A lead-pencil has a point, an argument may have a point, remarks may be pointed, and a man who wants to borrow five pounds from you only comes to the point when he asks you for the fiver. Lots of things have points: especially weapons. But where is the point to life? Where is the point to love? Where, if it comes to the point, is the point to a bunch of violets? There is no point. Life and love are life and love, a bunch of violets is a bunch of violets, and to drag in the idea of a point is to ruin everything. Live and let live, love and let love, flower and fade, and follow the natural curve, which flows on, pointless.
D. H. LAWRENCE (1885–1930)
More dogears from Smith
Real discipline, I would argue, is not always a matter of driving yourself on; real discipline is also knowing when to stop. This goes for all people in all jobs. Certainly, as a teacher you need to pace yourself, to sense when you’re losing your perspective, to recover as you go along, to have some fun and relaxation in the term-time, to think of other things, to enjoy yourself and not to fall into a puritanically self-obsessed rut. And for their part, the holidays are much more rewarding and memorable if there is some intellectual challenge and creative reflection. Wordsworth called this ‘a wise passiveness’. For a teacher and for a parent finding that delicate balance – or getting a life – is a tricky business.
Thoroughly enjoying Jonathan Smith’s “The Learning Game“. This anecdote is from his childhood. His Uncle Bert, a haemophiliac, always stayed with them.
“Every Christmas Day for many years we all gathered in his room for our dinner. After dinner, in my early childhood, we always played cards. I looked forward to this as much as to the turkey because I concentrated so fiercely and I wanted to win. The grown-ups gradually lost interest in the game and drank cider, with only half a mind on the cards. Taking full advantage of that, I usually ended up with the biggest pile of coins, and as the pile grew I pictured the fountain pen I was going to buy. A Platignum pen, or at least I think that’s what it was called. Anyway, I had seen them in the shops.
Uncle Bert, impressed by my judgement and my memory for the cards, egged me on. I massacred everyone, and ‘By God, I was rich. Rich!’ By bedtime I had scooped the pool. As well as my Christmas presents the Platignum pen was as good as in my hand.
Uncle Bert then reached up with his long fingers to unhook the Haemophiliac Society Charity stocking which he always kept hanging by his bed. He passed it round, encouraging each of us to contribute. It was a small see-through stocking, so there was no disguising the size of your gift. It may have been easy being mean with the collection bag in church, but not here in his bedroom. He watched me intently across the table and I knew he was watching me. One bushy eyebrow raised, a big grin and his few teeth showing, he handed the stocking to me. With a sinking heart I dropped coin after coin in.
‘It’s very good of you,’ he said, nodding each coin down, flicking his eyes and his head back to my pile, watching it diminish, ‘very good of you indeed.’
That is a teacher at work: mischief on the moral high ground, coercion, charity and comeuppance: sometimes he was pure Dickens.”
Sorry to hear the news and good luck with the operation. I’m not a big fan of giving advice – I dread it actually – but I remember feeling lost, pretty much from diagnosis onwards. The below is an effort to at least give a badly drawn map as per Holub’s poem. It may not be a route to anywhere sensible but it is, at least, a route that has been taken.
You’ll do it wrong
I spent most of my time feeling like I was being told off by, or letting down, the people I loved. It wasn’t until in remission when talking to a charming woman at the Marsden hospital, a fellow patient, that I learned we all do it wrong. We were laughing about how cross people got with us. As she said, “I’ve just never managed to have cancer the way people want me to.” Well neither did I. And I suspect neither will you.
Tick, tick, boom
For me, the period before the operation was surreal but fine. Lots of phone calls, medical records, CT scans and the like. Then hospital. Then waking up. And then the slow process of it sinking in. When I was asked before the operation if I was OK, I could honestly say yes. Everyone else seemed far more upset than me. It was only afterwards, when everyone was breathing a sigh of relief, that everything began to unravel. And at that point, everyone else tends to look a bit surprised and ask “What’s wrong?”. It took me a while to realise that there is a delay. It only starts sinking in when most people think you should be fine. I wish I’d been ready for that.
