on death, frustration, living in the underworld of terminal cancer and just getting on with it.
Imperfect reflections and ramblings.
I have told a few people that I have it the easiest in this situation. I get to retire early from work and find purpose in other soul-filling and heart-warming ways. Living the life of a retiree soaking up what is left.
When I have been at my most content this year, everything has felt like it is right in the world. My purpose has been to live and love fully. It has been beautiful.
Saying I love you to Lynn and my family has never felt more sweet. Giving friends hugs feels warm and fuzzy, having heartfelt conversations and being able to write and share my experiences is a treat.
The list above goes on and on. I have felt lucky I get to live this bizarre life of freedom.
I dreamt a life of not working, I think we all have, but maybe not one with illness.
It has allowed me to dig in on what is important to me.
There won’t ever be ‘enough’ of this time, it is finite, and the time will eventually come to move on. I have lived a life in the greenest of grass.
In my circumstance, it is how I imagine what doing a deal with a devil would be like. Promises of freedom, leisure, moments of pure happiness, joy and comfort, all from taking pleasure in the simple things.
How delightful….
except in the charmingly convincing pitch where they show you the glossy highlight reel, you didn’t think to notice that fingers were crossed behind backs. In the fine print of the contract, it says ‘but you have cancer, and for all the good that you will feel in your heart and soul, you will die sooner than you wish’.
A cruel trade-off for getting to live the way I am getting to live right now. But it is what it is, one day we will all cease to exist.
If you take anything from this. When you are next working and daydreaming about something you’d like to do, just go do it.
If part of your work is to have KPIs, make sure that some of them are frivolous reminders that this is all temporary and you just need to live your life.
Make the KPI so abstract, bizarre and relatable to how you want to live that it makes whoever reads it ask if you’re okay.
Do it so you can respond with “Yes, Frank. It is one of my KPIs this quarter to go to the beach, get naked, jump in the water roll around in the sand and pretend I’m a chicken schnitzel. Now get out of my way man”.
This is one of my favourite things to do at the beach by the way, boardshorts intact (not naked) rolling around in the sand after jumping in the sea, calling myself a chicken schnitzel. I did this the first time I went to the beach with Lynn and here we are almost 4 years later. I love you.
Death is different for all of us.
I have thought about death a lot. The time between knowing when you are going to die and dying more specifically.
I feel very lucky to know I am going to die and get to think long and hard about it.
Even though at times it is arduous and doesn’t feel real. It is being shaped into a beautiful, funny, dark and loving experience full of reflection.
And hey, maybe cancer won’t get me. Wouldn’t that be ironic?
Being given a time frame gives you the ultimate perspective change.
Problems evaporate, new ones arise, and they come and go again and again, but life becomes sweeter and full of love.
That comes and goes through treatment, nights of no sleep, pain and tough conversations.
You just keep going and you keep enduring to get through. There’s always a new day and there’s always something to smile about.
Having terminal cancer is like living in an underworld.
Your body physically changes, you lose hair, you lose weight, and you look different. Your outlook changes immediately, you crave real, you crave lightheartedness and people become your liferaft.
Your humour can and will get dark, (you don’t want to upset people but you want to see which ones you can test the humour on) you watch TV shows and movies to distract yourself then get to the point where watching them is merely pointless.
Books become blurry and heavy messes of nonsense.
You feel so sick and frozen that you stare out the window for several hours, taking pleasure in how night changes to day while you lay down, taking it all in.
When could you ever just lay there and watch dawn to dusk out your hospital window? Listening to the soft hum of traffic noticing the night lights turn down and hearing birds sing, it is the most peaceful reality TV show I have ever witnessed. I watched several seasons of it and now anything else I watch is kinda pointless.
You deal with nurses at midnight and 4 am handshakes in getting prodded for blood, setup for chemo, sedatives and observation tests to see if you’re still alive.
Shaken awake not realising you drifted off, it’s a blurry state of consciousness.
Bags under the eyes, vomiting and looking worse for wear but still very much alive.
When you walk through a cancer hospital as a cancer patient, there is an invisible tether of understanding that you feel from those around you.
Bald people with no eyebrows from all walks of life.
Withered, walking, hobbling, being wheeled around, beaten, some smiling, but all still alive and kicking.
The brief eye contact sometimes followed by a nod of acknowledgement of existence is our small salute.
The understood silence and small talk when sharing a room, both knowing what you are going through and knowing when small talk is there to revive and when the silence is peaceful.
These interactions can be dark, funny, enlightening and everything in between depending on where people are in their treatment cycle.
In my recent and second trip to the basement for radiation (my first radiation back in 2022 was 28 sessions, second time round is 5 sessions), a lovely and spritely man in his 60s who just started treatment spotted me and asked “Is this your first day?” with a smile.
Innocent sweet summer child I thought…
I was once like you.
I grinned back with what I felt was a pretty friendly and normal “Yeah”.
He looked rattled, as if he was fresh to the frontlines at war and had walked past the medic tent and he could tell I had been through some things.
Maybe I forgot to blink, was my grin cheeky, sinister and eerie instead?
Ah well. He’ll be back.
Towards the end of my recent radiation week, I wasn’t feeling so great.
I was angry and a bit fed up, I was on my steroids and I felt angry at the little things.
Remember how I wanted to steal taxis? I wanted to be able to just get up and go outside for a walk this time and was irritated. I was brooding and thinking about things in the past.
A friend asked how my health was doing.
I said, “Wes, I'm already dead mate. I'm just here to take out a few more tail lights before it's over and then I'll be gone”.
The brooding was gone, sometimes that’s all it takes, some dire understanding of the circumstance and to laugh.
I am acutely aware that living in this underworld of terminal cancer brings a sardonic and dark take on just getting on with life.
Without terminal cancer, things are allowed to be complex, it is the human experience after all.
Coming in and out of this underworld with different symptoms and stages, the problems and my take on the world change frequently.
Being aware of this, having some momentary panic, accepting and just going with it is part of the ride.
I have felt shattered, broken, elated, overwhelmed then underwhelmed, ecstatic, bored, happy, peaceful, in awe of simple things, hopeless, scared, connected, loved, let down, laughing at the silliest of things, brought up, hungry, angry, empty, brooding, withered, excited and everything between over this journey.
None of these feelings have been final. It's been the best thing ever and I am smiling thinking about experiencing it all. It's been a bizarre and crazy time.
It's hard to feel like I am dying when I am feeling this alive.
I loved cricket growing up and as a kid, I dreamed that maybe my mark would be leaving the world with 10,000 international test cricket runs to my name.
Etched into history as a sporting legend.
I'm also happy with my mark being left with my words and spirit, maybe they'll help someone.
Even better if they wondered who was this madman and how on earth he managed to smile so much when he died.
your insightful words about something that happens to us all, for you much too soon, should be published - made into a book for all to read. Did you know you are a poet?
To making every day a chicken schnitzel day ❤️