Looking into holes Part six

 Yesterday was day eight of chemo; it’s a ten day course. It was a complete washout. Massive temperature spike meant I couldn’t get a platelet transfusion until ten in the evening and the blood transfusion didn’t even happen. The hacking cough was hacking me off and I was in a foul mood. “This shitty bloody cough is going to kill me” I complained.

I was told when I was in Sales that I could drive the mood through the roof or through the floor. Speaking to my sister the other day she recalls that when I was tasked with babysitting her I became so frustrated with her I left the lounge and punched a hole in the bathroom door.

Anyway I had realised that although I didn’t appreciate it at the time I was going to see much better days and a gradual improvement. What I wouldn’t be able to cope with would be the idea that every day I woke I would feel less well than the day before. The gradual or rapid decline into a deeper  malaise would just kill me but I suppose that is the nature of our lives as we begin to lose our faculties and the world slowly unwinds its tethers as we drift away.

I remember when I was four being taken to the zoo by my mum and dad and my dad sitting on his own with his head in his hand, clearly in some pain. He was an electrician on the railways, had fallen into a pit and damaged his finger. Eventually he had his finger amputated but it was two late and in quick succession his arm was amputated. Then he was gone, disappeared altogether. My mother was widowed young with three children and within a couple of years had re-married. She wanted a father for her children and soon two more arrived; children not husbands. In the eighties my mum was diagnosed with MS. It was a major blow not least because she was a beautiful and vivacious character who took great pride in her appearance so the eventual confinement to a wheelchair was a cruel blow.Eventually my new dad became her full time carer but he was also compromised. For years he had worked with asbestos and breathing was difficult. He was also a smoker but sort of gave up. He told my mum he’d given up and she chose to believe him. One day he just ran out of traction and within two months of his passing my mum did too. The tethers that bound them to us simply unravelled.

There’s a chap in the bed next to me. He has kidney and liver cancer. It’s just palliative care now. He knows it but he’s grateful for the support from his daughter. A palliative care nurse sits next to him and holds his hand.

 “ we’ve spoken to your daughter and she’s  said she’s struggling so we’ve arranged morning and evening visits to allay the pressure a little”

“ no that’s fine, I understand, she’s been absolutely wonderful”

Things change. We hold on to our memories and go to the happy places but life keeps going and .finally leaves us behind. As for me I don’t want to drag on after years of ill health. I just want to go suddenly without warning. At 103.