A grimly dour air of lethargy befell us then. On the last and wildest night, a stray dog turned up at the villa and kept us all awake as it scratched at the front door for hours, trying desperately to escape the storm.
Another time, I’d have been sympathetic, but after all the months of tension it was too much.
I would probably have kicked the dog away for good if Sal hadn’t taken charge, fixed up a makeshift lead and taken it around to the neighbours before we left for the airport.
Eventually, we all arrived home, ragged from stress and lack of sleep. It seemed that we had only just walked through the door when the phone rang. It was my mum. My dad had found it hard to remember things recently, she said, so they’d taken him in to hospital for a check. To cut a long story short, they’d diagnosed a brain tumour, and would operate the following week.
October 9th 1996
How much more worry could that create? Because with an operation like that looming, I could see straight away that my dad might not make it.
It was ironic – he was just short of completing five years clear from cancer for the second time, and now it had come back once more. Five years was always the figure they used to base those survival statistics, but each of my dad’s recurrences had occurred within a month of that point, and a cure never seemed further away than then.
Strangely though, and despite that worry, somehow I didn’t seem to feel any more stressed. Perhaps there is only so much worry that you can take, and above a certain level it all starts to wash over you.
Did it make a difference that my dad had already had cancer for eleven years, that he was 67 and not 32, or that he was living a hundred miles away from me – who’s the pot calling the kettle black, now? 
Perhaps all of those things did make a difference, but I thought about him a great deal.
So did Jenny. My dad’s illness upset her immensely.
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12 responses so far ↓
sparkle333 // April 26, 2008 at 7:14 pm
“Perhaps there is only so much worry that you can take, and above a certain level it all starts to wash over you.”
What a wonderful line, and I can really relate to that! Wow-so many things at once, and 67 is so very young these days. Can’t wait to hear what actually happened. Thanks for sharing this time in your life with all of us. Lonnette
Roads // April 27, 2008 at 1:01 pm
Yes, that’s how it is sometimes, Lonnette. Life can be like that, don’t you think? It’s all going along smoothly and then - wham! - everything starts to fall apart at once.
Or, as we say in England: it never rains … but it pours.
Thanks again.
shadowlands1501 // April 27, 2008 at 5:26 pm
I had a period of stress like this in my life where it felt like life and loss was pouring from the heavens.
My brother was killed in a car racing accident. I had to assume his duties as head of the family business. His loss was felt on a daily basis. Eight months later, my mother died from cancer. Six weeks after her funeral, I was suited for divorce and 4 months later, I lost the only grandparent that was a true grandmother to me…and all the while, I looked to heaven and begged for a reprieve…just a little time between losses…
I think I went a little numb for a while. I had to rise to a huge challenge and, with my faith, I recovered.
Roads, it is this memory and your blog that tells me that I survived once; I must survive again….
Thanks…
Roads // April 27, 2008 at 5:56 pm
Gosh, Shadowlands - that sounds like it was an incredibly awful time.
Does familiarity with suffering make it easier to endure devastating setbacks? Yes, I think maybe it does. As you say, some trust in your own courage and resilience is a comfort when looking into the darkness.
Perhaps one of the most important revelations is that things will get better eventually, if only you can allow them to do so.
Spirits up.
Author // April 27, 2008 at 7:22 pm
How sad for your family that right in the midst of the worry about Jenny, your father was taken ill. I do agree, that there is only so much stress one can take - I think when it’s washing over you your body is protecting you from overload.
How sad it is that “When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions” - Shakespeare’s Hamlet, 1603
You must think back now and wonder how you coped with it all. It’s amazing how we each pull resources from somewhere deep within us when we need to.
Shadowlands too, how awful that must have been for you. To lose so many you love in such a short space of time does not bear thinking about. I only wish you were not having to suffer more now. You will find peace - you will.
Blessings to you all.
Roads // April 27, 2008 at 11:19 pm
Thank you for that quote, Jan - a really good meaty piece of Shakespeare. Perfect for a Stratford boy like myself.
I was struck by your words here: “… You must think back now and wonder how you coped with it all. It’s amazing how we each pull resources from somewhere deep within us when we need to…”
That’s exactly right. I can remember a dark and lonely day soon after Jenny died, when I was measuring the afternoon in howls and tears.
The phone rang, and I found myself unexpectedly speaking to a distant colleague from Canada. He’d made the effort to call me, even though we hadn’t had the chance to meet for many months.
He told me that he knew there’d be tough times ahead.
“That’s where your inner strength will help you,” he said.
“What inner strength?” I asked. “Because I don’t think I have any, right now.”
“Just look inside yourself,” he said. “It’s there in all of us, if only we look hard enough to find it.”
I remember that call so very well. It was fantastic inspiration from such an unexpected source. And it was amazing, because what he said was entirely true. That strength really does reside deep down within us all. And when we need it, we can find it - if we really look.
Thanks again.
cathyb // April 28, 2008 at 12:23 am
How awful, perfectly awful. We wonder how much we can handle after all, and yet, we do, don’t we? And what other choice is there? After losing my dear husband to a brain tumor, I now have breast cancer in my life, my dear 36 year old niece, who is like a daughter to me.
Seems it is a pattern. Why?
Cathyb
http://www.lessonsfromlou.blogspot.com
Roads // April 28, 2008 at 5:21 pm
Hi again, Cathy. I’m sorry to hear about your niece, and I hope that she is faring well.
The statistics of cancer are such that it affects millions of lives, and it’s desperately bad luck when it strikes multiple members of your family. There are great things that experience and a knowledge of the disease can bring to the situation, and an appreciation of a life to be lived is surerly foremost amongst them.
Many thanks for your insights - so hard gained, I know - and all best wishes from London.
nichole3 // April 29, 2008 at 4:10 pm
Roads,
That is incredible suffering to be caring for your wife and knowing your father was battling cancer once again. I’m so sorry you had to experience all of that. But the suffering has made you into a very kind and caring person. You know–you could have become hardened and cynical. You have so much to give each of us who visit your blog!Thanks!
Roads // April 29, 2008 at 8:25 pm
That’s very kind of you to say that, Nichole. These times can change a man, as you rightly say.
I had to harden up to get through these times. A will of iron and a shell of steel grow fast when you need to find them. Since then, though, life has changed entirely, and my outlook with it. I’m a different person now.
That’s how life is - we live, we learn, and we adapt. There is no other way.
hoh // May 11, 2008 at 9:05 am
what an amazing pic!
looks like a tuscan villa with a humdinger of a storm about to come or has gone
the pic is a tad dark this end maybe it needs
a tweek with a dash of lightening [as in lighter!]
cheers
Roads // May 11, 2008 at 9:49 pm
Thanks, hoh. Glad you’re enjoying these pictures.
The rain in Spain…
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