friend, Zelmarie, to help me move. You were cozily developing – it would be a month before you made your appearance. I made a new heavily pregnant friend, Julie, in the aqua-aerobics class and you and Kaden had the same due date. We waited for the recommended six weeks, and we returned to the gym. I still maintain that you like the taste of yogurt because when I breastfed you, there was lactic acid in my milk. You were ten months old when I fell pregnant with your brother. I was back at work by then, working part-time.

Is there anything you’ve kept secret about our family’s history? I recently learned that I have a half-brother (my father’s child), but he’s never tried to contact me (or me, him). Maybe he doesn’t know? When I asked my mother about this, she responded: ‘The past is the past – I just want to make the point that your father hurt me. I’m sure I told you. Or was it your sister?’ Otherwise, there is nothing noteworthy to report now.

What’s the nicest thing I’ve ever done for you? You were wise beyond your years. And the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me stemmed from that wisdom. You were staying at a friend’s one day. You must have been eight and your brother six. I had been recently diagnosed with breast cancer and the little friend’s aunt had just died of breast cancer. You put your arms around your brother’s shoulders and said: ‘My mother is a fighter. She is not going to die.’ The faith that put in my life!

What do you wish most for us? What I wish for you has always been the same; I used to sing ‘Forever Young’ by Bob Dylan to you when you were little in church and I read the words again:

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you

May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the light surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
And may you stay forever young
May you stay forever young

I still wish that for you.

What have been the best and worst parts of getting older? The best part about growing older for me is that one has less responsibility. My greatest achievement was raising you and your brother well. Not well, as in ‘good manners’ and ‘be polite to others’ well. It was more urgent than that: I taught you to be emotionally independent, to take responsibility for your life. I taught you that there will be consequences for your actions, and I would love you through them. I taught myself not to transpose my fears onto you. And now my job is done. I once said to you I had gone from manager of your life to consultant. And you said to me: ‘You are a sleeping partner now – you must wait and see if your investment will pay off.’ Wise ass!

The worst part of growing older for me is growing weaker in mind and in body. I can’t think as sharply as I used to, nor run as freely. I am afraid your brother and you just tolerate me. And become irritated at my incompetence.

What’s the one thing you want me to always remember after you’ve gone? That I was once strong and could speak fluently. You know, that is what motivated me to do the Comrades Ultramarathon – that I wanted you to remember me without cancer. But then it came back.

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A Bumblebee Yellow Brompton

I got a Bumblebee-Yellow Brompton last week. Penny gave me the idea months ago – I could go to treatment and, if I felt tired, fold it up and pop it in a taxi. I could also take it on trains, buses, trams, and the metro. Somehow, I’ve seen a future I could see myself in. Frank and I plan to take our fold-up bikes on cycle along the Rhine Valley in October, when the leaves are changing on the vines. I imagine the colours will be beautiful. I chose my Brompton after being inspired by my borrowed Moulton that we cycled around Iceland on. It comes just in yellow – stubbornly and shamelessly optimistic. I get the last yellow one in the entire country.

I notice that my resilience is decreasing. Perhaps it has been like this since I had my seizures, but I expect much more of myself now. One notices in my speech that I’m tired – my words become jumbled, and I can’t get them out. Making arrangements and choices (which flights, where we want to stay, what we want to do) leaves me exhausted, although normally, I love doing it. I need to rethink how I do the things I love: I struggle to read, so I listen to audiobooks. I struggle to write, so I have autocorrect (and a writing coach).

‘Rest’, you say. But I have these bursts of energy where I imagine that I can do anything. Then Alexander tells me he’s planning to come home at the same time that I’d planned to go to Rosan’s 50th in Bordeaux and I crumble: I don’t want to make that choice. Only then do I realise that I have an urgency about life, more than ever before. I need to fit everything in that this life has to offer. I fool myself – I am not afraid to die, but I will miss this world. ‘Imagine, when a human dies, the soul misses the body, actually grieves the loss of its hands and all they could hold…The soul misses the way the body would hold another body and not be two bodies but one pleading god doubled in grace.’ (Tincture, by Andrea Gibson). Sleep does not help – it is weariness and weariness is the same as giving up. I don’t know whether this feeling will ever go away.

