I am a terrible person.
Not outwardly. I work to be a kind person. I am known as a kind person. I am very kind to everyone, all of the time. Deliberately.
But internally, I feel like I am rotten on the inside.
I’ve always felt this way. I have done a lot of therapy to try and work through this and accept that what matters is what shows on the outside. My actions. My ‘second thoughts’, which are always striving to be balanced and measured and calm.
But this journey is testing me.
I am so angry all the time now.
I was so lonely for years and years. It took my Panther and I so long to get together – so many false starts because if you date the person who has become your best friend, who is integral to your favourite place and sport and friendship-group, and that goes wrong, you could never recover from it.
But we took the risk. And we were so happy. Like the sum of both of us together was so much better than either of us alone. We made each other want to be better versions of ourselves. And it was so easy. Just so full of light and love and happiness.
And then this hand grenade landed right in the middle of it all.
‘I’m sorry. It’s brain cancer. And it can’t be cured. He’ll be lucky to see two years.’
What possible response is there to that other than rage?
The thing is that anticipatory grief makes us all crazy. The day after we got the histology back and had a name for this horrible thing, I broke my favourite coffee mug. And was utterly inconsolable. This mug was £4 from Morrisons. Nothing special at all really. But I searched for a week until I found one on eBay for £12. Plus shipping. And bought it.
I cried in the Community Hospital when we went for a blood test. I’d forgotten the blood form. I couldn’t get through to the other hospital to get it re-sent. We had a radiotherapy session booked the other side of the city just an hour later. And I sobbed in the corridor.
If someone met me for the first time right now, they would have such a strange idea of who I am as a person.
And I find myself picking and prickling when people try to give me advice.
‘You should make him cut out sugar – cancer feeds on sugar. No more biscuits!’
Fuck off. He barely eats as it is. All cells thrive on glucose, actually – which comes from carbs in all forms. And anyway, he needs energy to get through the treatment. And also, why would I deny him anything when he’s living under a death sentence?
‘Have you thought about buying a campervan and just taking off?’
No. We’ve never wanted to travel in a campervan. We went on a canal boat for four days and it was a disaster (a very fun and life-affirming disaster, but a clear sign that we are not build for the nomadic life). Besides which, we are at the hospital five days a week, every week! How can we possibly just ‘take off’?
And I know, I know, that people mean well. And that they’re scared. And that they’re trying to have empathy by putting themselves in our shoes.
But most days, I just want to scream.
Because.. I am a terrible person. And this is bringing out the worst in me.
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