I'm sure you can’t have missed the huge TV fundraising campaign going on across all channels at the moment for cancer charities in general and my friends, the Macmillan nurses, in particular. Now, obviously, I’m a huge supporter of all this, but it does tend to put a bit of gloomy slant on my own telly viewing.
“Living with cancer can be a real struggle” intones across the whole digital spectrum, no matter what time of day or night. Tell me about it. In fact, tell everybody about it – but not necessarily on every channel at the same time.
I mean, how much money can this campaign really be raising on Paramount Sci-Fi Gold Repeat + 2, or Sky 3 Action Bible Interactive, or Discovery National Geographic circa 1994 (the bits we didn’t show yesterday) channel, or Dave? For a moment yesterday, I thought I’d escape it on Film Four Movies (+1) where they were showing the excellent Kite Runner movie. But then, would you believe it, the dad – the very nice, noble, dignified dad, who’s Afghan for heaven’s sake and could be killed in any number of tragic and exotic ways, goes and dies of cancer anyway.
On Wednesday, my own Macmillan team came to my rescue after yet another “worst night of my life” scenario. Waking around 3am, I was experiencing what doctors tend to call “deep cancer pain”. At least, I assume it was deep cancer pain. Or, put it another way, if cancer pain goes any deeper than that it’s going to come right out the other side.
This propelled me into manic self-medication mode of a particularly furious kind, as I hurled bucketloads of morphine, anti-emetics and tranquillisers down my throat, culminating (inevitably perhaps) in the most colourful display of projectile vomiting since the Beijing Olympic fireworks. At which point, and with Mary’s soothing help, I must have passed out.
Daylight came - followed shortly by the amazingly swift and reassuring appearance of Tony and Jo from Macmillan. Decisions were made with admirable speed. I’d been really sick. So I probably hadn’t absorbed much medication. So I needed it injected. Calls were made, drugs and syringes, procured, injections given. I promise never to forget how lucky I am to have this level of specialist support available at such speed.
The Wednesday crash meant I missed the second part of my survey on spirituality (chapter 19). A shame – because my mention of it attracted the attention of David Webb, the fearless defender who played a central role in what was probably QPR’s best ever team. David (I certainly won’t call him Webb-y) heard my radio broadcast, and dropped me a line, thus forging an interesting and unexpected link between spirituality, finality and football. And it struck me that it was a bit like the 1966 World Cup final in reverse. Some people think the Grim Reaper is on the Pitch… they think it’s all over… well it isn’t just yet.
Saturday, 11 October 2008
Friday, 10 October 2008
24. Wedding anniversary
Today is our 28th wedding anniversary. Mary gently woke me with a cup of tea and a greetings card. The words are by Edward Monkton. The photo was taken in Sheffield in 1968.
In that still and settled place
There’s nobody but you
You’re where I breathe my oxygen
You’re where I see my view
And when the world feels full of noise
My Heart knows what to do
It finds that still and settled place
And Dances there with you
In that still and settled placeThere’s nobody but you
You’re where I breathe my oxygen
You’re where I see my view
And when the world feels full of noise
My Heart knows what to do
It finds that still and settled place
And Dances there with you
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
23. A financial coup
I’ve never been very interested in finance. Well, in all honesty, I’ve never needed to be. I always earned a decent salary, was never unemployed, and my tastes and expectations never exceeded my means. I always felt we had just about enough of everything – food, housing, transport etc – but rather too many cushions and soft furnishings, which was not of course my fault.
Working in offices was a help, giving me unlimited access to the great twin joys of office life – post-it notes and fine-line pens. In latter years, they even gave me free cd-roms and memory sticks. There are few pleasures to equal a newly stocked stationery cupboard.
So, I’m quite surprised to find that in my final days I’ve pulled off something of a financial coup. I’m richer than Lehman Brothers. I have more money than the Royal Bank of Scotland. Just at the point when the world’s great financial wheeler-dealers have gone into meltdown (we knew they would), I have beaten the system by gracefully liquidating all my assets to avoid probate problems. I remember somewhere back in the days of junk bonds, some hot-shot New York banker boasting that “when the world ends, the one with the most money wins.” He never guessed it would be me.
Better still, I have already passed my good fortune to my kids. In a single master stroke, born from years of not giving a toss about the FTSE Index, I recently introduced them to the single instrument of savings I fully understood - the enduring world of Premium Bonds. It is all they need to know. As a result, not a single month has gone by without them winning at least £50 from the indefatigable ERNIE, and with the promise of untold riches to come forever into the future. Brilliant. In the end, their fiscally-challenged father is shown to have true financial acumen. And without ever having to lie or cheat or steal his way to get it.
