10 March
A strange week. Since I last wrote a lot has happened. A meeting with my surgeon went well – we talked about cameras, cancer and God – you know, the usual stuff.
There is a guy at Bart’s Hospital who has agreed to talk to me about radiotherapy treatment, so Tim and I are going up to London on Friday to talk to him.
Meanwhile I’ve started getting a few symptoms, which has knocked me a bit. I get a sharp stabbing pain in my head and some balance problems. The most disheartening thing is my loss of taste, as chocolate and champagne have been my main sources of consolation for the last couple of months. Still, maybe I’ll lose some weight, as food is far less interesting to me at the moment.
It’s far easier to be flippant about dying when you don’t feel ill. Since the weekend I’ve been a little down. I think I had thought I would have no symptoms for a little longer, and don’t really feel ready to start getting ill yet. So, I thought I would get some of the practical details done quickly and I re-wrote my will yesterday. Slightly more freaky is what I’m doing tomorrow: visiting our local crematorium/cemetery to check out what kind of funeral I want and possibly even to book it or pay for it or whatever you do. It’s something I want to do so that Tim doesn’t ever have to sort out the details. I thought I’d do it now because if I wait much longer I think I might lose my nerve. I’m going with a friend, as I think going with Tim might be too heavy.
12 March
Yesterday I booked my plot at the cemetery. Very strange, but I got quite excited. Not like buying a house or anything, but still, location, location, location. The old stone chapel is very picturesque, if a little small, and the plot I’ve chosen is great – between a huge tree and a bench, so Tim and Caitlin can sit and talk to me. The guy said for an extra £60 I could have it dug deep enough for two, which sounded reasonable so I went for that, which I think freaked Tim out a little. I’ve decided on a burial instead of a cremation. I’ve been to both and I always think cremations are a little like registry office weddings – ugly buildings, no sense of occasion and another load of people queuing up to go in as soon as you leave. Also, on a more serious note, I think seeing a coffin being lowered into the ground is so final that it is easier to let go and grieve. When I was six my grandmother died and I had a dream about her being burnt in our sitting-room fireplace that was so vivid I can remember it now.
I’m currently on a train going up to Bart’s Hospital to talk to the radiologist there. I have no idea what he thinks he can do for me, but I’m trying not to get too excited. My mood is a little suspicious, though, too ebullient for my liking, so if this meeting isn’t any good, I fear the next entry may be somewhat miserable. I came out of the house this morning singing ‘We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz’, so goodness knows what my subconscious is expecting today. Oh well, Tim wants a go on the computer to play ‘Snood’, so I’ll sign off. Pip, pip.
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for my lawyer and publishers, I can’t remember the doctor’s name that we saw at Bart’s that day. If I could, I’d plaster it all over here in big letters, give you all his address and phone number and warn the world about him. But as it is, I haven’t got the foggiest idea what it was.
We got a taxi from the station and held hands all the way. However much you try not to get excited about these things, you always do. In the face of death you find yourself grabbing desperately at anything which might help. There’s also a large area of denial – as you walk through the doors of the hospital with your wife, you just know that someone somewhere will be able to help. They have to be able to. The person you know, love, hold, kiss, can’t just die on you, someone has to be able to do something. But sometimes nobody can do anything. There was some kind of record sale in the foyer of the hospital and I flicked through the world music stuff while Weeze found out where we had to go. She came and dragged me away and we were led to a waiting-room. Doctor X was on the phone in his little cubicle.
‘I know, I know, it’s amazing how many of them come over here and then get ill. You’d think they do it on purpose, they get here, get all the privileges of diplomatic immunity and then they want us to pay for them to be ill, I mean really. Anyway, this one’s got a nasty shock coming. Ha ha, yeah, it’s terminal. Nothing we can do about it. Look, gotta go, yeah, yeah, sure, see ya Saturday.’
More laughter and then the conversation was over. A middle-aged greying man in a white coat appeared from the door and beckoned us in. I don’t know why, it may be my own prejudices, but I took an instant dislike to him. It could have had something to do with his last conversation, but it was more than that, something to do with demeanour. He was what I’d call an old-fashioned doctor, not a doctor who believed he worked in partnership with the patients but who believed that he was the boss and you were lucky to be seeing him and he’d do whatever he thought was best for you. Worst of all for me, he had no knowledge of Weeze’s case. He asked her a whole host of questions before saying, ‘You had radiotherapy before, and at that level, well, you can’t have any more. I don’t know why you’re here to see me.’
He then proceeded to look, for the first time, at her scans. He flicked the large plastic sheets up on to the light box and gave them the quickest of glances, shaking his head all the time. ‘No,’ he said, in a very matter of fact way, ‘it’s very bad, multi-site disease, I can’t help you.’ He then took the scans down, put them back in their envelope and handed them over to Louise.
‘You might as well keep these, the NHS will only lose them’.
Then, shell-shocked, we wandered down endless corridors, back out into the light. Weeze looked at me and said, ‘Well, I guess that’s it then.’
I was destroyed. A lot of people over the year kept saying to us ‘You must have hope, hope will keep you going.’ The fact is that hope can be incredibly painful, especially when there is no real hope.
Of all the doctors we met during this process, and there were a lot of them, this guy was the only duff one. But, boy, was he an arsehole. And in one ten-minute meeting he nearly tainted all our experiences with the medical profession. Nearly, but not quite. The doctors we got on with the best and still look on as great physicians were the ones who treated us like equals, like intelligent human beings capable of understanding what was going on and capable of making decisions for themselves about what treatment to accept.
Our GP, Clive, and the Prof made that last year and the whole time Weeze had cancer so much easier because they made us feel part of the team looking at her illness. Her opinions were as valid as any other member of the team. She was allowed to weigh up the pros and cons of treatments and procedures. It should also be said that this was largely due to Weeze’s attitude herself. She always respected the doctors she had but was never in awe of them, never thought of them as being anything but people with specialized knowledge which could or couldn’t help her. A very healthy attitude to have towards your doctors. I was at college with enough medical students to know what they’re really like. Let’s not put them on a pedestal, they’re just people doing a job – it’s your body, your illness, don’t be pushed or bossed into anything you don’t want. That having been said, our guys went over and way above the call of duty for us. They gave up private time, they were always available and they did everything humanly possible to make Weeze comfortable. For that I will always be eternally grateful and will always hold them in my heart. There’s not an ounce of me that thinks any more could have been done for Weeze, and if it hadn’t been for that idiot at Bart’s I’d have had nothing to complain about at all.
14 March
Mothering Sunday
A really great day but tinged, as they say, with sadness. Like, possibly my last Mother’s Day, another day on the calendar for Caitlin and Tim to miss me lots, etc., etc., etc. It was a great day, though. Tim’s brother, Jay, his wife Lou and their children, Rowan and Holly, came down from London and all of us and Dave, Tim and Jay’s father, went to the Ashdown Forest for a picnic.