Sheer bloody mindedness
It’s your 19th night in the hospice.
.
Nurse Sally comes in to massage your hands.
She covers your feet to keep them warm.
She tells us your extremities are shutting down.
.
When we first arrived here
they gave you days to live.
.
Two weeks later
they said it could be hours.
.
That was Friday.
Today is Sunday.
.
Your perseverance is
astonishing.
.
Although
come to think of it
you never did like finishing things
as much as
starting them.
.
So you drive on
held together
by ice pops
love
and your own
sheer bloody mindedness.
.
I receive daily messages
from those on the other end of these words.
.
You are heard
they say.
We see you
they say.
We feel your pain
they say.
We hold you in our thoughts
they say.
We love her too
they say.
.
Sharing this with those we have known and loved
and others drawn to bear witness
to your courage
is like stitching a tapestry
a tribute
to you
and
to love.
.
But also
it is weaving a web
each individual strand of which can’t hold the weight
but which collectively
might just be the safety net I’ll need.
.
Fall
a friend writes
and let yourself be caught.
.
Maybe
I think.
.
But not yet.
.
I’m at your bedside after another 24 hours away.
.
You phoned me.
Come back
you said.
So I am here.
Once again counting the seconds between your breaths.
.
Yesterday’s fears return
as you struggle to rouse yourself
long enough
to kiss me.
.
Your chest moves in shallow undulations
releasing irregular rasps.
.
I try telling myself
that I told you
every day
that I loved you.
Even after we argued
every day
I told you.
.
Didn’t I?
.
You wake up
momentarily.
Hello my darling boy
you say.
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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.
With a small tear running down my cheek, I sit here in disbelief at the journey your entire family has been on. I know you through Imogen, of course, but feel blessed and privileged to read these words and become closer to you. You are so generous to share your feelings and story and at the same time you are inspiring. Your writing is beautiful and carries such true emotion, care and warmth. You are a remarkable man with a remarkable lady and we all can learn from the grace, fight and courage that you both show. Sending all my love. Graham
George, we don’t know each other, and it’s been years since I saw Imogen in person, but I have always considered her a friend. I have been following her, her journey with cancer and reading the words of yours she shared on Instagram. I have just found my way to this substack and wanted to thank you for your words here, your generosity in sharing them with people and the honest, brutal beauty of them. Of all the words I could use to describe Imogen and how she has faced all of this, the one that keeps offering itself, is grace. I hope you are able to take some comfort in the knowledge that you and she have affected so many of us, and in ways you may not even realise. Sending love and light to you, Imogen and the children, Becky xxx