Ok – I know what you’re thinking – it’s the drugs talking. There’s more to international high finance than he can get his head around. Fill anyone with enough morphine and steroids and they think they're masters of the universe. Not so. For the first time in weeks, I seem to have the drugs under some kind of control and I haven’t had a hallucination all day. On the other hand, I have just been watching Newsnight – so maybe all bets are off.
It’s Monday night and I’ve been home from the hospice for a few days now. Getting some predictability into the drugs regime was a real help over the weekend. I am hoping for some stability. Without it, I tend to use a walking stick in case of dizziness and my voice can waver and disappear without much warning. On Sunday afternoon, I sat down with my mother and said she could ask me any questions she liked about my illness and I would answer completely truthfully. We sat together quietly, occasionally holding hands.
Working in offices was a help, giving me unlimited access to the great twin joys of office life – post-it notes and fine-line pens. In latter years, they even gave me free cd-roms and memory sticks. There are few pleasures to equal a newly stocked stationery cupboard.
So, I’m quite surprised to find that in my final days I’ve pulled off something of a financial coup. I’m richer than Lehman Brothers. I have more money than the Royal Bank of Scotland. Just at the point when the world’s great financial wheeler-dealers have gone into meltdown (we knew they would), I have beaten the system by gracefully liquidating all my assets to avoid probate problems. I remember somewhere back in the days of junk bonds, some hot-shot New York banker boasting that “when the world ends, the one with the most money wins.” He never guessed it would be me.
Better still, I have already passed my good fortune to my kids. In a single master stroke, born from years of not giving a toss about the FTSE Index, I recently introduced them to the single instrument of savings I fully understood - the enduring world of Premium Bonds. It is all they need to know. As a result, not a single month has gone by without them winning at least £50 from the indefatigable ERNIE, and with the promise of untold riches to come forever into the future. Brilliant. In the end, their fiscally-challenged father is shown to have true financial acumen. And without ever having to lie or cheat or steal his way to get it.
Ok – I know what you’re thinking – it’s the drugs talking. There’s more to international high finance than he can get his head around. Fill anyone with enough morphine and steroids and they think they're masters of the universe. Not so. For the first time in weeks, I seem to have the drugs under some kind of control and I haven’t had a hallucination all day. On the other hand, I have just been watching Newsnight – so maybe all bets are off.
It’s Monday night and I’ve been home from the hospice for a few days now. Getting some predictability into the drugs regime was a real help over the weekend. I am hoping for some stability. Without it, I tend to use a walking stick in case of dizziness and my voice can waver and disappear without much warning. On Sunday afternoon, I sat down with my mother and said she could ask me any questions she liked about my illness and I would answer completely truthfully. We sat together quietly, occasionally holding hands.
Thursday, 2 October 2008
22. Steroid Rush
Hang on. I recognise this. It’s a steroid rush. I’ve had it before. Like jump starting a car. 8mg of dexamethasone is washing through my bloodstream and I’m looking up. It’s all quite clear right now.
There was the radio interview - and for a moment, it was just like being back at work. The broadcast media – my home territory – breathing extra life at the end of life.
Phones ringing. Mobile humming. Emails clicking up in bold in all three inboxes; old names, new names, weird names, shopping vouchers, subscription pleas, offers of viagra (yeah, right). Click, Click. Click.
It all goes a bit Alice in Wonderland. One pill makes you larger. One pill makes you small.
We were in a taxi going from the BBC to the hospice. But then my sister rang and we detoured to her house and – by amazing serendipity – spent Jewish New Year with her and Victor for the first time in years. I think we had smoked salmon on lightly toasted cholla. Tasted good.
I nodded off on their sofa for a moment. There was a dream sequence. Lynn FW came by and I showed her the Facebook site “It’s a Potential Death Trap!” Yes, it really exists. In those days, we saved a mullion wee babies from exploding toasters. We chased mildly dangerous people, armed only with a four-man film crew.
Lyndsay came in from the corridor complaining that she hadn’t been mentioned in the blog. She was left in the corridor too long – I admit that now. We worked on bids and tenders together, but her first victory was without me.
Ann and Viv were somehow trying to make arrangements and there were a whole load of other people with diary problems almost as bad as Peter’s. No, that can’t be right.
