To have and to hold (and catch)

I've slowly realised that there's a difference between living with cancer and living with cancer.

It seems possible to do both in one month, one week, or one day even.

Last week, Lisa and I headed to Sorrento to celebrate, in advance, our 30th wedding anniversary (yes, we did get married aged 12, thanks!). It's the first time we've had a week away together - sans kids - for almost two years. A lot has happened in that period.

It's hard to explain the impact an unexpected terminal diagnosis - or any other severe trauma, like the loss of a child - can have on a marriage. I wouldn't expect anyone who hasn't experienced it (including pre-cancer me) to understand. But I do now get why, statistically, divorce is more likely for couples who go through such extreme events.

After having our world blown apart with our incurable cancer torpedo, a lot of the past three years has simply been about day-to-day survival. Social events that are surplus to requirements slip off the calendar; spending time in large groups of people can quickly drain whatever dregs are in our social batteries. Focus switches to sustaining those relationships which don't leave us exhausted or in emotional deficit. Sounds selfish maybe, but it's the only way forward.

Marriage-wise, survival is sometimes about just getting through the day. Lisa going to work to keep us afloat, me keeping the family fed; us both knowing a good night's sleep can be make or break. Romantic gestures slide down the priority list. Keeping ourselves individually mentally afloat so we can still be there for each other is a daily achievement which isn't always achieved. Our relationship at times feels like a tree pruned within an inch of its life.

Which is why our week in Italy was so refreshing. Relaxing together in the pool outside our hotel room with Mount Vesuvius on the horizon, chair-lift beautiful views over Capri, swimming in the stunning Fjord of Furore (pictured below), daily gelato pit stops, getting on and off sardine-packed local buses and trains - we were so lucky to be able to spend a week in such a wonderful place (surrounded mostly by Americans it seemed!). We had time to recover from the daily grind and reflect honestly on how things are; to forget, recall and reconnect. Last week was living with cancer.

The day we returned, I was scrolling through Bluesky (like Twitter/X without the screaming) and came across an offer from the writer/comedian Robin Ince. On recent train journeys, he's started a poetry challenge where he asks for random themes to write about before he gets to his destination. I fired off the suggestion: "The joy of a 30th wedding anniversary week in Sorrento in between chemo for incurable cancer." And, while traveling from Newton Abbott to Reading, Robin wrote the following, entitled Chemo, cancer and love:

"The insecurity of the future/creates a nowness/so much more definite." Wow. What a line.

This week I return to living with cancer, with the ninth monthly cycle of my current treatment due to start tomorrow. I might read the poem again while waiting for my blood test results on the ward. By our actual wedding anniversary, I'll be half way through a fortnight of chemo tablets and probably tired, niggly and brain-spent, so we may not do much to celebrate. But that's fine. We'll likely just watch an episode of our new favourite medical drama, The Pitt. If you don't mind forking out for HBO Max (or Now TV), I'd highly recommend it. The show explores the gamut of human highs and lows without cliche, and even has a nurse called Jesse with hair like Charlie from Casualty. Talking of things to watch, while typing I just had the bizarre experience of seeing Dan, our oldest, catch former Test cricket star Monty Panesar out live on Youtube in his village cricket match. He will dine out on that for weeks!

Returning to the statistics, studies show that when cancer strikes, sick women are much more likely to be abandoned by their husbands than vice versa. This doesn't surprise me. I hope I'd stick around for Lisa if she was in my position, but I'm pretty sure I'd not be as strong or resilient as she's been. Lisa has carried our family, often single-handedly, through the past three years without once complaining. The pressure on her has been - and still is - immense, and I've not always appreciated it, or wanted to admit it. She's shown me more love in her quiet, stoic holding together, than I could have expected or could ever repay. She is amazing.

Until next time; here's to the blossom and new fruit that slowly grows from our extreme prunings if we hang in there, with each other, for long enough. Here's to life and life.