But I hold onto my Bumblebee-Yellow Brompton. The adventures it offers. I cycle to have my bloods done on it once a week; I cycle to weekly chemo on it. Feeling the rain on my skin. Feeling the soft autumn sunlight. Feeling the race of my breath going uphill and the sense of freedom going downhill. I chat to Frank (who is here for the week) when he accompanies me, and to Julie (who’s left Australia to work here for five weeks) when it’s her turn. I forget about my fingers, growing increasingly numb, the side effect of the chemo and the reason they stopped it at last time. On the way from chemo we stop for brunch at a Portuguese café and have Pastel de Nata that reminds me of Porto. Where I plan to go with Patrick when I have a chemo break in November. 

A Bumblebee Yellow Brompton
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Be more like a man

I’m in a dance with Dr Walji and I’m in danger of falling into a child-parent relationship with him. I don’t know how to  ask him for permission to go away in my ‘chemo-breaks’. I tell myself he’s fighting for my life, and I put it in danger because I can’t bear the thought of saying no – to adventure, to birthday celebrations. Due to my upbringing and due to my faith, I subconsciously expect punishment for non-compliance. I expect my father to punish me, and if not, God. Consciously I know it not to be true – I’ve other models in the world which make more sense. But I revert to subconscious child when I’m feeling weak and afraid.

It takes reminding by my friend, Patrick, that ‘Dr Walji is not the boss of you – you are’. Irony of it is that Dr Walji will agree. He’s cautious and he advices me on the best medical practice, but he doesn’t ultimately take responsibility for my health. He works hard on the quality of life, but only I know what’s best for me though, mentally and physically.

 I wonder whether it would help if I channelled a man. Let me explain: men tend to state what they want, women ask permission. I’m generalising, but there’s truth in there somewhere. I don’t like going against authority. Ask Frank – it took him two years to get me to wild camp and I still object. But let’s not talk about Frank in this context – for a military man, he certainly breaks the rules wherever he can. He has learnt to listen to my feelings and, for the sake of the relationship, learnt not to tell me what to do. He surely shakes his head at my conundrum. He (and Patrick) would just state they’re going away in their chemo-break and negotiate the terms.

I then developed back-pain between my spine and scapula while on the boat. I was in the middle of the sea and struggled to sleep because of the pain, and I leave it two days before I Google ‘back pain und lung cancer’. And I left two days before I Googled. Of course, Google provided the answer. ‘Pain in the back, along with shoulder and neck pain, are all symptoms of lung cancer.’

I came back from the trip, having to admit to Dr Walji I had been away, and at sea. I understood then the danger of being far away from a hospital. The chemo nurse’s first reaction was it was an embolism (because of flying and the chemo drugs that I’m on). All those fears were ruled out by a chest X-ray, after a week of suffering and being anxious. With the back pain, I forgot about the brain MRI that my brother, Johann, took me to before returning to Australia. I got the results last night – thank goodness it is clean. I couldn’t cope with a brain tumour again. Not yet anyway.

But I’m planning my next trip in spite of the drama that the last one brought. Frank and Julie, my friend-like-a-sister, are coming over. Frank for a week and Julie for five weeks. I’m excited. I’m planning to go to my friend Rosan’s 50th birthday celebration with Julie. Bordeaux is a big city with a hospital and I won’t be not flying longer than two hours. I’m learning to manage the risk and my peace of mind. 

On top of that, my bumble-yellow Brompton bike was delivered yesterday. Last night I met Ian in the town for a belated birthday celebration and went for a curry. Afterwards I loaded my Brompton in a taxi to come home and have a hottub. I see adventures in the future, cycling around the Canary Islands or around Wales, popping our fold-up bikes on a plain or on a train or on a bus when I’m tired.   

