Every Brilliant Thing

Hello. It’s been a while. I collect things to tell you in my head but there has been so much going on in my heart and so little time to really process the past six months. Learning you have stage 4 cancer, well any cancer, hits you like a truck at full speed and since January I feel like I’ve been flying through the air, my limbs splayed at awkward angles as I recoil from the impact in slow motion, waiting to hit the ground. I was waiting for it to break all my bones. Bracing for impact. Chin up. Jaw clenched. Ready to take the blows. And then a parachute, a soft landing. What do I do with that? I have that sense as the danger recedes that I am still braced. Lying on the crash mat, blinking in the sunlight with one half of my body suspended mid air, half a thought. What the actual fuck just fucking happened??? I get up. I walk around. I see the sky. I feel the sun on my face. I smell the fucking roses OK?! I’m super fucking grateful. I know it’s a miracle. But What the Fuck? I just can’t square it. I’d begun to adjust to my new reality. I’d made it mine. But even in the process the thought occurred, Don’t own it. Don’t make it yours. Show up. Take the meds. Diligently do everything they say. But don’t own it. You are not your cancer. It is an addition. It was not there before and it can go again.

Now don’t get me wrong. Every day I wake up and I think, really? So fast? That miracle. Is it my miracle? Can I really have it? Can I keep it? When you were a kid did anyone ever give you something you treasured so much you woke up and thought the giver would probably change their mind and take it away? At the age of 12 I remember a visit from an entrepreneurial older Chinese cousin that I had never met before. That’s Chinese families for you. Always another cousin one or twice removed showing up. This one was a pretty good discovery. He was from America and his latest venture was a make up business for black women. This was something new in the early 80s, especially in the UK. He brought over a load of samples for me. They glittered. Deep red and pink lip liners. Shimmering blue and green eyeshadows. Impossible blushers and bronzers. All perfectly inappropriate for a half Chinese girl barely into adolescence with pale skin. But I loved them. And I turned every glittery thing over and over. I opened them and clicked them shut. Along with make up he brought the glamour of the USA with him. I felt lucky. Unsurprisingly my mother didn’t really let me out of the house wearing any of it. And it didn’t really suit me. Plainness suited me best. But it was still mine. I know this is an odd anecdote to let my mind meander to. To align with the discovery of my cancer disappearing out of the blue… but it glitters in the same way. Similarly I feel like I have to covet its wonder in private. I feel like Gollum from Lord of the Rings with his Precious. It would be foolish to boast about it or someone might take it away. The impossible gift made friends jealous but couldn’t parade around in it and I knew it would look foolish to show it off. But it was still mine. And the colours it brought into my life were… to die for. I didn’t feel like I really deserved it. Like I’d stepped into a world that wasn’t really mine. I could only play make believe. I could own it but not…possess it. Or wear it.

Since I last wrote so many good things have happened. So many amazing things that glitter. I can’t really believe they are mine. That I get to have them. To do them. To be them. To keep them. I feel like I float through the motions expecting to land back in hospital. On one occasion I did. That’ll teach me. If they scan you enough they’ll find something. My body is not behaving as expected. One more month till the next PET scan. Let’s just enjoy it and play at being Not a Cancer Patient for the summer.

The last few weeks have nevertheless been a relentless (and exhausting) round of joy. Two weeks ago a big family birthday party with a jazz band, my PhD graduation, an actual birthday (yesterday, yes, 52, thank you, how the fuck did I get to 52 but I did actually reach 52 so there’s something. It was not a given in January when all I heard was ‘sorry’.) And right now I am sitting by a fancy pool in Ibiza with a glass of rosé because at some point in the past few months it occurred to me that I deserved some joy and I booked it with no idea if I could go. Here’s the view right now as I pretend I am this person (!) . I deserve it. Yes.

