Who Cares (no question mark)

I didn’t agonise over a fitting title for this blog. Just went with the question I get asked more often than not these days. The question that has gently morphed from casual polite enquiry to tentative evaluation of my well being. The answer, for the most part, is that I’m okay. Truly, I don’t have the headspace for much outside of Mags’ needs and wellbeing. So when she takes one of her regular naps, and my alert level is reduced to amber for an hour or so, I usually bury myself in a book. Something with enough weight and/or momentum to keep those thoughts that might potentially overrun me at bay. Writing is the reverse. I can allow stuff to flood in as long as I can process it quickly enough and get it parcelled up into coherent sentences. Hence this blog.

What I thought I knew about cancer before all this has been chiselled into an undeniable form purely from hard facts. The disease develops at a pace as it sees fit. It’s the freest of agents and will go where it wants when it wants. It doesn’t care if it causes an obstruction, figuratively or literally. Neither is it bothered about robbing a body of its abilities and, in turn, a person of their dignity. It’s gone rogue at a cellular level and it couldn’t give a toss. Expertly excised and/or pummelled with poisons, it’s having none of it. The seeds have been sown long before medical intervention.

In order to do my best for Mags I, like countless other carers have had to get grips with what palliative care means, beyond the meds and the counselling. Learning how to play my part in ensuring Mags is as well as she can be for as long as possible has been the hardest thing. The fear of missing a trick or coming up short clings to me 24/7. Of course it does. There’s nearly 50 years of tightly woven togetherness at stake. Any degree of fraying at this stage is unthinkable but probably inevitable. On that note I’m off to make some Fortijuce ice cubes. I’ll explain later.