The good from the bad

I’ve had quite a few visitors over the last few days, all of them bearing gifts of groceries and goodies. I’ve come to realise that when you’re perceived as being helpless, others want to help. I was resistant at first, as I always am when it comes to charity and favours, until I realised two things: I needed their help, and by allowing it, I was doing them a favour.

I’ve got plenty of good quality food in the fridge at the moment and open invitations to ask for more as I need it. I actually intend to try cooking something myself this week – mum’s recipe for potato and leek soup.

I appreciate the goodies, but what I really cherish is the human contact. I feel like I’m in home detention here, more or less. Except to go to the hospital, I don’t get out, and I’m still a week or two away from trusting myself to take a walk to the shops. So any visit interrupts the monotony of this life and takes hours off the clock I’d otherwise have to find a way to fill. And they’re a reminder that friends and social interaction – people – are at the centre of a healthy and happy life.

Naturally, they’re all very curious about my time in hospital and express how well I’m looking without exception. That’s purely in relative terms as I still look pretty ordinary, but as they were expecting the heinous aftermath of facial surgery, pretty understandable. It’s true, other than the swelling – which will pass – you would hardly know that my face was laid open. There’s a subtle scar that runs alongside my nose before branching into an L shape. You have to look hard to see it, and with my glasses on, it’s virtually invisible.

I’m curious to see what I look like once the scarring recedes and I’m back to normal. It won’t be near as bad as I feared, but I won’t be as good as I was before either is my bet. I suspect something will appear just a little off.

In one conversation, it was speculated how this had happened to me. I explained that it was bad luck, especially given that I possessed none of the usual indicators for such a cancer. The question was larger than that, though, more existential: why me?

Of course, it’s natural to wonder that yourself. I deal with it by admitting that there’s a statistical probability of X for getting any cancer; in this case, the X landed on me. Basically, someone has to get it, and this time it was me.

But when I couple it with the hardship I’ve had to deal with previously – the near bankruptcy, homelessness, the fracture in my family, and so on, it appears unreasonable, if not unfair (as if fair came into it). This was the point made by the questioner.

I’ve been very careful not to feel sorry for myself. One of the things I despise most is the sense of victimhood some people cling to. I certainly don’t want to be a martyr. And, in the circumstances I find myself, self-pity would be ruinous.

I always remember many years ago reading about chance and probability with particular reference to playing cards. A particular phrase stood out to me that I’ve remembered ever since: the cards have no memory. In other words, it doesn’t matter what came before because it bears no relation to what comes next. Of course, life isn’t entirely a chance event, and there are triggers and consequences, but in many regards, probability plays no part.

There’s no relationship between down at heel and cancer unless you choose to believe that the stress of one leads to the other. I just happen to think it’s bad luck.

It’s human nature, however, to search for meaning – and perhaps, to ferret out a positive. The oft-repeated phrase that everything happens for a reason bears that out. I’m not a believer in that, for the reasons I’ve described above – but then, what would be the meaning – the purpose – if such a thing existed?

I can only think of one. I’m suffering now as I suffered before, but the suffering is of a much different nature. When it comes to suffering, I’m coming towards a well-rounded experience. Not much fun for me, but what do I gain from it?

The only thing I can think of is by way of a kind of wisdom and depth of understanding. Because I experience more, I feel more and, ultimately, acquire insight forbidden to me before. I hope that’s true, but feel it must be. I’m not rushing to any resolutions yet, but reckon I have a better idea than before.

All of this should benefit my writing as if it was the point of this suffering. I’m incapable of writing creatively at the moment – I don’t have the concentration or inspiration – but it will come back, and when it does, I’ll have so much more to draw upon.

That’s it, though, and given a choice, I’d have passed on the suffering and wisdom to live as I did before.

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