Foot notes

Take good care of your feet, Pete - Brian Wilson

Only grief permits newness - Walter Brueggemann

I'm starting my first post in a while with a couple of unrelated quotes from two men who died recently, within six days of each other. This pair (whose initials randomly mirror the other's - BW and WB) have helped me in different ways on my cancer journey.

Most people have heard of Brian Wilson - the leader of The Beach Boys who, with The Beatles, redefined popular music in the 1960s. Wilson was the fragile genius behind songs like 'God Only Knows', which one-time rival Paul McCartney labelled the greatest track of all time.

I've been on a few vinyl deep dives since my diagnosis, slowly collecting albums by artists I'd previously had blind (or deaf!) spots to including Aretha Franklin, Kraftwerk, Stevie Wonder, Michael Rother and, towards the end of 2023, The Beach Boys. This included acquiring a double-LP gatefold version of Sunflower and Surf's Up - two early 1970s entries in The Beach Boys' canon. Nestled alongside minor Wilson classics 'Til I Die' and Surf's Up's title track, is a fun song called 'Take A Load Off Your Feet' which spends two and a half playful minutes advising someone called Pete on the importance of foot care:

Take good care of your feet, Pete

You better watch out what you eat, Pete

Better take care of your life

Because nobody else will

This brought a smile the first time I heard it due to the life-sapping chemotherapy I was then on, and the painful effects it was having on my feet, which meant daily moisturising. Plus the toll on my taste buds which made meal choices bounce all over the place; often adding chillies to dishes so I could taste SOMETHING rather than a bland chemo grossness. Almost two years later, the soles of my feet are still numb, the probably permanent legacy of the nerve-killing treatment, but they don't hurt any more. And my chilli count has fallen back to an acceptable level.

The second quote is from US theologian Walter Brueggemann who died aged 92 after a prolific career as one of the leading authorities on the bible, in particular the Old Testament prophets. Finding present-day parallels, Brueggemann was a nagging voice for the voiceless and vulnerable, urging against the religious nationalism which dominates again today.

As well as tempting me to buy more vinyl, one of the benefits of volunteering at Oxfam Books in Lichfield is the access to hundreds of items that people generously donate every week. A few weeks ago I spotted a 33-year-old paperback of Brueggemann's Hopeful Imagination nestled in the storage racks, and purchased it.

The book outlines Israel's disastrous exile to Babylon (which inspired Boney M hit 'Rivers Of Babylon') in 587 BC. Brueggemann explains, over several chapters, how God's chosen people could only begin to experience hope and the promise of future restoration once they'd accepted, and lived through, the pain of military defeat and exodus to a foreign land. His observation that "only grief permits newness" resonated deeply, along with his conclusion that "loss and emptiness are not the last word."

In my last post I wrote of a fresh desire to dig my heels in to find a more resilient way of living in the face of the unpredictability, and constant low-level hum, of incurable cancer. As the weeks and months since my February and March scans have passed, I've slowly found the space I need to allow this to happen. For the first time in a while, it feels like I'm gaining a degree of traction as I walk forward, rather than the ground constantly shifting beneath my feet.

This has only come through allowing grief its rightful place, rather than trying to drown it out or rush its work. I imagine grief as a deep well that is always there in the green field of my life. Some days I stop and sit by this well, other days I am able to simply acknowledge it and walk on by.

On the other side of this field is a brook, a natural spring of flowing water. This is a place I can drink from: the stream of life-giving moments which include enjoying my family, listening to music, running, seeing friends, volunteering, working and traveling.

The daily temptation is to try and divert this spring of life (with a massive hosepipe, maybe) into the well - to fill the place of grief with these good things. I often, subconsciously, attempt to do this and then wonder why I still feel sad after a fantastic experience, or a satisfying day. Or I can't understand why a small setback - like my team losing at football or cricket - can leaving me feeling disproportionately gloomy.

The reality is that the life-giving spring can't make up for the deep well of grief. Enjoying the spring and allowing its daily refreshment is one thing, and lingering by the well as grief does its quiet, necessary work in me, is another. They each have their own jobs to do, in their own way and time, and neither can cancel out the other. In fact, sometimes there appears to be a kind of synergy between them as, to re-quote Brueggemann, the "grief permits newness".

I spent some time at the well of grief following the death of my former colleague Steven. We were both diagnosed with advanced cancer within months of each other and, despite living hundreds of miles apart, struck up a friendship via WhatsApp and video chat. Sharing war stories about our treatment and its side effects, we also talked about things like power of attorney, advanced care plans and funeral preferences in frank and helpful ways. As Steven's brain cancer grew and he was less able to communicate, our contact fell away. But I was able to keep up with him via online posts from his wife Ele, who held Steven in her arms as he died peacefully at their home in Cornwall. The way they together handled Steven's final weeks with grit, grace and humour moved, and encouraged me, greatly.

Macy and me, with a bike growing out of my head, in Manchester

I've also been drinking from the spring quite a lot in recent weeks, including a three-day trip to Manchester with Macy where we saw the magnificent American indie-country rocker MJ Lenderman and his manically engaging band The Wind in concert at a sell-out Ritz venue. Following a night in Macy's university flat (where she kindly slept on the floor), I got up, took the bus into the city centre and then retraced an old running route along the Rochdale Canal. After tea with Macy, I again ventured into Manchester for a gig by another American, Panda Bear, before walking back and sleeping like a log. Two nights out in 48 hours - not bad for an old man!

It's also great to be able to look forward to two weeks in France during the summer holidays. We'll spend the first week with our good friends the Cotton and Findlay families - 19 of us in a total - in a large holiday home near Poitiers. We had to cancel similar plans two years ago after my diagnosis, so it's brilliant to be able to finally do this. The second week we'll be in a smaller place a bit further south with just our family.

A few days before we travel, I'll have scans to see how my cancer is behaving. We won't get the results until we return from France, which, after a lot of deliberation, I think is probably the best way. Although we always hope for the best, the reality is that bad scan results would not make for the most relaxing time away.

People with life-limiting illness often face pressure to make the most of every moment. However well-meaning this might sound, it can be mentally crippling. This was summarised in a recent podcast I heard with Suleika Jaouad, an author in her thirties who is living with leukemia. She was talking to fellow cancer-sufferer Kate Bowler who had just relayed a story about her young son, Zach, devoting all of his energy to daily digging a big hole in their garden. Suleika said:

"I don’t want to cross off some big bucket list items. I don’t want to live every day as if it’s my last. It’s exhausting to live that way. It is exhausting to feel pressure. To have every interaction be meaningful. To Carpe Diem the shit out of every single moment and like squeeze the juice....I’ve done it enough. It’s stressful and anxiety-inducing and I’m over it. What I do want to do is dig a big hole in my backyard just for fun because that’s what lights me up. I want to return to that wonder, to that idea, instead living every day as if it’s my first and feeling a sense of freedom to do what excites me and what makes me feel alive and what nourishes me, and that’s never the big things."

This idea of living every day as if it's our first, rather than our last, is really helpful. It grants a freedom and a lightness of heart to just be - and to enjoy the possibilities and potential of that with those we love in simple, everyday ways. To find the newness permitted by grief and to just follow our feet, Pete.