It’s my daily walk with Lizzie and Cedric the dog, over the fields.
Lizzie is talking about what might happen after her final CAT scan in a few days’ time. Specifically, what might happen if it turns out all her cancer hasn’t gone.
She tells me she’s expecting her oncologist to have a back-up plan if that’s the case (obviously). But Lizzie says she’s also been exploring her own Plan B – for what to do if the chemo hasn’t worked.
Lizzie says her oncologist, in Birmingham, is good… but he’s also quite old school. He’s only ever talked about chemo and has never flagged any of the more ‘modern’ approaches to fighting the Big C.
‘What kind of modern approaches?’ I ask.
Lizzie explains that there are various clinics – mostly in London – which use steroids or statins (whatever they are) or all manner of other modern medicines, to fight the good fight. She’s already been in touch with several. She’s also been speaking to a top nutritionist, who apparently has added Lizzie to the waiting list of a much sought-after ‘cancer guru’ who knows all about these new-fangled procedures.
Lizzie now says that some of this stuff is talked about in the various books about cancer she always seems to be reading in bed. She says she’s got Zoom calls with some more steroid/statin experts over the next couple of days… and she needs to fill out various forms in preparation for these calls, when she gets back home after the walk.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Having cancer is like a full-time job!’
‘Yes,’ replies Lizzie. ‘But… I want to live!’
I nod. There’s no arguing with that.
Lizzie’s words ‘I want to live’ echo through my head for the rest of the day.
I’m still thinking about them, when I drive into A. for the afternoon school-run. A. is a small nearby town where A. High School can be found, where Annie goes.
Annie is not a big fan of modest A. itself. She calls it ‘off-brand A.’ – a reference to the fact she believes it’s like a poor man’s (or woman’s or child’s) version of the larger local town, we live ten minutes from (the place I refer to as ‘our local town’ in this journal).
A.’s definitely a slightly strange place, with a peculiar assortment of locals scuffling around the high street.
As I continue to think about Lizzie’s words, and ruminate on the subject of mortality in general, I see a most unusual sight.
A hearse is pulling out of a side road, next to the town’s funeral parlour.
Except, it isn’t a normal hearse. It’s a black motorcycle – driven by a man in black – with a shiny black sidecar attached. In the black sidecar – which is totally enclosed and has large windows – is a full-length wooden coffin bedecked by flowers. In other words, what I’m seeing is a motorcycle hearse.
WEIRD! I think, then continue on my way to Annie’s school.
When I get home, I look up ‘motorcycle hearses’ on Google.
Apparently, there’s a company in Leicestershire which specialises in them. On the main page of the company website, there’s a picture of a cool-looking lady in leathers bestriding one of their jet-black bikes.
If you click further on the site, there’s a picture of a fleet of motorcycle hearses… each with their very own coffin in their sidecars. It’s unsettling. Given the statistics of how dangerous it is to ride a motorcycle, you can’t help but wonder if the people in the coffins were once motorcyclists themselves. Maybe they were all riders of motorcycle hearses.
I click off the website. Is this what happens to people who die around here? I wonder.
None of us must ever, ever die here, I conclude.
P. D. Clifton 
Leave a comment