Mary’s sister Ann was here – and she bought me some Slippery Elm Food (unmalted). And chocolates. And got rid of the credit crunch (probably not). I’m glad she came.
Martha bought two toys for Rosey Rose the Crazee Cartoon Cat, who then launched a relentless assault on Katy’s old pet monkey. The monkey hasn’t got a hope.
And somewhere, behind and beyond all this haze, Mary has been dealing with builders and decorators and shopping and domesticity and hospice visits and the whole relentless up and down of it all – and she is truly truly amazing. No need for the spellcheck. That’s truly twice, as it should be.
And the most important thing to realise, the most important thing of all, is that I know she will get through it.
And Dan and Katy will get through it too.
And it may just be a steroid rush – but I can see clearly right this minute – and I know they have the strength.
There was the radio interview - and for a moment, it was just like being back at work. The broadcast media – my home territory – breathing extra life at the end of life.
Phones ringing. Mobile humming. Emails clicking up in bold in all three inboxes; old names, new names, weird names, shopping vouchers, subscription pleas, offers of viagra (yeah, right). Click, Click. Click.
It all goes a bit Alice in Wonderland. One pill makes you larger. One pill makes you small.
We were in a taxi going from the BBC to the hospice. But then my sister rang and we detoured to her house and – by amazing serendipity – spent Jewish New Year with her and Victor for the first time in years. I think we had smoked salmon on lightly toasted cholla. Tasted good.
I nodded off on their sofa for a moment. There was a dream sequence. Lynn FW came by and I showed her the Facebook site “It’s a Potential Death Trap!” Yes, it really exists. In those days, we saved a mullion wee babies from exploding toasters. We chased mildly dangerous people, armed only with a four-man film crew.
Lyndsay came in from the corridor complaining that she hadn’t been mentioned in the blog. She was left in the corridor too long – I admit that now. We worked on bids and tenders together, but her first victory was without me.
Ann and Viv were somehow trying to make arrangements and there were a whole load of other people with diary problems almost as bad as Peter’s. No, that can’t be right.
Mary’s sister Ann was here – and she bought me some Slippery Elm Food (unmalted). And chocolates. And got rid of the credit crunch (probably not). I’m glad she came.
Martha bought two toys for Rosey Rose the Crazee Cartoon Cat, who then launched a relentless assault on Katy’s old pet monkey. The monkey hasn’t got a hope.
And somewhere, behind and beyond all this haze, Mary has been dealing with builders and decorators and shopping and domesticity and hospice visits and the whole relentless up and down of it all – and she is truly truly amazing. No need for the spellcheck. That’s truly twice, as it should be.
And the most important thing to realise, the most important thing of all, is that I know she will get through it.
And Dan and Katy will get through it too.
And it may just be a steroid rush – but I can see clearly right this minute – and I know they have the strength.
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
21. Radio Times
Not quite to plan. Hoping to avoid a bog-standard cancer victim interview on Radio 2, I fear I ended up producing exactly that. What about the gags, Steve? The cute witticisms? The slightly off-colour asides? Can we get a little mustard on that ham?
Ok, don’t go crazy, I'm not beating myself up about this, but somehow I felt I couldn’t cut through the familiarity of a radio interview. Too comfortable. Not enough pressure. Everyone was so nice. My edge blunted by cosiness and a bloodstream full of morphine. I didn’t really hit the spot.
Did I even deliver a clear set of headlines?
I’m dying of cancer, but I’m still the same bloke. I choose to deal with this head on. It wouldn't suit everybody.
It’s not about me. It’s about Mary and Dan and Katy and all the things they have to deal with in all their relationships every minute of everyday. How they learn and grow and gather strength. Tough for me? I don’t think so. Look around and see who else is involved.
And what about the wider and widening circles of friends and family and how their lives are moved? Don’t just look in the obvious places. Emotional release comes easy for some people – but the more restrained have feelings too. I can see that now. The most surprising people are affected.
OK, it’s getting late, the pain is coming back, and the broadcast has attracted hundreds of emails I’d like to read. So I’m rushing to précis here. I want to be clear – at the risk of being trite.
It’s the little things that count. I’m staying close to home.
Normality can become profundity.
People are much kinder than you ever imagined.
I’m still not angry. What was done cannot be undone. What was missed can stay uncovered.
As the pain worsens, one day at a time can become one hour at a time or even one moment. But let me tell you, even that moment can be enjoyed, if you can get your head up to experience it.