Thank-you for listening to me and my fretting. What would you have done? (comment below)

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A selfie

It started with a selfie at the departures hall in Gatwick: it had gone so smoothly up to now despite train strikes.  ‘Too good,’ Frank said. ‘Something will go wrong.’ I rolled my eyes and sent the selfie to Reanda. ‘Frank’s coming!’ she exclaimed, perturbed. ‘I thought it was only you and Johann coming, and then it would be a tight squeeze for a week on the boat.’ We were sailing from Pula to Split and it would take a week. Roland followed with a WhatsApp. I could hear he was stressed. ‘I am not here to host without notice – we are here to fix the boat. wtf. What were you thinking?’ We were at the departure gate. I realised it was big mistake – Johann had a lot of reports to do, Frank felt unwelcome, and I felt embarrassed because I’d omitted to tell them Frank was coming, but we had already checked in one bag.  After debating we decided I’d fly on my own. The whiskey and two bottles of wine were in the bag. I couldn’t imagine staying more than one day. I’d hand over the gifts, spend one night on the boat and make my way back to the UK – it was the ‘wtf’ that haunted me. I wasn’t used to Roli being anything but kind to me. I must have upset him and now I would have to face him. I said goodbye to an upset Frank and a relieved Johann.

I got in just before midnight to a warm welcome from Roland. He had arranged with friends on a neighbouring boat to collect me in their car. Reanda had a midnight snack and bottle of cold wine ready. She had prepared a cosy room on their boat. I gave it one look and understood their space dilemma: storms were predicted, everything needed to be inside, and they were still working on the boat. Reanda and Roland were prepared to suffer the discomfort of having all four of us, Johann, Reanda, Roli and me, on board what most probably was the last time before Johann was due back in Australia, and my chemotherapy treatment wore me down. Johann had already been working from out of the UK for six months.

The next morning, after a morning swim and some last-minute maintenance, they said a teary goodbye to their friends and set sail. With me. Their warm welcome convinced me that it was the right to do despite my discomfort. It was a beautiful day ahead of the predicted storms. Reanda and Roli’s world tour had begun, and I was there it to witness it.

The following day was stormy, and it started raining through the night. Roland didn’t sleep, because he was concerned that the boat would bump against another the side of another boat. We were ‘wild camping’ – docking in a quiet bay to avoid the extortionate marina fees. Reanda had the challenge of hanging wet towels and dishcloths up to dry. When the weather allowed it, we’d dock for a swim and to prepare a meal. Reanda had stocked up on fresh, seasonal vegetables in the market in Pula before I’d arrived and most afternoons, we had a delicious salad. In the evening we had warm dish like filled pancakes, potato salad or warm aubergine salad. The day was comprised of checking the weather, rechecking the wind direction, looking for a suitable bay to anchor where the wind would not throw us against the land. I don’t know what I imagined sailing to be like. Cocktails on the deck every evening? Small, quaint towns to discover? Private, secluded beaches? It was a caravan surrounded by water, with no laundromat or way to get rid of the rubbish, no nipping to the shop for ice cream. I started fantasising about drones that could deliver pizza or hamburgers, to spare us cooking and washing up.

There was another problem. My bloods had indicated that I was well, and I’d set off with little more that my anti-seizure tablets and painkillers. More than once, I imagined I’d developed a fever and I was far from medical care. That brought home the risk – to my hosts and to me. I was lying awake with back pain that drinking paracetamol and ibuprofen would not relieve. I gave in to googling ‘back pain and lung cancer’ and there it was: I was convinced the tumour had grown. And I was far from land.

The week unfolded and I got a glimpse of how sailing would be: yes, there was the hard work – Roland says having a boat means doing maintenance in exotic locations. But there were the serene moments: we saw a dolphin, the sunset over the big sky; we saw a blue moon rising, huge, over an island. We did manage to get off the boat on to dry land, and drink cocktails and have a delicious meal. I imagine, like backpacking or bikepacking, you’d need a holiday from travelling from around and sleeping wild and roughing it. And had they not needed get me to Split to catch flight, Reanda and Roland would have sailed in their own time, not rushing. They’re in for an adventure, no doubt. With spectacular moments and hard moments, but mostly just the need to get on with it – one nautical mile after the other.

