Mel*, we only know each other on
Twitter, and I already know how it's going to be.
I really hate being the bastard who
says that, when there's going to be an optimistic chorus spouting
bullshit and promising that positive thought can defeat disease.
Optimism is seductive and necessary, but so is truth.
The thing is, as you've already
discovered, the kind of mind that produces the up-vibe “I will
survive!” literature that infests our world, seems to think that
chronic and sometimes terminal illness can be slotted in right next
to supermarket tampon ad images.
I'm the bastard with my greatest
love's Death Note next to my life and my heart. I sympathise even as
I hold my dearest against the future. She understand and redirects
her tears to you.
We understand that the photos in the
hospital literature lie; we know that the glorious promises embodied
in steel and glass and genes and research and money will save lives
and families – in the future, but not our own.
We resent how it turns out – but
that's resentment of life and circumstance. Not of people.
You, like Ms T, are a patient, not
an abstract. You've just had your future invaded by the blitzkrieg of
diagnosis; a genie reached out a hand and tore your life's to-do list
to confetti.
There will be days you cry. You will
weep and rage, and at times you'll fly off the handle at those you
cling to.
And I'm the bastard who says this.
It's so bloody hard: you cannot hold your place in the saddle when
the lance strikes your breastbone.
You don't forfeit love because you
lose your rag sometimes. We on the receiving end know that you're
only releasing a couple of colts from a whole herd of horses,
stampeding over your life, health, ambitions, hopes, plans, love, and
future.
It hurts to be on the receiving end.
I know: Ms T hurts me terribly at times, and sometimes I flare, but
the storms always subside.
Our sons have been bloody rocks. The
elder was in his HSC year when the maelstrom descended; this year he
qualified for honours, and wants to pursue the uncertain life of the
scientist. He still will drop everything and sprint at the least word
from Ms T, as will his brother.
We, the carers, we who fell in love:
we still hold in our hearts and imaginations the beauty we once dared
not touch. We loved, and we love.
Illness is merely a bane-companion.
We who love are entangled; like photons, our hearts beat with the
hearts of those we love, our state depends on your state, and our
only wish is that across the long, empty spaces of the universe, you
will return to us.
* @Dr_Mel_Thompson, with a recent MS
diagnosis, gave me permission to use her real name. I appreciate her
decision and honour her bravery.
