So, I’m going to die.
What can I say? It was a good life? Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person? These things happen?
It’s funny how you feel when you are told the treatment isn’t working. I’m in the doctors’ surgery looking at a fat – yet healthier – man, with enough degrees and letters after his name to tell me I have months to live. I’m thinking of the egg timer in my grandpa’s house. It sits on his kitchen wall, a throw back to a better age (he says). Time is running out Mike. You’ll be lucky to make it to twenty-seven.
I’ve had better days.
My flat looks drab, dreary and dark. It would do only hours after finding out that I have three to six months to live. Three to six! It’ll be fine until April, two months from now, and then I should start worrying! That’s how I feel. Okay, I’ve had cancer for a few years now, bald as a baseball bat, sick as a parrot, but when they label your life in months, well, your attitude changes slightly.
I thought I would get through it. I have, sorry, I had plans. Family, friends, kids, money. What is life anyway? Why do we meticulously count the days, the months, and the years? It’s sadistic really. Oh, John, your fifty, not long to go now! We start counting down our life from the day we are born.
Why can’t a full life just be what it is? Does it have to be so long?
I’m twenty-six. I’ve lived a good life. I may be single now, with no job (blame the cancer, not my laziness) and not much to leave behind, but I feel I’ve done things and seen things. My mum, well, she just cries about a wasted life. What does she know?
My Grandpa’s eighty-eight. A ripe old age. He’s been in hospital for the past few weeks. Old age gets to you. I’ve seen him deteriorate for ten years now. At least I won’t have to see my body age like he did. He’s always moaned about how he used to be able to do this and that, but Mister Old Age crept up to him and cursed his skin and bones.
I’m sure my Grandpa was a rare soul in his time, but old age soured him. How awful is it to see yourself falter, knowing you used to be able to run; you used to be able to see better.
I’m just a sick soul in a young man’s body. I’m going out in my prime. Mr Old Age won’t get me. I’m too fast for him.
I hate the toilet.
Most mornings I’m either spewing or shitting into it. It’s like a friend who is loyal yet tedious. You know the sort.
God, it’s times like these I actually want to die. I’m sitting here, on the pan, musing. I’ve finished my book and thrown it on the toilet floor with the rest.
Well, my prayers were answered, literally. So, is it Gods fault, or mine for being so flippant?
Here’s a thought: If we ask of things to our Gods, can they – in passing of course – pick up on it and grant our any/every wish? Damnit, God, I want pancakes! I want to be rich! Damnit God, I hate life, take me now!
God, I wish you’d have passed on Pancake Day.
I have my closest friends over to the flat. It’s time to tell them. It’s going to be hard for all of us. They think there’s still a chance I’ll make it. I know it’s all down hill from here. I can barely contain the pain now. And I know its only time before the doctor’s decide to imprison me within the walls of hospital.
My body is starting to give up.
I wonder at the power of a ticking clock these days.
All night I’ve been building to this. My mouth is dry and I’m trembling. I hate this. Two years ago I would have been the strongest. I would have told them what to do.
I want to be strong. I don’t want to show them the fear I am feeling.
‘So, guys.’ What a shit start. ‘I’ve something to tell you.’
‘Hey man,’ that’s Will; he’ll be the dominant one when I’m gone. ‘What’s up?’
I falter. Damnit, be strong! ‘I… well… I’ve got two to six months. The bastard doc said the treatment is not working. I…’
I’m going to die.
The clock keeps ticking.
It’s too much to bear. I hate it. I hate my body. I hate my genes, the cancer, and the pain.
When I was ten my front brakes failed on my bike and I somersaulted over the handlebars. I ripped the skin off my elbows and knees. The pain was excruciating, from what I remember, and blood gushed from each graze.
I remember that I was far from home and had to walk all the way back to my mum because the bike was so badly damaged. I met a girl on the way home. I remember how every inch of me cried out in pain, but at meeting this girl I sucked the pain up and stopped crying.
I was being brave. You don’t show weakness in front of the opposite sex.
Every day I try to hold in the pain. I try to stop crying all the time. I try to be positive.
I don’t have long now. It’s April. The sheer hopelessness consumes me. I’ve three months to live. Yet I feel I have longer.
It’s not only me, anymore.
My Grandpa. He’s not coming out of hospital, we’re told.
Every time I see my mother now, I have to suck up the pain, be positive and comfort her. It’s the least I can do. Losing both of us so close together would finish her.
Maybe my ole gramps doesn’t want me hogging all the limelight? I’m told he had a wild sense of humour when he was younger.
I’ve been thinking once more about what life is. As I’ve said, I’ve lived a pretty full life in these two-and-half decades. Take the time out, bin the egg timer and we are left with just a life. I’ve been here, saw things, done things and had a wonderful life. No regrets. At least I’ll not have to see any friends and family pass away, or learn to regret. No, my life has been what it’s been. Really: no regrets.
So, my Grandpa died and it’s his funeral.
Why do I smile when I think: ‘Give me a month, I’ll do better...’
That’s just wrong. So wrong it hurts. But the cancer, it not only hurts but manipulates. Some days it wants you to feel happy – because it’s not so bad today, maybe you’ll get better…
But tomorrow…
Tomorrow is torture. Tomorrow I may not remember my friends and family because of the pain and torment.
Yet, today, I am thinking clearly. I guess it’s because I’m at a funeral, and Mr Cancer knows he’s bringing me to one of these soon. He decides for me these days.
Everyone is looking at me. They know I’m following my gramps soon. Don’t worry people, you’ll get drunk at another wake soon. Doubt I’ll be there, though.
Some priest is telling me how wonderful my grandfather was. There’s random family members everywhere. They’re making a fuss. God, take me now!
No? Damnit. I guess he’s not passing right now.
Pancakes, anyone?
May is upon me. June looms.
I still feel the same. Really shit that is.
I want to tell you that I feel better. I want to tell you that I’ll make it to twenty-seven. I really want to tell you that.
I feel well enough to help clear out my Grandpas’ flat. I look through hundreds of ancient pictures and watch my family pack so many wonderful old rubbish. One thing gramps done was hoard his memorabilia. He did have a colourful life.
To be honest I’m not much help. I’m more here for moral support for mum, and I really don’t feel too well. Soon I am sitting in the kitchen watching everyone working around me. Someone has nudged the old egg-timer on the wall opposite.
The sand is slowly falling. Time is dripping away. I can only laugh – no one understands why I am doing so. I ask to keep the egg-timer.
June has arrived and I'm still alive.
Maybe the doctor was wrong? Not that it matters, as July inches closer I realise that I am happy to wake each morning. Each day defies the doctor and I live to breath once more. I do begin to hate life, with its continuity and forever future. But, as June slowly demises, I still draw breath. I have drawn solace from this and you could not understand how the glee I get from seeing the sun, drinking a cup of tea, speaking about anything (really, anything!), is exhilarating. Suddenly there is life in every word and every sight. That's until I see the egg-timer and suddenly how it reminds me of the sands of time - the ending of a period. Not a lifetime. Just a period of time.
Suddenly a 'period in time' means so much to me. Can you believe in the slowing of life, so that each moment equals a lifetime?
Maybe its harder when you have surpassed your 'date of dying...?'
Each day is a lifetime.
I’m not dead yet. Who knows how long I’ll live my life?