I saw Dr Walji on my return: the tumour had not grown and we’re still finding out what is the origin of the pain that keeps me awake at night. He has prescribed stronger painkillers that help me sleep at night. It might be a hairline fracture in my scapula caused by treatment. We don’t know. Dr Walji reminded me: if you outlive your diagnosis by four years, you are bound to get side-effects no-one has ever heard of.

And I had the privilege of seeing Reanda and Roland on their epic world trip. That is quite something.

Selfie
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Friends

I am deeply grateful for the opportunity to grow stronger before the chemotherapy. I start next week. My friends carry me gently (whilst I’m kicking and screaming, ungrateful) towards the start line: Ian helps me conclude that I will benefit from a gratefulness journal, Fern comes for one night to see Karen and creates ambience, Karen is here from the Netherlands and creates an unhurried atmosphere. We’re learning to crochet. Other Karin is patiently dedicated to improving my speech. Gill is living with me and tends to my shopping list. Kim was here last week from Oslo.

I have collected many friends over the years and managed to lose just a few. I suppose I invested in my friends as others would tend to their garden. I never let an opportunity go by to catch up, visit and have a coffee.

I remember when I first came to the UK, I was determined to make friend here too. And UK friends. I was on my way to Derby when I remembered two guys from the leadership training course that I was presenting, had invited me to visit them in the coffee factory they worked. I announced my presence and waited until they found them in the depth of the factory. Their welcoming words were ‘we didn’t think you’d turn up!’ I was so desperate for friendship that I hauled out my diary each time when people offered an opportunity to catch up. ‘When would it suit you to get together?’ I would asked, expectantly. Only to realise they seldom meant it. I suppose that’s why I hold on to my precious friends – I worked hard for them, I appreciate them. I now know that people seldom have space for a new friend, especially a foreign one with a strange accent and that has nothing in common with them. But fortunately, I wormed my way into their lives, thick-skinned, without realising that I was. These friends are spread all over the world. They form a snug blanket around me that will catch me if I fall. Some are only a block away, in the town where I live, some elsewhere in the UK, others in Europe, and some further away in South Africa and Australia. The kindness of people humbles me. As Yolande (who I did a podcast with last Saturday) said, ‘in the right soil, a friendship will grow.’ It cannot be forced, only nurtured. It requires attention, (some surprise you and grow despite neglect), care and nourishment and voila, you have a friendship that supports you through the good and the bad times. Some even surprise you and despite times of neglect.

Of course, some friendships withered along the way whilst others simply grew stronger – unaffected by a bit of drought or frost. I am learning to trust relationships. I remember crying when Julie and Tertius emigrated to Australia. ‘You must be bonded by blood or marriage for someone to stay’, I yelled, heartbroken. Julie has proven me wrong, as have many others. It seems to me that friendship, once really fully formed, is as tight a bond as blood or marriage.

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What if I’ve changed?

I’ve gone from being an independent, free-spirited and giving person (because I can afford to be generous with my time and energy), to being dependent: for my shopping, for my gym sessions – I haven’t got the energy or the means to get there under my own steam. What if I’ve changed? What if I’m not like I used to be and others are holding on to the memory of how I was? Some might like me better, but many might not.

I’m afraid: that my sister drifts further away from me  (she is going sailing with her husband around the world) and that my brother, who I’ve become so used to having around, is going to be halfway around the world. I’m afraid I won’t see my mother again for a holiday by the sea. I know they’re just a flight away from me, and I know I saw my sister and mother just twice a year, and my brother even less, but I was able to go to them if I wanted to.

