Rolling on...

The following was written on 4th February, 2025. Oli had had a stomach drain the week before and was on Round One of the second treatment plan. The first treatment plan had stopped working at the beginning of January and he had a port fitted underneath his skin a couple of weeks before this post to aid administration of the drugs for the new treatment.

Quite a bit of time has passed since I last wrote. I feel the need to give you a blow by blow account of the last six months. To take you, step by step, through the fear, sadness, joy and love that I have felt in minute detail so you can get a grasp on what it's been like, but I feel there would be no point. One: It would go on for pages and pages and Two: I'm not sure words on their own would do it justice.

So instead, I'll just pick up from here and hope you get a glimpse, and only a glimpse, of what it is like to live with death as a next door neighbour. No one needs more than that. More than that is too raw, too petrifying and far too emotional.

Life, at the moment, is a rollercoaster of emotions. At times, I can be totally pragmatic about what life has thrown our way. That it has stolen our future that we planned so carefully, robbed us of carefree laughter and impulsive decisions. That it has dealt us a much more sober plan. One in which everything is heightened as our last... last Christmas, last birthday, last wedding anniversary, last meet up with old friends. Of course, these are not things that we voice out loud. To do so would admit to how close we are to the edge of the precipice. Even with terminal cancer in his bones and palliative care at his side, Oli cannot talk about death.... his death. We continue to make plans about what to do with the house, extensive building works, choosing furniture and paint schemes, like we are both going to spend years and years here.. I probably will, which, in my more angry moments makes me think that all of these things should be my decision because Oli isn't going to be there. I feel that if I am forced to live in this world alone, I should at least be able to do it with the lampshade of my choice.... and then I catch myself and ask 'What the actual fuck are you thinking about?'

The thought that my husband has terminal cancer never leaves my mind.. not even for a second. It is constantly there. Unsurprisingly, I suppose. But the way in which I think about it changes. It always comes with an overriding sadness and most of the time with a stomach pit of fear. I fear what is to come. I dread watching Oli deteriorate; to see him in pain; to see him raging against death, not at peace with his fate. I want him to be at peace at the end... to be thankful for the life he's had and to be content in the knowledge that I will be OK. In our darkest moments, when we are holding each other so tightly whilst the sobs wretch from us, he tells me he's sorry. Sorry for leaving me, sorry for not giving me the life he promised. He tells me he doesn't want to leave me and we hold onto each other more tightly and sob a little deeper. I don't want him to feel that way. He has nothing to be sorry for - in fact, I am so thankful for the life he has given me. The joy; the love; the laughter. I don't want him to leave me alone but I need him to know that I'll be OK and so it's OK for him to go. I'll forever be sad and I will bare scars from the grief until I die but I will be OK. I will find the strength to laugh again; to live some sort of life that gives me contentment. I may not find it straight away and it won't be easy but I will not dissolve into a heap of misery. I refuse. For Oli.

Photo taken on 18th Feb, 2025.. nearest to the 4th Feb that I could find.