I’ve learned a lot in these past few weeks – and still I’m not afraid.
OK – enough of the potted philosophy. It was a good day. I enjoyed my few minutes on the radio – complete with the statutory BBC taxi that didn’t know where it was going – and I’ve got a load of new stuff to read. But, pain permitting, I want to get home now. Apart from everything else, I’m missing out on the continuing adventures of Rosey Rose The Crazee Cartoon Cat. And that's not to be missed.
Ok, don’t go crazy, I'm not beating myself up about this, but somehow I felt I couldn’t cut through the familiarity of a radio interview. Too comfortable. Not enough pressure. Everyone was so nice. My edge blunted by cosiness and a bloodstream full of morphine. I didn’t really hit the spot.
Did I even deliver a clear set of headlines?
I’m dying of cancer, but I’m still the same bloke. I choose to deal with this head on. It wouldn't suit everybody.
It’s not about me. It’s about Mary and Dan and Katy and all the things they have to deal with in all their relationships every minute of everyday. How they learn and grow and gather strength. Tough for me? I don’t think so. Look around and see who else is involved.
And what about the wider and widening circles of friends and family and how their lives are moved? Don’t just look in the obvious places. Emotional release comes easy for some people – but the more restrained have feelings too. I can see that now. The most surprising people are affected.
OK, it’s getting late, the pain is coming back, and the broadcast has attracted hundreds of emails I’d like to read. So I’m rushing to précis here. I want to be clear – at the risk of being trite.
It’s the little things that count. I’m staying close to home.
Normality can become profundity.
People are much kinder than you ever imagined.
I’m still not angry. What was done cannot be undone. What was missed can stay uncovered.
As the pain worsens, one day at a time can become one hour at a time or even one moment. But let me tell you, even that moment can be enjoyed, if you can get your head up to experience it.
I’ve learned a lot in these past few weeks – and still I’m not afraid.
OK – enough of the potted philosophy. It was a good day. I enjoyed my few minutes on the radio – complete with the statutory BBC taxi that didn’t know where it was going – and I’ve got a load of new stuff to read. But, pain permitting, I want to get home now. Apart from everything else, I’m missing out on the continuing adventures of Rosey Rose The Crazee Cartoon Cat. And that's not to be missed.
Thursday, 25 September 2008
20. The wrong time of day
It all depends on what time of day you call. This morning wouldn’t have been good. In fact, this morning I thought it was all over. Clammy and exhausted, I might even have said so.
With the Fentanyl pain patch boosted from 12 mcg to 100, and the morphine top-up raised from 10 to 25 - plus the inclusion of a bunch of steroids, anti-emetics and the odd tranquilliser - I hoped I'd be feeling the benefit. But it was getting away from me. I thought a new strategy was necessary and Mary called a summit for tomorrow.
But then – in the space of an hour - it all changed. And I had to hit the phones, trying desperately to remember who I’d spoken to in the last couple of days, and saying, no hang on, it’s not that bad, it’s not over yet. Rumours of my death etc… Must go now, I have to interrupt a few grieving processes.
What changed everything was when Doctor Jane arrived to calm me down. We’re not finished yet, she said. There are more weapons in the armoury. More steroids for a start – so they got doubled straight away. Some steroids can be useful in reducing liver inflammation and they also can help to revive your appetite. Within a couple of hours I was microwaving some miso soup Vicky bought me from the local deli. (It’s what ordinary shops sell round here. When they run out of mung beans).
And more to the point – and yet almost as an afterthought – my blood tests had come back from the lab and they were OK. Ah Doctor Jane what a pleasure to see you. Bringing real evidence that if indeed my days are numbered, then they are at least in more than single figures. I hereby grant you a full consultancy, with lifetime tenure.
And so the day is completely rewritten. Heaven knows, this is exhausting. And I’m the least of it. Imagine what it’s like for Mary and Dan and Katy.
It’s Thursday evening now and the morphine-laced fog of the past couple of days appears to be clearing. Now I’ve calmed down a bit, I’m recalling a couple of possible hallucinations. I had a call from the producer of the Jeremy Vine programme on Radio 2, which has apparently taken an interest in this blog. A strange way to boost programme ratings, but OK with me. And I somehow believe QPR won 1-0 at Aston Villa, and not even in HD. Can they possibly be winning in standard definition as well?
Oh, and Paul G wrote after my last blog and said he’s glad he’s not God because he would be fed up with me. But if he was God, he would forgive me.
