Getting on with it

You could say they'd make Christmas tree baubles

CANCER! Even the single word radiates malign power. Sixty years ago it was a death sentence; less so now, although “cures” are often relative rather than absolute. In my youth, the idea terrified me. Yet, when it recently happened I found it something of an anti-climax. Does that sound odd? I expect to be disbelieved in this post.

The verdict was to be inferred at the first post-biopsy but things got confused by another, comparatively trivial matter. I suspect the medico, standing in for the consultant, was teetotal and he gave me a real finger-wagging about my drinking habits. Parenthetically the real consultant was enraged when he learned about this. Anyway, one way or another, I forgot to be scared about what the biopsy concluded. Gave po-faced answers to my TT interrogator.

In the days that followed I continued doing all the boring things I do and which I turn into slightly more interesting posts. Long periods elapsed in which I completely forgot about cancer. But wasn’t I supposed to be jittery with apprehension about the Angel of Death’s wing brushing my cheek? 

Well, no. At 87, bleating seemed a waste. And there’s another thing. I have always resisted clichés; not just the banal phrases (“Over the moon”) but clichés of attitude and behaviour. And cancer generates clichés by the bucketload. The need to avoid the C-word, the painful reactions, the expression that clearly says “It could have been me”, sympathy shot through with horror.

Of course it isn’t their fault and I should be more sympathetic. But there’s irony, if you like. I’d rather talk about Stendhal and my interview with the late Phil Read. Cancer doesn’t deserve the fruits of my intellect. Liar or extremely self-centred, you say. You may right about the second bit.