I’m sat next to my husband driving towards the hospital. It’s a 50 minute drive. I find myself looking at different segments of the journey. A set of roadworks, a tree I run past weekly, and a roundabout I haven’t since since March 23rd (Covid). Reminding myself that the next time I see these objects I’ll know what my diagnosis will be. I’ll know my personal forecast. I know my tumor has had too much to say for itself so far, but when I see the tree again I’ll know what I have to say back to it. I’ll have my voice now and we can then start to have a conversation. I’ll have sound back in my body. I encourage clients to find their voice – to feel valued. Now I am requiring the same. I’m going to start a dialogue with my cancer, and it scares the shit out of me.
Now I am not one for ‘signs’ – well maybe a little ?! Blurs of land and fields rush pass my peripheral vision. I’m fixating on the road in front of me. Did you know that the vast majority of the area in the visual field is included is included in the notion of peripheral vision. And that’s where I see it. The empty hearse. It’s heading towards us on the opposite side of the road. Gulps of air are looking for a place to go but I keep my mouth closed. So they bubble down in my chest wall and dance away. I swear they’re wearing clogs.
Another ten minutes or so swish by. I see another hearse. This time it has an occupant. The slow convoy of mourners follow suit, and I just stare at the coffin. It’s a wicker basket one. I allow myself to break off into a moment and ponder what coffin I would like. I think about a cardboard one – so people could sign it and write nice messages on it saying how strong I was and ‘cancer took me too soon’. Cheaper too. Better for the environment. I hope my real friends will write expletives on there! Potty mouths a few of them! I’d laugh my head off if they did – wherever I was! There is something quite macabre about thinking about your own death and funeral. It’s normal to have these intrusive thoughts – I have worked a lot over the years with young people who have a fear of dying and leaving others behind. Normal adolescent exploration regarding their ego and self-worth. I get that in this moment. Who would come to my funeral? Would I fill a few pews or would there be standing room outside? Would there be an outcry of grief on social media and at the college? ‘The counsellor has died of cancer…..’ Not meant to be that way is it? The counsellor is supposed to be there in the time of grief. Not because of grief. It all gets a bit strong in my head and I deliberately grab my mind and pull back it back into the present moment. I see the sign for Llanelli. We can’t be long now. Then I hear the radio. Wham. Loved Wham. George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley are singing directly to me: ‘You take me to the edge of heaven, One last time might be forever….’ WTF? Really? This song? Come on?! That’s two hearses, and one of Wham’s finest tunes ‘Edge of heaven’, in less than 20 minutes. I am f****** doomed.