Crossing the void

On Coping #20

There is a nurse here called Sally and you have a connection.

You tell me so

and she tells me so.

.

Nurse Rita is very important to you too

And Carly.

.

In fact

they are all

each in their own way

now part of your community.

.

A coterie of care-givers in this extraordinary place:

Nancy, Laura, Mary, Rose, Carol, Matt, Simon, Lauren, Helen, Lynnette.

.

But there’s something about Sally.

.

She is around your age.

A mum too.

She lives near the woods where we walk our dog.

She’s friends with our massage therapist.

Which just makes sense.

She took a year off nursing to travel.

She spends time at musical festivals.

I can imagine the two of you raving together.

We haven’t asked about her tattoos yet.

She is from the west country, like you.

She shares a song she thinks will give you some comfort.

That’s the kind of thing you like.

.

Even now

even here

you’re doing what you do:

finding connections

making friends

inviting people into your life

leaving your imprints on others.

.

Crossing the void.

.

The space between hearts.

Seemingly such a small distance

but one that it takes a certain type of soul to bridge.

.

As I do so often,

I follow your lead.

.

In between passing you medicine, holding your hand, speaking with doctors, fetching you food, finding your slippers, lifting you up, laying you down, rearranging your pillows, reading you messages, bringing your commode, massaging your feet, feeding you chocolate, calling for help, bringing you family,

I write.

.

These words

yes

but also messages

emails

to long known but since neglected friends.

.

Recrossing the void.

.

And they write back.

Their words,

their reception of my communication

their witness

is a comfort.

.

They write to me of the conversations they have had about us.

Their own memories of you.

How these words give voice to their own feelings.

Something I never expected.

.

One tells me about losing her husband to cancer.

.

Another introduces me to a friend whose partner died before Christmas.

She tells me

it’s an honour to walk someone across the bridge.

To cross the final void.

.

And that’s what this time feels like.

Despite the unbearable brutality

and destabilising uncertainty

the hope

and the disappointment

the constant stream of goodbyes

when all you’re doing

is trying to stay with us.

.

In spite of

or maybe because of

all that

it is a privilege.

.

The greatest of my life.

Previous > On Coping #19: Sleep pretty darling | Next > On Coping #21: Travelling without moving

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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.

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