The title of this post is to tell you about a play I went to see. I’ve been on the board of the Sir Lenny Henry Media Centre for a few years and he is a Top Bloke. Me and some of the ladies from the board decided we should go an see his opening shows to support him and because, well, it’s Len and he is still smashing it out the park at 67 doing brave new things. Every Brilliant Thing is one of those plays which has made itself a global phenomenon. Short runs fronted by well known actors from stage and screen. A one man or one woman play which uses audience interaction with a clever script. I won’t tell you too much in case you go and see it as it’ll spoilt it but I howled with laughter and cried and came out a little more human. Reminded of our common condition. With a warm fuzzy feeling. The script is so clever that whatever anyone adds amplifies this. I was trying to imagine all the different permutations. We saw Lenny afterwards and it struck me that his warmth and generosity made this possible. Made it safe for people to take the risk and take part. To offer something really simple and touching and…human. It was unique. And the surprise appearance of a church group of people of Jamaican origin from Birmingham at the matinee made the interaction all the more joyous. Lenny was chuffed at this turn of events.

Len took a moment to ask me how it felt to have been through the past six months and to find myself the other side of this miracle. Does it make me think differently about how I will live my life? He asked. I didn’t know what to say really. ‘I’m still processing.’ I say. ‘I suppose one should just try to do good works.’ And whilst this is true there is also room just to be normal. No need to be a superhero. Getting up and being a mother, a wife, a friend is about all I can manage right now.

As I returned to the hospital for my monthly check up just before we left for Ibiza they told me not to have too good a time (!). True enough even a glass of wine knocks my system off in this heat and I have to be very careful to stay hydrated and take it easy. During the usual half day of blood tests, consultants and pharmacy I finally summoned the courage to walk into Maggie’s. The country’s biggest cancer care centre has been sitting in my field of view, large and orange since January and I have avoided going in. So this time with an hour to spare before my prescription was ready I took a deep breath and walked into. Two ladies pounced on me, well trained to spot a hesitant new arrival. I blurted, ‘I’ve been coming here for seven months and only just found the courage to come in.’ The quickly found out I was interested in art and bundled me into a corner with Julie the art therapist who had it out of me. I didn’t like to say I had mainly come for the free tea and to plug my phone in. She told me I could come and draw or paint anytime. There’s a course in Autumn for people like me living with ongoing treatment. So many people are surviving with the new drugs for lung and breast cancers they are having to change their approach. Less ‘Life After Cancer’ courses. Less What Now? And more ‘Living with cancer.’ This gave me a weird kind of hope. I told her of all my superhero plans. Of wanting to run day creative retreats for ladies with cancer. She listened politely and then pulled me up short. ‘You first’, she says, ‘often people find they cannot even start making sense of what has happened until the crisis phase is over. See to yourself first.’ It’s good advice. I need to go slow for a while. Try to resist rushing back to work to prove I am well or feel like I am needed.

It’s hard to ask for help isn’t it? Or admit you need it. But in this unique situation I find myself in only a place like Maggie’s can really offer it directly. Even being with other people with secondaries is awkward. I feel smug, like I am bragging, if I tell the truth. I have a sort of survivor guilt. I am also quite anxious about the next PET scan and I guess this will always be the case. But when an old friend from college put me in touch with someone like me a few months ago who had recovered from Stage 4 with no evidence of disease it gave me real hope. It allowed me to focus on what was possible rather than what the doctors told me was likely. Early on none of the doctors are prepared to acknowledge that recovery is possible. I can see why. They don’t want to raise your hopes too high. But as a hopeful person I needed to aim high. So I must keep writing and talking to people.

Lenny, you asked me what I thought I should do now. How would I live? That’s a very big question and I think if one decides to save the world it’s probably ego talking but I’ve thought about it a bit more now. Offer hope. That’s what I got from your play. We all have the capacity to keep hope alive for ourselves and for others. Every day. These are dark times we are living through and we all have the capacity in small ways and big ones to offer hope to those around us. The scale your hope achieves doesn’t really matter and isn’t quantifiable. To support the person or people you meet in whatever way they need. That’s the thing. So I’m going to allow myself time to be quiet when I want, make noise and shout it out to the world when I want. And to notice Every Brilliant Thing.