I would be lying if I said I’d never before thought I was going to die (my friend, Ian, says I die every year, so he’s going to stop crying now) – previous chemo in 2018 I came close to dying but I didn’t mind, I felt so awful. I didn’t know what to expect and that is a good thing. It is the trepidation that steals your energy and time. This time it’s different: I had the brain surgery, and then radiotherapy five weeks after and then chemotherapy is to follow, together with immunotherapy. This time it’s a drawn-out process that I can’t see the end of.

But… I have a glimmer of hope, a pinprick of light shining through. My brother and I sat around the fire after dinner the last week before he left for work trip to Canada in comfortable silence; I was too tired to speak. I’m beginning to visualise my new life: quiet, reflective with plenty of resting. I can’t say ‘yes’ to everything and am already practising. It’s humbling – I didn’t always appreciate having the option of saying ‘no’, perhaps because I wanted to be part of everything and had the energy. But perhaps because deep down, I’m afraid of rejection. Now there’s an opportunity to be brave and explore that option. Now that my dark mood has lifted, everything seems possible again. I think it’s a natural state that we live in hope.

I’ll talk to the radiologist this morning after gym about the swelling on the side of my head and my one protruding ear. I’ll hear from Dr Walji what the oncology regime will be and make peace with that. I’ll deal with my brother leaving soon and my sister setting sail in the near future and I look forward to visiting the seaside with my mother and Reg. I wouldn’t be able to get to Switzerland this year, but next year I will and I’ll celebrate Rosan’s 50th with a gastronomical extravaganza. It is amazing what a bit of perspective can do.

I’ll be kind to myself and I’m curious and unafraid regarding the future and what it will bring. But I’ve had to persevere through dark times to gain perspective: mourning of the loss of another type of life. That is the lesson to be learnt: everyone needs to pass through the dark at their own pace, and I can just listen and be there for them, even though I can perhaps already see many outcomes for them. The holding of hope gently for them, their hope, not mine. They will come to their dreams in their own time, just like I will come to mine.

My friend Alison’s father coloured this in – he has Alzheimers. I take courage from this – I don’t understand the reason entirely. Perhaps life is not so serious?
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Gratefulness

I am blessed with optimism – loads of it! I wasn’t always that way; I was a depressed child, hiding in my books. I changed schools 13 times which didn’t afford me friends. After school, I was an exchange student in Germany – my father was proud of me for the first time. I wasn’t ready for it but determined to go. It was the apartheid era in South Africa, and I defended it. I was young and indoctrinated by the system.  I was so convinced by it, I defended it on a protest on my own. Some of the older German generation (unfortunately) agreed with me. I knew so little about the world. But then I started to become aware really happening  and took responsibility.  I put on weight in Germany and worked hard to lose it. I didn’t do any sport at school – I was clumsy. I was climbing Table Mountain when my friend urged her husband to wait for me. ‘She can’t keep up,’ she said. So I decided to take up running.

But it took 20 years of married life before I took full responsibility for my own life. John and I had been unhappy for a while. I studied communication and read many books, but couldn’t save my marriage. I was afraid but I faced my fear anyway and got divorced. And then faced fear face-to-face: cancer, being single, metastasis, and then recently a brain tumour. I just discovered, the more I faced my fear head on, the more fearless I became.  I grew the confidence to handle anything in life and if I couldn’t, I’d learn to or die trying.

I have learnt to live with fewer rules (my friend, Julie’s, advice). I have learnt to ask (live with) ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ in every situation (Ian’s advice).   I’ve learnt to change my circumstances if they don’t suit me (Fern’s advice). I’ve learnt to look from (a different perspective?/the other person’s perspective) the other side (Patrick’s advice). I’ve learnt from so many people and continue to learn every day.

I’ve come to face my biggest challenge yet: to read and write again. But then I have found the kindest of people there: Karin, who is teaching me to talk anew; my brother who is driving me around and who cooks for me; my sons who take turns hanging with me. I believe the bigger the fear is, the bigger the kindness is.

In summary, I think the secret is being grateful and finding joy the small thing, to be able to feel the wind on my skin. To be able to understand, although I can’t speak fluently or find it extremely hard to write. I have found myself a new challenge and am striving to overcome it.