George and Imogen

On Coping #18

I can’t remember all the times we kissed on London Street corners.

I can’t remember all the days we stayed in bed till one.

I can’t remember all the nights I worried that I didn’t know where you were.

.

I can’t remember all the times you were drunk and I was cross.

When I was drunk and you were happy.

Or you were drunk and I was drunk and we were happy.

.

I can’t remember what I did three hours after our first son was born.

I can’t remember all the nights I woke to two babies crying and brought them both to your breast.

I can’t remember the cake you made for our daughter’s sixth birthday party.

.

I can’t remember all the valentines cards you wrote me.

I can’t remember the colour of the curtains in our bedroom on Gubyon Avenue.

I can’t remember what happens at the end of the final series of House.

.

I can’t remember all your shows

And my shows

And the press nights

And the after parties.

.

I can’t remember all the nights you woke me up because I was snoring.

When you were reading and I was trying to sleep.

Or what we fought about the night before the morning I woke up on the sofa.

.

I can’t remember all the times I held your hand in the dark of the cinema;

Eating your popcorn because I didn’t want my own.

.

I can’t remember what I said in my wedding speech.

Or just before I kissed you for the first time in Teatros.

.

I can’t remember all the long drives, the bike rides, the walks.

.

I can’t remember the first time we put our tent up.

I can’t remember what happened the night we drank tequila and our son was conceived.

I can’t remember what we did with the days of our Bahamian honeymoon.

.

I wish I could.

.

I wish I could remember it all.

All at once.

.

Cup these major and minor incidents that make up our married life together in my hands.

Bottle them and drip feed them intravenously back into my body.

.

What I can remember is that a few moments ago you told me you loved me.

I can remember squeezing your hand just now.

I can remember, as I write these words, that all of these things have happened.

And that because of them

we are us.

.

George and Imogen.

Previous > On Coping #17: Somehow beyond brutality | Next > On Coping #19: Sleep pretty darling

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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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