Barely within endurance

On Coping #9

Today you look at me.

It is a rainy Thursday in February 2024.

And despite the lorazepan, paracetamol and morphine coursing through your body,

you are crying in pain.

.

“I’m not sure how much more of this I can take”, you tell me.

.

Your insides are at war.

Your flesh and muscle, the casualties.

But now I fear for the loss of something more essential; your spirit.

.

You release litre after litre of yellow liquid from your stomach using the semi-permanent drain attached to your side.

You watch bake off.

And Below Deck.

And Dragons Den.

And Sort Your Life Out.

.

We find flickers of familiarity.

Lying in bed next to each other reading.

But they are fleeting.

.

Meanwhile I measure out your morphine.

I straighten your slippers.

I rub the back of your rib-cage.

.

I fold the washing.

The kids’ piles tower and topple over.

Yours has three things in it.

.

I phone the surgery.

And the pharmacy.

And the hospice.

.

I dial 111.

Call the GP.

Or the district nurse.

.

Some days, I speak to all of them.

.

I bring you food.

I sleep on the sofa.

Five fitful hours most nights.

.

I work when I can.

To keep us afloat.

And distract myself.

.

The cat is your constant companion.

The rest of us flow and fly around you; around the house, up and down the stairs, in and out of the bedroom with ‘can I get you anything baby?’ and ‘do you need anything mummy?’ and ‘shhh mummy is sleeping’ and ‘how did you sleep?’

.

And you cry.

And you grimace.

And you hobble to the toilet.

And you try endlessly to get comfortable.

And sometimes you drop into sleep.

And your body twitches in morphine dreams.

.

Through it all, I know how high your threshold for pain is.

So this must be excruciating.

And yet you still muster smiles.

And kisses.

And patience.

.

But I look at you.

and your eyes plead with me;

‘make it stop’ they say.

‘I can’t’ they say.

‘I’m sorry’ they say.

.

And I’m not sure how much more of this you can take.

Previous > On Coping #8: Hold my hand | Next > On Coping #10: Sickness and health

---

On Coping is my story of surviving on the sidelines of cancer. It begins in 2022 with On Coping #1, written the day after my 41st birthday. The day my wife Imogen, the mother of my three children, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.  It’s the story of what happened next. Read from the start.

---