In a morning from a Bogart movie
In a country where they turn back time
She comes out of the sun in a silk dress
Running like a water colour in the rain
- Al Stewart 1976
August 2007
Jenny was just 31 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, and 32 when she died. She was in the prime of her life, with two bouncing young children and a husband beside her. Alongside her, but unable to protect her from the ravages of a horrifying disease, or worse, from the pain and suffering of leaving her children behind. It is a terrible thing to watch helplessly as someone you love dies slowly in front of your eyes. Such experience leaves its mark.
Although I’d seen myself as the sophisticated older man when first we met, I was hardly over the hill at 36 when she died. And yet, having feared and known the inevitable for such a long time, now I stood alone and strangely unprepared for what lay ahead.
Drained and exhausted by the anguish behind but seemingly ever with me, in the months to follow I would find myself facing new problems and experiences I could never have foreseen. Finding emotional turmoil on a scale I’d never imagined. Beginning a search for friendship, compassion and companionship.
And, most importantly, struggling to look after and nurture two marvellous but demanding children, as indeed I had been doing more and more for quite some time before.
Through that longest trough, strangely there were always shades of darkness, some speckles of joy amidst the hard nails of pain. Sometimes joy that only brought more pain. So much has happened through all that time, so many different things I never would have expected.
One day I said I should write a book about it all, to explain something of what it is like to be the partner of a cancer sufferer, sharing their despairs and hopes, facing their fears as well as your own. To write about shattering loss, to describe a battle through the wilderness and the problems and pitfalls of emerging towards a normal life on the other side.
This story is written as it felt at the time, and as I lived it. Our natural instinct is always to gloss over and try to forget some of our worst times – and I think now with hindsight that many bereaved folk can look back through a span of years and say – it wasn’t that bad. But it didn’t feel like that at the time, not at all. Experiences like these change your perception of life and everything in it, and you think maybe that will last for ever.
As time passes, the normality of new circumstances is creeping up on me, almost before I know it, and even my questionable sense of humour has started to return. But life is different now, with so much space and time traversed since then. What you read here is how it felt, at that time. So forgive me if I seem an irritable, unyieldingly miserable and irredeemably self-pitying bastard. You’d probably be one, too.
But that was all much later. In the beginning there was just music, a girl, and tomorrow.
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12 responses so far ↓
Gigi // 1 September, 2007 at 17:47 |
Roads, this is very moving. I have great admiration for your courage.
I’ve often wondered where you get your energy and your zest for life. Now that I know your tragedy, I am even more amazed. You are a very special person…
Roads // 2 September, 2007 at 17:43 |
Thank you very much for your thoughtful words, Gigi. You’re very kind.
Courage is just a hard protective shell of exactly the type you were describing just the other day – and when we need it, we will find it.
This book has work to do. We all know people who have been through this. That’s life. The pity is that we find it so hard to support those people.
All too often, we shrink away, because we don’t know what to say, because in our ignorance we don’t wish to intrude, or because we are simply embarrassed.
So if you know someone like that, offer to help them out. Engage with them. Talk to them. Listen to them (repetitively and miserably, no doubt). Not just now, but for a span of weeks and months to come. That’s all it takes.
As for me – let me stress: that was then, and this is now. I’m a lucky man.
I’d be interested in your view on whether women might read this book. Some people tell me that only women buy books, and only books written from a woman’s point of view. I’m not sure that’s true.
Many thanks again for reading and contributing here. I appreciate it, so please chime in whenever you wish.
promoarts // 9 September, 2007 at 10:54 |
Roads – keep on writing and writing. It’s all at once comforting and sad, moving and inspiring. Many thanks.
Diane.
Roads // 10 September, 2007 at 18:05 |
Thanks very much, Diane.
The Price of Love is all written now and ready for publication.
Just drop me an e-mail via the ‘Info’ page, if you want to know more, or to reserve your signed copy of the book.
Silver Fox // 8 March, 2008 at 04:05 |
Thanks for writing this. I’ve thought about something like this for a long time. Maybe someday…
Roads // 8 March, 2008 at 22:15 |
Many thanks, Silver Fox, and welcome to you.
That’s a great site you’ve got there.
Enjoy your fieldwork!
canadada // 10 March, 2008 at 14:40 |
Hi there, just kinda checking in. Realize I’ve been remiss about actually ‘reading’ much of the Price of Love. I know it has much to do with my own healing heart after my dear old dad died. I just do not want to ‘go there’ again at the moment … SOOOO, long winded way of saying, I ain’t ignore you nor you fine blog, I just gotta focus on other things … KNOW you understand, and look forward to other great words of wisdom on Roads … I’ve got a few new ’short stories’ up chez moi, whadja think? You might resonant with ‘JoJo’s Mistress’ … Best, C
Roads // 10 March, 2008 at 14:54 |
Thanks for dropping in, C. I love that story of yours, especially being a Stratford boy, growing up on the south shore of the Avon, an’ all.
Small world.
sparkle333 // 18 March, 2008 at 09:31 |
Roads: We have a mutual blog friend-Linda (Owen’s Mom). I was drawn to her by her mysterious story about her son, but I stayed, because I loved her way of writing. I saw her comment tonight about YOUR writing, and I came to read awhile. I am so touched by your honesty, and the poignancy of your story. I will definitely be reading more in days to come. Believe me, women WILL be interested in reading your book. A man’s point of view is a treasure (we’re all wanting to get inside a man’s thought process), and as for me, I look at the transparency of the written word, and the telling of the story-not the gender. I am so glad that I came to your blog page, and I look forward to reading and commenting more in the days to come. Sincerely, Lonnette
http://sparkle333.wordpress.com/
Roads // 18 March, 2008 at 14:16 |
Welcome, sparkle333, and thank you very much for your kind words and encouragement. That’s an interesting site you have, and I enjoyed your clip of Joseph.
We sang Joseph way back in school and it’s long been a favourite. I saw the London show during the ’90s, and I’m returning to see the revival in the West End this September. Can’t wait!
Sheila Joyce Gibbs // 12 June, 2008 at 21:07 |
My beautiful late husband and I had met nearly 36 yrs ago, at a Christian Camp. Lost track of each other but always wished we hadn’t. Amazingly discovered the other, 2003, then he was gone, April 2007, from a unexpected illness.
Many people have said, our story is amazing, because of our near identical past lives.
Thankyou.
/sjg
Roads // 12 June, 2008 at 22:52 |
Many thanks, Sheila, for sharing your story, and I’m sorry to hear about your husband, especially after it took you so long to find each other once again.
Sadly, bereavement doesn’t respect fairness. It seems terrible to be ‘deprived’ of happy years with a partner, when so many people enjoy much more time together.
Unfortunately, that’s often the case. The awfully hard lessons of bereavement teach us so much about other people’s suffering.
Never again will I look at a television report showing bereaved husbands, wives and children about an atrocity in the Middle East or a natural disaster, such as the tsunami, the Myanmar cyclone or floods in Bangladesh, without feeling much more acute sympathy for all those involved.
Perhaps it is only when we experience those emotions ourselves that the depth and implications of such family tragedy become entirely clear.