With the Fentanyl pain patch boosted from 12 mcg to 100, and the morphine top-up raised from 10 to 25 - plus the inclusion of a bunch of steroids, anti-emetics and the odd tranquilliser - I hoped I'd be feeling the benefit. But it was getting away from me. I thought a new strategy was necessary and Mary called a summit for tomorrow.
But then – in the space of an hour - it all changed. And I had to hit the phones, trying desperately to remember who I’d spoken to in the last couple of days, and saying, no hang on, it’s not that bad, it’s not over yet. Rumours of my death etc… Must go now, I have to interrupt a few grieving processes.
What changed everything was when Doctor Jane arrived to calm me down. We’re not finished yet, she said. There are more weapons in the armoury. More steroids for a start – so they got doubled straight away. Some steroids can be useful in reducing liver inflammation and they also can help to revive your appetite. Within a couple of hours I was microwaving some miso soup Vicky bought me from the local deli. (It’s what ordinary shops sell round here. When they run out of mung beans).
And more to the point – and yet almost as an afterthought – my blood tests had come back from the lab and they were OK. Ah Doctor Jane what a pleasure to see you. Bringing real evidence that if indeed my days are numbered, then they are at least in more than single figures. I hereby grant you a full consultancy, with lifetime tenure.
And so the day is completely rewritten. Heaven knows, this is exhausting. And I’m the least of it. Imagine what it’s like for Mary and Dan and Katy.
It’s Thursday evening now and the morphine-laced fog of the past couple of days appears to be clearing. Now I’ve calmed down a bit, I’m recalling a couple of possible hallucinations. I had a call from the producer of the Jeremy Vine programme on Radio 2, which has apparently taken an interest in this blog. A strange way to boost programme ratings, but OK with me. And I somehow believe QPR won 1-0 at Aston Villa, and not even in HD. Can they possibly be winning in standard definition as well?
Oh, and Paul G wrote after my last blog and said he’s glad he’s not God because he would be fed up with me. But if he was God, he would forgive me.
Sunday, 21 September 2008
19. Spirituality and technology
I’ve always been keen on new technology. I have frequently told my less advanced friends (well, just Bob D actually) that this blog is much better in broadband. It’s faster, more colourful and better written.
And a few days ago I saw QPR on High Definition TV. Rather than go to Loftus Road, I went round to Dan’s flat to watch them on his HD plasma. They won 4-1 and that never happens in real life. (Also, there was no queue for the toilet, and no idiot bellowing obscenities in my left ear).
In one of my previous jobs I played a minor role in introducing new technology to the BBC. With hindsight, both my life - and the lives of my colleagues - would have been considerably improved if my role had been even more minor. Nevertheless, I did what I did, and current occupants of the 24-hour news hamster wheel will have to get their fun where they can. I was planning to discuss this with Mark and Richard S when we had lunch on Wednesday – but we found more important things to say. Credit to both of them, they never once answered their Blackberries, despite their exalted status in the Corporation.
The slowness of technology is one of the drawbacks to life at the hospice, although (I think) I am managing to get most of my emails – which I greatly enjoy. My favourite this week was from a man called Stuart who’d come across my blog while pursuing a Google alert he’d put out on the Chelsea Building Society (mentioned briefly in chapter 5). It must be the first time the Chelsea has been useful for anything.
I have not, however, received a reply – electronic or otherwise – from Prof Cunningham (chapter 2). Well, he’s a busy bloke, but an acknowledgement from his secretary might have been nice.
I came home for the weekend carrying a Tesco’s carrier bag full of drugs. In case you’re passing – and you’re short of the odd painkiller – I’ve got a dozen different kinds, from paracetemol through to morphine, with steroids in between. Plus of course the drugs you take to counteract the side effects of the other drugs. Valda and John came to lunch on Friday – but they stuck to the lamb. Mary cooks it Nigella-style and the only side effect is a craving for more. Rosey the Cat was crazy for it. She turned into an instant cartoon character on first taste, throwing her head around and swivelling her eyes with astonishment, as in, wow, what the hell was that?
It’s back to the hospice on Monday for more drugs trials. Although it looks like a hospital, it doesn’t feel like it at all. There are none of those irritating hospital routines, where people are in and out of your room all the time, asking you questions you’ve already been asked by someone else. Instead, you get a steady supply of Complan, an occasional volunteer to get your shopping, and even – from time to time – a drinks trolley, yes a drinks trolley with real alcohol, like they used to have at the BBC. Well, if you’ve got to go, you might as well go happy.
