The Reward is the Journey

I wake up.  It's Saturday.  And she's not here to share the weekend that has yet to happen. This is now a familiar tape that has been playing out most weekends since September.  There have, of course, been exceptions.  The weekends that I've been away.  Those weekends on which I've had work commitments which have taken me out of London.  The break I spent on the other side of the world over New Year.  These times have felt different.  Saturday mornings in London don't yet feel quite right. Something occurs to me.  I think to call her.  I reach for my phone, but before I do, I remember.  Again.  And again.  Her number is no longer available.   I am briefly and repeatedly disorientated.  It feels unfair.  It isn't.  Life isn't.   I am adjusting.  Grief is a process.  A process that is unfolding.  Sometimes quickly.  Often slowly.  I have no say as to its pace...

And so, she is gone.  We have said goodbye to one another in this life.  Sitting beside her in hospital with lines trailing from both her hands, I realised that all that needed to be said had been said.   Death gives clarity to life.  Suddenly all is so wonderfully clear.  Meaning, purpose and passion are everything. Charlotte has always shown me what it is that really matters.  These are the lessons I get to keep for life:  Do what matters.  Every day.  Forget everything else. Life's too short to rush through it.  Pause awhile to stand in the awe of its beauty and get to know those spirits who make the world a beautiful place. I have had the great privilege of getting to know one such woman. Hours after she passed away, swimming came naturally.  Her effortless grace got me to the poolside far earlier that morning than normal.  The water was peaceful and calm.  Those within it, perhaps less so. ...

And so, chemo is over.  My best friend's diary has been chocker...  Line cleans, blood tests, scans and 18 weekly doses of the gruelling treatment itself.  Summer seems at last to have arrived and with it, we hope, some time, peace and space. She is, we acknowledged over a rather yummy luncheon served to us beneath the beautiful canopy of creepers and climbers at Petersham Nurseries, an inspiration. A small group of us gathered to celebrate her forthcoming marriage.  The sun's rays joined the warmth we all have for this very special woman.  Warmth and, in my case at least, pride. It is the greatest privilege to call this woman my best friend.  She continues to epitomise my understanding of grace.  Our bodies are fragile things.  Our minds are frailer still.  In her composure and wisdom, she possesses an outlook I can only aspire to adopt.  From you, dear Charlotte, I learn and I learn and I learn.   The ...

Cancer has no respect.  She cares not at all about plans or dreams. She barges in whenever she pleases and takes pleasure in doing so with only the minimum of warning.   She has made her presence known once more... This patient knows her body well.  The unwelcome warning signs were recognised and acted upon.  Fast.  There is an action plan.  Boom. Cancer doesn't like a plan.  Cancer is disorganised and chaotic.  This patient has resources aplenty.  Cancer is to be pushed to the max, and hopefully zapped into the middle distance.  

Cancer doesn't play by the rules.  She plays dirty.  She defies those things that feel to make sense.  She arrives as if from nowhere and demands to be seen.  She can only be taken seriously.  She shouts loudly drowning out any protestations and sets the agenda.  She refuses to negotiate and drives the hardest bargain. And so a new phase is entered.  Not a door anyone would wish to open, but one through which countless souls have travelled before us.  Across the threshold friendly faces, armed with expert knowledge await.  Paclitaxel administered weekly is the weaponry with which this battle will be fought.   Also known by its brand name Taxol, paclitaxel is a potent cancer-fighting drug originally derived from the bark of the Pacific yew tree (Taxus brevifolia nutt), a small to medium-sized tree that occupies Pacific coastal forests from southwestern Alaska to California.   Development of Paclitaxel started...

I was sad and probably slightly relieved to discover it was no longer available on iPlayer.  I had read the glowing reviews of the BBC's adaptation of Lisa Lynch 's book of the same name.  I didn't expect it to feature as one of my in-flight movie choices but am glad it did... Sheridan Smith as Lisa Lynch in 'The C-Word' (2015) Lisa's journey was hers and hers alone.  Yet there are clear resemblances to a journey of someone I hold very dear, whose  own courage and graceful determination continue to humble me on a daily basis.   Watching the 90 minute feature sitting amongst strangers, each busily entertaining themselves as we crossed the Atlantic was an experience I am unlikely to forget in a hurry.  My anonymity meant that my tears fell silently and, I imagine, largely unnoticed.  And yet it felt difficult: I wanted to insist everyone behold this wonderful portrayal, and soak up the many reminders it contains for those of us who live beyo...

The exhilaration I feel when out and about on two wheels is hard to describe without sounding gushy.  At times, I fear I may even sound evangelical.  That said, I'm going to risk gushing evangelically and share (yet) another bicycling anecdote... I did not conceal my excitement at being invited to take to the roads of Kent on a Sunday morning. The autumn sunshine greeted us.  Whilst it couldn't be described as warm, our meeting point coffees certainly were.  We were off to a good start before we left. The roads were pleasantly quiet, save for a few hurried drivers (presumably making their way to morning service).  I knew not the route ahead of us, but was given ample warning of the sticky climbs and one 'rather naff' descent. For all my evangelising, the only action this bike has seen in over two years has been to be moved from one hallway to stand wistfully in a sitting room - only to return, rather unceremoniously, to inhabit another dra...

There are very few people I would agree to meet in a park super early on a Sunday morning. Charlotte is one of them.  The appointed hour was 07:30.  The venue Richmond Park. The pleasure was all mine... Chemo complete and steroids finally out of the drug cocktail, Charlotte has been back on two wheels for 5 weeks.  And, on Sunday morning, was to be found racing on a tandem! 10.4 miles in under 30 minutes.   Oozing with pride does not do justice to how I felt on meeting Charlotte post-race back at Pen Ponds. Time trialing is something I don't even aspire to.  But for a cyclist so talented as she who I am privileged to call my best friend, the message to cancer is clear:  you can take the girl out of cycling, but you can't take cycling out of the girl.

Charlotte is preparing for her second round of this second chemo series.  The nausea came, and was contained with super strength antiemetics.  Whilst energy levels and breathlessness serve to remind us of the alien's antics, the schedule permits some important reprieve and I have been delighted to spend some very chilled out time with someone who truly understands the meaning and value of 'rest'.   She remains one of the greatest teachers I've ever had.  And I've had some goodens.  Her humble acceptance of life on life's terms continues to inspire me.  Her humour through it all never ceases to amaze me.  It's contagious and my own life is injected with meaning by her exceptional wisdom, strength and hope.   And then there's her fortitude.  This week's activity schedule included a breathlessness workshop and a session on the turbo trainer...  Charlotte remains an athlete.  She knows her body and she respects her dynamic limi...

There is so much that is so wrong about chemo on so many levels. This dawned on me as I sat opposite my best friend, already far more comfortable and better prepared for what was about to happen than I could even pretend to be. I didn't need to:  I was there, but I was nothing more than a welcome addition rather than anything essential to this morning's proceedings... We arrived on time. We were not the first, and the nurse's instructions (not to mention the 'q word', as it was, at that point, fairly quiet) were not without good reason:  in the three and a half hours we spent on the day unit, it progressively filled up. Soon there was not an empty chair in the house, and this was, it was very clear, just a normal day for all concerned.  There is something about this end of medicine that is (from where I was sitting, as undiagnosed but not, I would say, unaffected, observer) strangely comforting. Or at least resilience promoting. Everyone is getting...