In conversations with myself, I have formed many analogies. The analogy of an analogy is a familiar scenario that perfectly describes the indescribable, nay, ludicrous scenario you actually find yourself in. It somehow normalises the whole thing, making you feel less insane and on a par with the world around you.
“You remember Terms of Endearment, that tearjerker film of the 80s, where Debra Winger lay dying with loved ones stifling sobs? Or Guardians of the Galaxy with a young Peter Quill refusing to watch his mother pass away? Well, we were there; seated uncertainly around Nigel’s hospital bed, sharing stories, all raw emotion and tears. Disbelief and hopelessness building up within, filling every internal void. Then, as if the universe needed to take a pee, the pause button was pressed. Whilst on ‘pause’ we seem to have entered a different dimension, where things appear normal. Where Nige is well, working in the garden and sawing up wood for a winter he may not see and, instead it’s the family cat that’s taken on his illness; lying on his deathbed, fighting for every breathe… But we can’t appreciate any of this or capitalise on Nigel’s good health because we are too busy listening for the flush of the toilet, for the universe to return and for the play button to be hit once more.”
When I say life appears to be normal I mean that Nigel appears to be well… from deathbed to flowerbed in just a few weeks. The steroids have made him emotional of course, and the tumour is still wreaking havoc with his memory and vocabulary but in comparison to the Nigel on pause, this one is fucking dandy. But as we navigate through this other world, we still seem to be stuck eternally in the real one, paused or not. The only difference is that the bed covers have changed from being thin, blue hospital blankets to a deluxe feather quilt, the view is no longer a square courtyard but wild birds and flowers blending into the woods at the back of our house and the visitors aren’t crammed around the bed but coming and going, with room to move around each other. Everything else is the same though; same tears waiting to spill forth, same emotions coursing through our bodies and the exact same illness trying to steal the life of a man beloved to us all.
“It is taking every fibre of my being to resist curling up in an embryonic pose in the centre of the bed, with the quilt heavy on top of me and not move forever. To open the post box, retrieve the mail and open it. To care even the tiniest bit about my appearance. But I’m winning, I think. At least, I am at the moment. You need to do the same Harry, ‘always forward, never back.'”
So while we await the inevitable in one world, we have the opportunity to create many more memories in this one. We’ve been given a golden ticket to a world where we still have the husband and father we so adore, with added quirks and oddities. But there is a cost; Eccles. In essence we have swapped one deathbed for another and, though terribly sad, I’m okay with that. Eccles, our lone cat, has dodged many bullets in his 16 years and has led a life of unparalleled decadence. Anyway, in cat years he’s 76 and by anyones reckoning, that’s a far more palatable life expectancy than 54.
That’s your lot. For now anyway.