Sleep pretty darling
Last night you slept for 10 hours straight.
This morning you stirred in pain.
Sarah came and gave you morphine.
And you dropped back into sleep.
You slumber still, as I write.
.
There’s something different today.
A weight, maybe, pulling you under.
.
Perhaps I’m imagining it.
Or perhaps I’m not.
.
Yesterday, we cast our hands in plaster with the children.
You bought the kit ages ago
and we’ve been trying to do it for weeks.
.
We hold hands
then our 11 year old adds his
And finally our 9 year old twins.
All we have to do then
is submerge our clasp into liquid rubber
and hold completely completely still
for six minutes.
.
What could possibly go wrong?
.
It takes three nurses
your sister
your mum
and my friend Suz
but we finally get into position.
and we plunge.
.
It’s a long six minutes.
.
But they do well.
And one by one we release our hands from the mould
until finally you slide your slender fingers out.
.
Plaster is poured in and we wait.
.
Three hours later I peel back the casing to reveal the cast.
.
A steady stream of nurses come to admire it while you sleep on.
You glimpse it in the few seconds you’re awake.
I think you see it.
I hope you see it.
.
I don’t know if you do.
.
Once there was a way
to get back homeward.
.
I move furniture around the room.
Turn on your salt lamp.
Throw away tissues.
Wipe down tables.
Fold blankets.
.
I sit back down.
Take your hand.
Sip coffee.
Look out of the French doors.
.
Once there was a way
to get back home.
.
It is a cloudy day.
The air is still.
.
It might rain later.
Previous > On Coping #18: George and Imogen | Next > On Coping #20: Crossing the void
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.
It strikes me that the writer’s function is uniquely human. The job of the writer is to communicate something inside their head to the heads of others using symbols. No other animal does this. At its best it allows us to remind, encourage, inspire, move, and galvanise one another. It allows us to live better I have spoken to several of your friends who read this, George, I hope you know you are doing that for all of us and in so doing we feel closer to you and our beautiful, beautiful Imogen as you take this astonishing, sad journey. We’re here, mate.
Amen, Simon. George, your impossibly beautiful words have helped me access my own feelings, in the wee hours of this morning when I read every post, and my heart is bursting with love and compassion for you and your wonderful family. It’s near impossible for me imagine what you’re all going through, but your words, your openness, allow us all, in our own small way, to share some of the pain. There are many hearts pointing their love in your direction as a result, and like the man says, we’re here for you, mate.