See..? Told you it was about love…

Writing the first three of these blogs has proved, for some reason, a lot easier than summarising the journey and what it means.

You see, the thing is, I’m currently – as far as I know – not in any particularly imminent danger of conking out, so it seems like a peculiar mix of pomposity, piousness and presumption to think that I have anything to tell the world (or to be precise, the tiny proportion of its current residents kind enough to read my mental dribblings) about what this particular spot of adversity has taught me about life, love and people. Nonetheless, I’ve not let self-awareness and humility stand in my way up to this point, so why start now?

Let’s have a go.

I’d like to take you back 42 years or so, to the only time when I truly believed I was about to depart this mortal realm. San Carlos Water, East Falkland, and it is the night of 21^st of May, 1982. A Friday, I believe.

The shock of cold air and a clear, moonless sky, unfamiliar southern hemisphere stars arrayed overhead. Dim red lights astern from the dock of HMS Fearless as she discharged our mighty landing craft out into the bay, and we began to head to the shore. Calm, focused and determined, knowing that 35 Royal Marines Commandos were behind and beside me and that we were all relying on our training and our mutual respect, resolved to fight ferociously for each other, but knowing that very likely there would be a massive hail of automatic fire as soon as the ramp went down. The occupying Argentinian forces would surely have seen the ships enter the anchorage in the darkness and would be waiting – dug in, fully prepared and ready.

Every one of us was weighed down with ammunition and weapons, so heavy I feared that if any of us were to trip while wading ashore, especially under heavy fire in complete darkness, we might never get up.

Realistically, although totally resolved that we would never go easily or without one hell of a fight, I thought it very likely I had around ten minutes left to live. I was the officer, the troop commander, and my place was at the front. My mind was principally occupied with tactical appraisal and getting us ashore together, helped by the Blues and Royals’ Scorpion tank and its charming and polite commander, Lt the Lord Guy Ines-Kerr, 10^th Duke of Roxburghe (if you’re going to kick the bucket, guys, do it in illustrious company), with the tank’s turret whirring, scanning the hills ahead with image intensifiers for enemy positions, ready to provide covering fire.

Despite everything I had to be thinking about, several other thoughts were running continually through my head. I thought of my Mum back in Stamford, slowly recovering from the shattering blow of the sudden death, three months before, of my Dad aged 57, and of my younger brother Simon and my little sister Laura, still at school – hoping so much that they were not about to lose me as well.

The other thought, despite my professional determination to do my very best and try to live up to the highest traditions of the Royal Marines, was, that if I was indeed to die in the next few minutes, then I asked God, should he/she exist and be watching, to make it quick, and please, to not let it hurt too much. Most importantly of all – definitely not in the wedding tackle……

Silence, as Fearless receded in the darkness – save for the diesel chug of the landing craft engines as it ploughed through the freezing inky water. And then, a tap on the shoulder. A camouflaged face spoke, white teeth all that was visible in the blackness, under the steel helmet.

“Boss – we need you to move further back. It’s going to get a bit lively up front, so a couple of us will go at the front when the ramp goes down.…”

“What….? That’s mad… Why…??”

“Well – we’ve all had a bit of a chat back there. See, we reckon that if you get slotted, we could end up with an even more useless fucker than you are…”

Snorts of laughter from all around. I knew then that, come what may, I was not going to die that freezing night.

Very fortuitously, the occupying Argentinian forces had taken the bait they were intended to by British special forces diversionary raids, and had moved a few days previously, and were now miles up the coast expecting a British landing there. We all got ashore safely – a bit damp, but all alive.

That was the only time in my life, until cancer came for me, that I had thought I was going to die an early death. Of course, it was always possible that I’d made decisions that meant that I’d narrowly and unwittingly escaped my doom at various points in my life, but I certainly wasn’t aware of any, and the Grim Reaper would have always trudged glumly away empty-handed, with me oblivious to his proximity.

Getting a diagnosis of incurable and advanced cancer, which has metastasised, and thus spread to other parts of my body, was certainly shocking and unsurprisingly, rather frightening – not least of all because we had suddenly gone from the world of “Whack-a-Mole” (spot the tumour – zap it – carry on!) to having to accept that now we were in the business of containment and management.

One very important notion became clear to me soon after this diagnosis, however – and it’s crucial to how we can all learn to cope with such a situation, and it is this.

Incurable and terminal are NOT the same thing. Apart from the fact that we all have terminal diagnoses, since eternal life on Earth is not yet available to any of us, understanding that crucial difference is essential in framing how one lives life.

I knew that acceptance of the situation, not wasting time on self-pity and wondering ‘why?’ was critical to my mental well-being. Despite this, there were setbacks and some elements were taken out of my hands. Who, for instance, can control their dreams?

One early morning, about six months after the diagnosis, I woke, upset and in fearful tears, from one of the most vivid dreams I’d ever had. In my dream, the cancer had done its ghastly work and I had died, and I found myself in the afterlife.

It was unlike anything I had ever imagined. I was in what felt like an endless, dense forest, but it was pitch dark all around me, and totally silent. The darkness felt soft and velvety, not hostile or threatening – but completely impenetrable. However, wherever I moved through the trees, a pool of light shone around me, so I could see my immediate surroundings, but out into the stygian gloom – nothing. And most of all, the overwhelming feeling – indeed, the absolute conviction – that I was utterly alone. Not hungry or cold or in any pain. But just alone, forever. It was heartbreaking.

It took me weeks to shake myself free from it. And I think that it was at that point that I realised that was because my life is defined by the people around me and the need to be with them. I am not good at solitary. Not at all.

More of that shortly.

