When I ask Lizzie how she’s feeling about everything, as I’ve mentioned before she usually says something along the lines of ‘oh, fuck off’ – which is actually strangely reassuring. Better that she’s feeling feisty, than miserable.
Other times, when she’s not swearing at me, she might be a little more philosophical. ‘I can’t just lie around feeling sorry for myself, can I? I’ve got to keep busy. Otherwise I’ll go mad.’
So she does. She keeps busy. Painting. Looking after the kids. Doing the home admin. Telling me off for not doing enough of the last two myself.
It’s actually really impressive. I feel amazed by her spirit and her proactivity. In the same way I did when we started going out together in the early 2000s.
Back then, every Saturday morning, Lizzie would go off to some far-flung part of London to do an art course… whilst I would lie around in bed, then get up to have a bowl of cereal and watch an episode or two of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I was always amazed – and impressed – Lizzie could be bothered to do anything productive. On a Saturday morning, anyway.
Of course Lizzie’s proactive spirit would end up driving me up the wall, after we had kids, when I realised that lying around on a Saturday morning watching Buffy would never happen again (until I was retired. By which time it would be creepy to still be watching a teen show, in my 70s rather than 30s. Well, creepier). Instead, I would be expected to get up at 7.30am, drive the kids to some kind of sports activity, get back, paint a wall or mow the garden, be involved in food in some way, go shopping for something useful, entertain the kids… etc. etc. In other words, be busy. Or else.
Now, I admit, I’m a lazy person. So I’ve always found this tough.
After starting chemo, however, Lizzie has battled to keep her drive. And whilst there’s no denying the treatment has slowed her down (and she now spends more time in bed)… it’s not by much. She’s still determined to be busy. And I’m impressed by this all over again, like I was years ago.
In the same way, Lizzie’s genuinely determined not to dwell on morbid details or statistics. She’s going to survive… she HAS to survive… so that’s that.
‘I can’t allow myself to think I might die,’ she says one day, ‘because I’ll just start crying. So I’ve got to keep busy. Keep living.’
Die? I think. You’re not going to die.
As the words you’re not going to die pass confidently through my head, however, I’m hit (as I have been on several occasions before) by a disturbing memory…
[Continued in next post].
P. D. Clifton 
Leave a comment