London

For everyone who is running tomorrow… I wanted to republish this from 2016.

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The scan results were to be sent to London, a better picture of the situation to plan radiotherapy. Unpredictable, as cancer is, the plans have changed. The dormant tumor in his liver has awoken and we are awaiting surgery again.

Sitting in the familiar room I listened and took in the information. Later a huge wave of numbness washed over me. The next few days already seem to have been locked away in a place specially reserved for pain so they are almost unreachable. Almost. In order for them to be put there, the door had to be opened. As I peeped through the dusty shadows I saw fragments of the time he last had surgery. It’s too hard to remember, I cannot allow myself. It burns my heart and prickles my eyes and I shut it away again. I have allowed myself some time to cry, to explore that feeling without fully immersing myself in it. I know one day I will have to go there again, but right now I have plans.   Among a series of phone calls and appointments we continued to prepare for our trip to run London Marathon. I have been dreading this with excited anticipation, training late at night and looking at ‘run/walk’ plans while trying to convince myself that this is actually possible. There is point where you just have to get your legs moving and not let them stop until you’ve finished what you started.

London Marathon is everything it promises to be. The crowds of runners spurred on by cheers from strangers and glimpses of familiar faces. It’s exhilarating and petrifying. Cast off clothing litters the barriers in the pens as everyone shares stories and anxious smiles. It takes 20 minutes to get to the start, huddled behind a giant nurse and the obligatory rhino. We wave at the camera towering above us. As the miles are ticked off I dance past music being played out of windows and giant brass bands. Half way is a relief and I’m feeling strong. We find ourselves passing a giant Bagpuss who has decided he has gone off his costume. I’m counting the miles now. This is the only way to get through and I’m grateful for Ben keeping his eye on the watch for the recovery walk each mile. There’s no conversation and I feel like I have a nail in my right foot.

I inevitably cry at the finish.

Every moment of joy is tinged with sadness and every moment of sadness holds joy in a never ending cycle. As I look at Ben I cannot even begin to believe that there is a cancer growing inside him. He is the strong capable husband he works so hard to be, yet floored by chemotherapy every fortnight and now awaiting surgery. I am so glad he is mine and I am his. I often say ‘you wouldn’t know anything was wrong with him’, but of course there is, we just don’t let it dictate the way we view our life.

Running marathons hurts, but it isn’t supposed to be easy. Planning, preparation, having support, faith and sheer determination get you there. I have tried hard to find ways of talking about the marathon without using it as a cancer analogy but I can’t avoid it. As we prepare for the next part of this cancer adventure I know we can get through it. You just have to keep those legs moving and tick off the miles.