That was the low point since diagnosis. You will, I fervently hope, be ultra-chuffed to hear that, since then, I have become ever more optimistic and content with my life.  I must say, I have never had a particularly strong religious belief. I was brought up as a Roman Catholic, and as a youngster, happily attended Mass with the family every Sunday, and on all ‘Holy Days of Obligation’ of which there are many, at least to my young mind.

The reason I mention all this is because I share the views of Simon Boas, as he described in his wonderful article in the Jersey Evening Post, where he lives and works. Simon has been plunged into the spotlight with extensive media coverage, so warmly compelling is his positive view of his terminal cancer diagnosis. He says everything so much better than I can, but this struck me in particular:

“Nobody knows whether there’s a God, or an afterlife, but it seems unlikely to me that our existence is merely a brief and random flash of consciousness between two eternities of nothing. A benevolent creator strikes me as no more far-fetched than the latest efforts of physics to make sense of our world: for example that volume is illusory and the universe is really a hologram, or that there are infinitely many universes all existing in parallel. Our almost-instinct may well be almost true: What will survive of us is love.”

That, dear friends, is the key – pure and simple. It is about love.

I am not intending to pop off any time soon. My cancer is being well controlled by brilliantly effective drugs and I will keep blundering on through life for years to come, getting under people’s feet and distributing Dad jokes at will, if I have anything to do with it. Having said that, I did have to go to see the doctor today.

I said “Doctor – I know I’m overweight, and need to slim down. What should I do?”

He replied “Don’t eat anything fatty..”

I said “What.. you mean like doughnuts and bacon and burgers and stuff..?”

“No. Don’t eat anything, fatty.”

But I digress. If I get into the hinterland of Dad jokes, we will be here forever, and you’ll be very bored.

I have been thinking a great deal, not just about what I’ve learned, but if my life is to be significantly shortened by this bastard disease, (which it will be), how can I make the absolute best use of my time?  In her lovely article in the Daily Telegraph in November last year, Dr Sarah Wells, a palliative care doctor who works with those in their last weeks of life, described so clearly what she has found matters to people who are facing the end. There are lessons for us all in how these people feel and what they want.

Every single person, without exception, wishes they’d spent more time with their families, and those who’d spent time chasing work validation, leaving their families behind, regretted it. They don’t generally regret things they had done, but more what they hadn’t, and now time had run out and it was too late. School concert and plays and birthday parties missed; chances passed by.

Are you seeing something here? Are you feeling something, even slightly, familiar?

I was diagnosed in 2011, with surgery in 2012, and radiotherapy in 2013 and 2020, before being told in late 2021 that the cancer was now advanced and incurable.

Throughout that time, my darling wife Susan has been there: wise, thoughtful, grounded, eternally kind, reasonable, strict (when needed) and supportive beyond measure. Throughout our near 38 years together, she has been loving, brave, utterly selfless and so much more than I have ever deserved. She, as well as being my soulmate and mentor, has in that time also achieved an MBA from Henley Management College, an MSc from City University and a PhD from UCL. And I might add, for those of you who know about these things, in her final PhD viva, she had no corrections, such was the standard of her work. You don’t see that very often….

She has been the rock to me, Emily and Charlie – not to forget Stanley the ever-youthful tabby – and no man could have been luckier.

I said at the outset that the cancer journey, at least for me, is about love. I am not sure if it is cancer (and it’s mental legacy) or the treatment I am receiving, but I feel so differently about the world now, than when I was younger, and untouched by this insidious enemy.

So what are my pointers for a life better lived, from the lofty perch of living with cancer? They may be trite and are no doubt unsurprising, but it is so easy for us to forget them in the pressures of everyday life…

Be more patient – I try, and do my best. Susan may tell you otherwise, mind. As Simon Boas puts it in his most recent article, knowing that his death (memorably described by him as ‘twig-hopping’) is imminent: when someone is short-tempered or rude to you or yells at you from their car, think about the terrible day they might have endured, or the heartbreaking news they might have received. Life, and its trivial trials, will seem different.

Get your perspectives straight – your work does not define you; you define you. Work hard for yourself and your family, but remember why you’re doing it. Most likely, you will not be remembered for the work you do, but for the way you make someone feel, through a smile or a kind word. That is what will outlive you – and for one reason above all others: gestures of kindness and empathy will multiply forwards and will have affects beyond your world. There is good and there is beauty in virtually everyone (there are one or two exceptions, I grant you), and most people are the way they are for a reason, normally from their past.

Notice the little things, and take pleasure in them – we are surrounded by so much beauty in the natural world; don’t let it pass you by or ignore it.

And please, tell all the people you love, that you love them. And then keep doing it, again and again. That expression of love could be telling a work colleague how much you appreciate them, or telling friends how much they mean to you. I can’t think of many people who will not be happier knowing that someone has taken the time to tell them of the wonderful impact they have had on another person’s life.

Because, if you think about it just for a second, and especially in this context, cancer and illness is irrelevant.

Don’t you think we should live like this anyway? Maybe, just maybe, we’d have a better world and our existences would be that much more fulfilled.

It’s 47 years since I left Stamford School, where I spent my secondary education. It was customary for the older boys to attend a service in the 13^th century school chapel on the last morning of summer term. Needless to say there was a lot of arsing about as would be expected with 200 demob-happy young men, but we always quietened down when the service began. It was led by the school chaplain, Rev David Harley, a kindly, twinkly-eyed school master of the old tradition. Sunshine, dappled through the aged sycamore trees outside, poured through the ancient chapel windows and I felt a great affection for the venerable old place on this, my last day before heading off to university. I think we all did. The readings were the same every year, and despite my lamentably wobbly religious beliefs the key verses have stayed with me throughout my life. However, now they have a renewed significance for me. For all of us, actually.

St Paul’s Letter to the Philippians… “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”

And, from Corinthians… “So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.”

Thank you so much for reading.