It’s not a cold
I suppose beforehand I’d thought I’d get cancer and then get better in the same way you catch a cold and then recover. You don’t recover, in that it won’t be the same you. You won’t necessarily be worse, or weaker, or better, or stronger, but you won’t be the same. As my Dad said, more succinctly, when I asked him about his prostate cancer and how he coped, “mortality’s a bitch”.
Brief your nearest and dearest
Tell them the following: “Don’t stand on ceremony. Don’t wait for permission. Don’t worry about how I feel. I need your help.”
Ask them to let you know they love you. Ask them to actually say it, not just assume it’s understood. You’ll not feel very lovable and it’s easy to forget. Last but not least, tell them you love them too.
Much of the discomfort I felt came down to a combination of my not wanting to ask for help and (I think) my family, my girlfriend and my friends not wanting to intrude or do things wrong. That was a two-way problem. For me, as the delayed reaction kicked in, and as I started really needing help, I felt more and more of an imposition. Hospitals made me feel like meat, mortality made me feel like a dark cloud. As a result, The one thing I never wanted to have to do was ask for help. Or ask for visits and company. I didn’t want to have to ask for meals to be prepared because chemo was making me sick and exhausted. As far as I was concerned, it was so obvious I needed help and support, putting me in a position where I had to ask for it and actually say something like “Will you come to chemo with me?”
The flip-side, and one I was too self-absorbed to see, was that others needed to feel that they could help and that they were doing things that were useful.
I was lucky in the end. I didn’t realise quite how lucky till a little later. Regardless of how unpleasant, grumpy, and lost I was, friends, family and the woman I loved just turned up. They didn’t ask for permission, they just said they were visiting. They didn’t ask what I wanted to read, they just brought things.
So tell them to turn up whenever they want. I far prefer the memory of struggling to work out what to do with a compulsory two tubs of chicken soup than wondering why colleagues 5 minutes down the road didn’t find time to visit.
Company not consolation
Most people I knew didn’t know how to deal with this sort of illness. Some, and it is usually your closer friends and family, are happy just to squeeze a hand or sit with you and talk crap. Because it is a serious illness, though, other seemed to feel they needed to be more sincere and heartfelt than they normally are. You will almost certainly be called brave, stoic, maybe even a soldier or a trooper. You may hear that it’ll be fine, that you’ll get through this or that people are there for you, whatever you need.
The difficulty is that if, as I did, you spend more than a few nights weeping, feeling scared and feeling alone, all of these platitudes only serve to highlight the fact that it is you, and not them, that is ill. It’s an odd feeling having people visit and them leaving with you feeling worse. But however awkward, it is worth remembering that all the visitors do mean well. It is company, not consolation, that is helps.
Hunt out the happy people
There seems to be a tribe of people who are happy. Not in a forced way, or for show, just happy. Children like this naturally. I loved seeing my nephews destroy my hospital bed. I loved seeing Julia and Luke turn up and be more cheering at that age than I could ever have been. I was lucky enough, too, to meet several in hospital. Beh Zad, who was so cheerful he wanted to chat all the way through the night. Nigel, who’s behind-the-curtains running commentary, during my first barium enema gave me and the nurse fits of giggles. More poetically, I had a bed opposite a cabbie who was a member of this tribe (despite having a stomach that look liked it had been napalmed). I still remember laughing at his argument with his neighbour.
Him: There’s blue sky up there behind the clouds.
Neighbour: And what’s behind that? Space. Infinite bloody nothingness.
Him: Not quite. Space and stars. Infinite nothingness and infinite twinkling possibilities.
The tent-pegs of hope
People of all walks of life will surprise you, in good ways. A dinner lady at work took me under her wing, a nurse burst into tears and gave me a hug, a cleaner in the hospital brought me an unasked for cup of tea, a fellow patient told me I had a good heart, my old babysitter was sister on one of my wards and a bowls champion called Jack came in to see if I was OK because he was worried about me. I found things easier if I made a conscious effort to mark these things down. They’re the tent-pegs of hope.
As a projection it’s almost certainly not going to map onto your circumstances. I do hope it might help in some small way, though and I wish you all the best.