This morning, I was greeted at the breakfast table by the news my wife Karen was feeling under the weather. This malady another example of her bad days where her odious carcinogenic illness gains an upper hand; causing her return to bed for recuperation.
Her energy drained as a consequence of her enduring physical battle with her medical nemesis, this return aimed at a re-invigorating boost by slumber, or the very least rest. I was sad to hear she felt unwell as I got downstairs, not to mention being startled to learn the news from a broadcaster on TV’s Good Morning Britain!
Karen’s sporadic days of malaise are battles in which cancer prevails over my betrothed. However, you won’t see this little north east lass wave the white flag yet; instead she’ll regroup, readying herself for the next cancer sourced confrontation….. ‘No Surrender!’ this diminutive lady’s courageous mantra.
Some may question my habit of personalising this putrid illness. Highlighting the folly of me addressing the disease as if it was an individual who can respond to yours truly’s diatribes. Among them there’ll be those who maybe opine :-
“Cancer can’t and won’t hear you, Gary!….. Focus your thoughts and mind on things you can influence…… It’s futile ranting at this indiscriminate illness. It’s utterly pointless attempting to shame it into seeing the error of it’s ways, with a view for it to cease the misery it causes thousands.”…….. All of which would be perfectly valid advice.
Unfortunately, I can’t avoid an occasional vent at this illness. A canker that has been such a large negative influence in my life for eight years, with consequences of manifesting emotions of utter frustration and anger. Fury fueled by knowledge the current unpleasant situation is best case scenario for Karen, me and our adult children.
As I mull over my penchant for delivering acerbic admonishments at a main source of the family’s existential woes, it’s starting to dawn on me how misguided my approach has been. A conclusion resultant from now understanding I no longer find these rants cathartic.
On this rollercoaster journey, borne from cancer’s unwanted presence in the home, I formerly found therapeutic qualities in venting gripes about my odyssey. At that time, I’d be uplifted on concluding the narrative containing the diatribe. Admittedly, it was a short term fix, however for a brief duration I felt I’d had my say at this thing causing me so much disenchantment.
My very recent pondering, though, has manifested a realisation my mood can no longer be lifted by literary blasts at the repulsive canker blighting my wife’s health.
Karen remains pragmatic about the whole fight, almost to the point of self-denial. This remarkable lady more fazed if she believes I’m driving too close to the car in front, than upcoming oncologist appointments or an MRI scan.
When I rose from my pit this morning I had no intention of writing about my wife’s cancer fight. A subject, believe it or not, I attempt to avoid as much as possible. However, waking to find her feeling so lousy led to a change in today’s literary topic.
Usurped my intended light-hearted narrative about the gloss paint flecks on my arms resembling star constellations…… Actually, you probably dodged a bullet!