But most of all, it has the reassurance of a nice kind Irish nurse when you spring up in the middle of the night, brain addled by pain and morphine, convinced you’re losing the plot and you need a great big injection of sedative. You’ll be needing a cup of hot sweet tea, she says, and brings it.
I’m not sure how long I’m staying in the hospice, but in the meantime, I’m one of 392 people taking part in a “study to explore the associations between beliefs and psychological status in patients with life threatening illnesses.” In other words, will I find God before I die? Especially if they give me really strong drugs? I only hope I live long enough to find out. (As I’d really like to know).
In all honesty, I’m not sure that the evidence of me and the other 391 (for statistical purposes) will be of much help, as the survey seems to confuse spirituality with religious belief. But as it sets out to tackle questions that have baffled the world’s greatest thinkers since time began, and as I may not get to complete the final questionnaire, I’d like to give my answers now:
1. No God or gods
2. No religion, thanks very much
3. Mankind is essentially good
4. I’ve had my fair share
5. Imagine all the people… living life in peace…..
If any of this changes in the next few weeks, blame the drugs.
And a few days ago I saw QPR on High Definition TV. Rather than go to Loftus Road, I went round to Dan’s flat to watch them on his HD plasma. They won 4-1 and that never happens in real life. (Also, there was no queue for the toilet, and no idiot bellowing obscenities in my left ear).
In one of my previous jobs I played a minor role in introducing new technology to the BBC. With hindsight, both my life - and the lives of my colleagues - would have been considerably improved if my role had been even more minor. Nevertheless, I did what I did, and current occupants of the 24-hour news hamster wheel will have to get their fun where they can. I was planning to discuss this with Mark and Richard S when we had lunch on Wednesday – but we found more important things to say. Credit to both of them, they never once answered their Blackberries, despite their exalted status in the Corporation.
The slowness of technology is one of the drawbacks to life at the hospice, although (I think) I am managing to get most of my emails – which I greatly enjoy. My favourite this week was from a man called Stuart who’d come across my blog while pursuing a Google alert he’d put out on the Chelsea Building Society (mentioned briefly in chapter 5). It must be the first time the Chelsea has been useful for anything.
I have not, however, received a reply – electronic or otherwise – from Prof Cunningham (chapter 2). Well, he’s a busy bloke, but an acknowledgement from his secretary might have been nice.
I came home for the weekend carrying a Tesco’s carrier bag full of drugs. In case you’re passing – and you’re short of the odd painkiller – I’ve got a dozen different kinds, from paracetemol through to morphine, with steroids in between. Plus of course the drugs you take to counteract the side effects of the other drugs. Valda and John came to lunch on Friday – but they stuck to the lamb. Mary cooks it Nigella-style and the only side effect is a craving for more. Rosey the Cat was crazy for it. She turned into an instant cartoon character on first taste, throwing her head around and swivelling her eyes with astonishment, as in, wow, what the hell was that?
It’s back to the hospice on Monday for more drugs trials. Although it looks like a hospital, it doesn’t feel like it at all. There are none of those irritating hospital routines, where people are in and out of your room all the time, asking you questions you’ve already been asked by someone else. Instead, you get a steady supply of Complan, an occasional volunteer to get your shopping, and even – from time to time – a drinks trolley, yes a drinks trolley with real alcohol, like they used to have at the BBC. Well, if you’ve got to go, you might as well go happy.
But most of all, it has the reassurance of a nice kind Irish nurse when you spring up in the middle of the night, brain addled by pain and morphine, convinced you’re losing the plot and you need a great big injection of sedative. You’ll be needing a cup of hot sweet tea, she says, and brings it.
I’m not sure how long I’m staying in the hospice, but in the meantime, I’m one of 392 people taking part in a “study to explore the associations between beliefs and psychological status in patients with life threatening illnesses.” In other words, will I find God before I die? Especially if they give me really strong drugs? I only hope I live long enough to find out. (As I’d really like to know).
In all honesty, I’m not sure that the evidence of me and the other 391 (for statistical purposes) will be of much help, as the survey seems to confuse spirituality with religious belief. But as it sets out to tackle questions that have baffled the world’s greatest thinkers since time began, and as I may not get to complete the final questionnaire, I’d like to give my answers now:
1. No God or gods
2. No religion, thanks very much
3. Mankind is essentially good
4. I’ve had my fair share
5. Imagine all the people… living life in peace…..
If any of this changes in the next few weeks, blame the drugs.
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