There’s one question I tend not to get asked. Well, that and ‘Can I offer you a contract worth half a million quid?” A lot of people tell me that oh, I’m so brave to live with terminal cancer. I’m oh, so not. They don’t see me at 3 in the morning, trying to fight off a panic attack because I’ve stupidly forgotten my lung’s limitations, have trotted off to the loo and now can’t get enough air into my chest. Or in hospital, close to tears, begging for more pain relief. Bravery is a choice. (And don’t even get me started on the PDSA’s awarding of a medal ‘for gallantry’ to a dog. If you want to reward an animal for such work, make it the Dickin Bag of Jumbo Bones for a start – not a bloody medal.)

Bravery is one side of the coin. The other is fear. People tend not to ask about the fear. And I don’t hear a lot about cancer and fear, mainly, I suspect, because people don’t want to go there. Cancer sufferers are always ‘brave’ (have you noticed?). I’ve promised to be honest in my blogs, so here we go. Yes, I get scared. I would hazard a guess that other people with cancer reading this do too. The nasty little cynical side of my brain says bravery is encouraged to make life quieter and easier for those dealing with cancer victims. And the nicer, happier side says it’s a natural, human reaction, to try to deal with the reality of what cancer can do to someone.

I’d expected to be afraid of dying, but I’m finding that the fear is spreading to touch other parts of my life that I hadn’t bargained for. I saw it in my brother’s eyes today as we had a family lunch. I’ve been ill for a couple of days, and was on the sofa, trying to look ladylike while puking into a bucket. (The upstairs toilet is a very, very long way off when you can only move at the speed of your average glacier thanks to severely crocked lungs. Thank god the threatened chemotherapy side effect of rampant diarrhoea hasn’t happened yet. We’ll need a bigger bucket if it does.) He hasn’t seen me like this, and he started to cry. He’s going to lose his sister. My kids are going to lose their mum. My husband’s going to lose his wife – the only woman on earth, he told me, stupid enough to marry him, so what the hell’s he supposed to do next, hmmm?

My own fear is something I’m trying to get to grips with. The idea of becoming more and more oxygen dependent fills me with horror, and I try to push down the surging feeling of panic when I think I can’t breathe enough. Strangely, I don’t think I’m afraid of death itself, but am not looking forward to the process of dying. Woody Allen said it better of course: “I’m not afraid of dying. …I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” There was a brief moment a couple of days ago, when a chest infection meant I was so breathless that I’d be puffed, panicking and reaching for the oxygen just getting out of bed. And I did wonder for a few seconds whether this was the way life was going to be – scared to move in case the breathlessness sparked panic. And in that brief moment, I could perfectly understand why some people choose to end their lives rather than live with pain and fear. I’m not sure I’d have the courage to do that, actually, and anyway my husband says if I top myself, he’ll kill me, so I have to respect that. But I was much taken with Sir Terry Pratchett’s strong advocacy of assisted suicide.The only thing I’d change would be the music. Vaughan Williams instead of Tallis, I think. (Although the teeny tiny ‘sod you’ part of me quite fancies insisting on something spectacularly inappropriate to make everyone laugh. ’99 Problems’ by Jay Z would fit nicely. You must come to my funeral. The music choices are going to be quite striking.) And perhaps a good whiskey instead of brandy.

The fear I’m having less success coping with is everyone else’s. What can I say to my children? I lost my mum at 24 and it haunts me still. I know what losing a parent can do to a family. I have an inkling of what they’re going to go through, and am pretty much powerless to stop it. I am going to be the author of the biggest pain in their young lives to date. That’s not what parents are supposed to do.

What can I say to my husband? He’s the love of my life. I’m his. I blithely talk about funeral arrangements, of which family member should get what to remember me by, and he just has to put up with it. I’m going to waltz out of his life soon(ish) and leave a gaping hole. He’ll have to cope with looking after my children’s grief. He’ll have to get on with life, pay the bills, not bore his friends too much with how he’s feeling, make our double bed alone, cook, clean and wash and miss me. And miss me. And miss me. And all because of me.

What can I say to my elderly father? My extended family? My friends? I’m overwhelmed with their love and feel so utterly unworthy of it as I’m the one that’s causing all this extra work and grief. My nature is to look after those I love. It’s already getting to the point where I can do very little to be of use to anyone. Well. that’s how it feels. It irks me that I can’t return the favours! Although I am plotting….

Perhaps Roosevelt was right: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself” ?!

PS I keep meaning to say that if anyone reading this is on Twitter, please feel free to follow me.

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