Chapter Nineteen; The possibility of a happy ending

In my last post I talked a lot about hope, and I made the point that it’s essential to recognise the difference between realistic and unrealistic expectations because, to be clear, hope isn’t simply wishing for something good to happen.

For years, that was me. Unhappy, and yet, not doing anything to change it. Not because I was lazy, although I had, undoubtedly, lost my motivation for life, but because, after a lifetime of setbacks; challenges; unrealistic expectations and difficult situations, I’d been left with a pretty unhealthy sense of pessimism that had kept me trapped in a state of emotional numbness for years.

I withdrew from social situations and anything likely to cause me further disappointment – which, when you’re unable to see the positives in life, is most things. I thought this was the best way to protect myself, but I was wrong. Instead, I had closed myself off to joy and pleasure, choosing to believe that things could never be better instead and that there was no point in even trying. When suicidal thoughts began creeping in though (not so much creeping, as crashing), I knew that I needed professional help. I had a two-year old daughter, and I had to be there for her, just as I have to be there for her now.

It may have taken years of intense psychotherapy, but I finally found the path to enjoyment, love… and, importantly, hope. It felt really cruel then that, just 4 months later, I was diagnosed with cancer.

You know what they say about big feet

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, I was mad on Monster Trucks, and Bigfoot was arguably the first, and best.

When my Oncologist told me that I was going to die, it felt like I’d been hit by a truck. I was back in that state of feeling hopeless… powerless. I didn’t know how to move forward again, and yet I did… slowly… and staying with that truck as a metaphor, because trucks are heavy, l’m going to explain why (lucky you).

I was never particularly good at science (or metaphors for that matter), but I do know that heavy things have a lot of mass, and mass is resistant to change (something also known as ‘inertia’). Indeed, the more massive something is, the more inertia it has (and so, the harder it is to move). This is why a truck isn’t likely to start moving unless an external force is exhorted upon it – even a truck left on a hill with the handbrake off (oops) needs gravity to move it.

If I was that truck, then hope was the external force, and, like a resting truck, it’s much easier to move when it’s already in motion. I know only too well that once hopelessness stops you from living, it can be really hard to start again and, at the very least, if you only focus on negative outcomes in life, then… well, perhaps Bob Dylan said it best when he said:

“he not busy being born is busy dying”

Blossom represents hope for a brighter future as well as a feeling of anticipation about good things to come.

I also know how hard it can be to feel optimistic about the future when, on the face of it, the future looks bleak. I’m not going to tell you that you can beat cancer – that isn’t why I started this blog – however, until someone tells me that there’s nothing more can be done, I will always believe that I can (and you should too).

One of the ways I’ve been able to take control of my emotions is by refusing to be a passenger in my own life. Despite what I used to believe, hope is an active decision to make life better and so, rather than simply ignoring my current situation, I’ve acknowledged it and, in time, I’ve even accepted it. Some of you might be wondering how I can accept my death (when I have such a beautiful daughter) but, to be clear, while I accepted that my disease will likely kill me, I did so in order to move forward with my life (and make plans for my death). I haven’t lost hope that there’s a future out there with me in it (I also haven’t become so optimistic that this has turned into disillusionment).

Unsurprisingly, hopeful people tend to me more resilient and resilient people tend to me more hopeful. I’m not sure which came first for me but I certainly wasn’t always this way. I learned a lot from the time I spent in therapy, enough to know that, if I was going to stay alive, action, not denial, was what was needed. I simply wasn’t prepared to go back to those dark days of dispair. I was going to enjoy my life and whatever time I had left; cancer be damned.

Hey, mister, where you headed?

This means that, when me and my family planned to go to Disneyland last year, something I bumped to the top of my bucket list (it was the big one), despite my health starting to deteriorate only weeks before we were due to go (to the point I wasn’t sure I would make it), I never lost hope.

I’m not sure about you, but I feel a certain amount of pressure and responsibility when it comes to these things. There’s the financial cost of course (I probably won’t get to do everything on my list) but, importantly, these are the memories I’m leaving behind for my wife and daughter (which is why I’ve made a point of prioritising doing things with them, rather than doing things for myself).

I only decided that I was going the night before but not once, when arranging insurance, medication, etc. did I ask myself what the point was because, even though things don’t always go as planned, I’ve learned to be flexible rather than to give up. That’s why, with the help of a wheel-chair, some antisickness tablets… and a lot of painkillers, we still had a blast at Disneyland (and, of course, my daughter hitched a ride whenever she could).

(Left) Hitchin’ a ride (Right) That hat haha

I’ve also learned that making small positive changes will often lead to a positive outcome which, over time, can change your way of thinking into an all together more positive outlook. In fact, I’m now much less likely to be overwhelmed by the future, or my disease, and I can move on quickly from setbacks too. I see challenges as something to overcome, and I see all the value and meaning in my life. I can’t do everything I used to do but that just means I’ve learned to do different things. My body might not be as strong as it used to be but I’ve strengthened my will to live. I’m living life on my own terms by doing what matters most to me.

I really do believe that all of these things are keeping me alive. Not only that, but I’m making my family proud, and that makes me proud. Statistics might tell me that I probably won’t survive my prognosis (most people don’t live beyond a year), but that’s not the point. Life is precious, a fleeting commodity, and I’m not living in denial of death… I’m living with the realisation of it so that, whatever happens, cancer didn’t beat me.