My 16 hymns

 Here is my answer to the quiz I set myself, to choose sixteen hymns to be the initial core repertoire for a small but growing catholic mass community with more musical enthusiasm than established talent.

 

You might want to read or re-read my previous blog before continuing with this one. I found it fun as a quiz, and plainly having a solution prepared in advance detracts from its potential value.

 

My sixteen comprise four opening songs full of joyful energy, four reflective offertory songs, four songs to evoke the eucharist itself, and four of triumphal celebration. These stipulation are not rules. There are many denominations and demographic differences that can be taken account of, and many available books. Most of mine came from Journey Songs, and a few from Laudate. I hope I have not committed any sins of copyright.

 

Here is the list:

 

Opening

Lift High the Cross

Joyful Joyful we adore you

Sing to the Mountains

Glory and praise to our Lord

 

Offertory

O God beyond all praising

Be thou my vision

The King of love my shepherd is

Dear Lord and Father of mankind

 

Communion

Behold the lamb of God

One Bread, one body

Here I am, Lord

Be not afraid

 

Recessional

The Church’s one foundation

Praise my soul the King of Heaven

Guide me O thou great Redeemer

How Great thou Art

16 Hymns

 We are now settling into the community of our second church in the Algarve. When we first moved here, we struck gold on our very first Sunday, having tried and failed to find a suitable church for several years. Luz had a beautiful church in a wonderful setting, a lovely English Anglican priest, a group of people who were impressively welcoming, and even a very passable choir. This was one of happiest discoveries of what I came to name Genesis week, our first frenetic week here.

 

Luz only had two challenges, and we could have (and might still) return and accept them. The first challenge was location, nearly an hour’s drive from our home. With a midweek rehearsal, we could spend up to four hours per week on the road there and back. The second challenge was the Anglican liturgy, a shame in what is after all a predominantly Catholic country.

 

 So I, and especially my wife, were very happy around easter time when we heard of a Catholic church, twety minutes drive from home, offering a community a weekly mass in English. Kudos to the local clergy, who try hard to embrace an unfamiliar second language to support a community. We have been worshipping there ever since, quirts and all.

 

This new church (for us) is also in a lovely setting and has a beautiful historic building. In common with most such churches, there had been previous attempts at English-speaking masses, but these were stymied and usually wiped out by the pandemic. It is only in the last eighteen months or so that some churches have been able to start rebuilding. There are many obstacles. The clergy is often less than fully engaged. The community grows and dwindles through the seasons and growing a stable reliable core is tough. Of course we share access with an established local community, whose time-keeping is not ideal. There are shortages in everything, most notably song-books in English.

 

One big bonus for us was that the new church English-speaking community had an ambition to develop a music program. A singing-teacher with a good voice and intelligence was tackling music on her own when she was available. Many masses were spoken or largely-spoken.

 

We arrived into this situation at an excellent time, for them and for us. I could add some sound to give more of a choir feel, and my wife could join in too and help with other volunteer needs too. Without feeling in the least bit guilty, we were able to help to shape the community into one that can grow and support the priests while offering a meaningful mass for the congregation. We are very far from a finished article, but our efforts are clearly welcomed.

 

In the absence of sufficient books and with a clear goal to involve the congregation where possible, we have had to take quite a pragmatic view of the music to sing. We have to build from a low base, so it would make little sense to choose difficult songs that few knew and fewer could master quickly. It was suggested that we initially limit ourselves to just 6-8 hymns altogether. I could understand what this idea was trying to achieve, but found it hard to support it. The same songs would come up week after week, and everyone would surely get bored sooner or later. Yet we needed to avoid in erring in the opposite direction, because that would effectively exclude the congregation from a lot of the music.

 

After a while I came up with a possible compromise. We were being encouraged to sing four hymns each week. They would be at entrance, offertory, communion and recession (the end of the mass). We should limit the verses we chose to sing to keep things short – after alla Portuguese mass would follow ours each week and people started to drift in if we stretched our time. But I hoped we could make it work, with enough repetition to support gradual familiarisation but no so much as to bore everyone (including ourselves).

 

So I set myself a little quiz. We all seem to live via little quizzes these days. Myself, before my morning coffee I’ve usually hacked my my through worldle, nerdle, wordle, byrdle and connections (usually failing at the last and blaming the American dominance. My quiz was to name sixteen hymns to become our repertoire for the next few months. My sixteen would just be a draft, others could make proposals and we could swap some hymns in and out as we wished.

 

I had a few goals for the exercise, beyond the obvious ones of creating congregational engagement, building familiarity with a popular and manageable set of hymns over time. I tried to minimise the effect, but inevitably some of my own biases slipped in. 

 

The overall idea was to choose sixteen hymns divided into four groups of four. The first group would be opening songs, mainly chosen as an invitation to worship together with joy. 
My thought for the second, offertory, was to think of the songs as prayers. Thay part of the mass is a chance to reflect, maybe offer some penance as well as thanks.

 

The third hymn is sung as the priest offers communion. Ideally it should usually evoke thoughts, some reflective, of the eucharistic sacrament itself. The recessionary hymn, sung when mass is actually over, I envisaged as a triumphal celebration.

 

I had been intending to close out this blog with a list of my sixteen hymns. But then I thought this might take away the quiz element of the challenge so chose a different path. I will leave the challenge open and not include the list, but I will add a second blog comprising little more than the list. Perhaps some can be inspired.

 

This opportunity came to me by chance and I’m very grateful for it. I enjoyed the challenge and fine-tuning my own solution, and have also learned from the feedback of others.

 

So, if your morning routine is feeling a little tired (or too American) I offer you what for me was an excellent quiz, and indeed one which seems to be serving a good purpose to a deserving community as it grows. Go on, have a go! And then, recognising how your list, my list and everyone else’s list wilh be riddled with bas, see what you make of my sixteen hymns

Sixty Five

Sixty Five

 

This weekend will mark my 65^th birthday. For some reasons I only partially understand, this birthday seems to carry some extra significance.

 

One reason for the significance must be that for most of my life, 65 was the state retirement age for men and 60 for women. Some time along the way some politicians woke up and realised that people were living longer, enjoying longer retirements and costing the state money they could not really afford. This happened in parallel with policies aimed at equalising more things between men and women.

 

I am told that the implementation has been so slow – and politically difficult too – that I can start collecting a UK state pension quite soon, within a few months, although my health is always vulnerable and I also hope to be a taxpayer in Portugal by then. Whatever the outcome, the number 65, and my upcoming birthday, will retain some special relevance for me.

 

65 as an age was never especially relevant for me, apart from the pension question. I joined Shell straight from college, and they were so rich in those days that our normal retirement age was set at sixty, even though the physical stress of the work of most of us was rather small. Then I chose to lop ten more years off my working life, leaving Shell at fifty. With some help from freelance work, I managed to hold off taking my Shell pension until I was 57. People thought this was a risk, but I calculated that I would have to live until 90 before those choices would cost me money. Of course, as these stand now, it all looks rather wise. In any case, I was lucky to have had these opportunities. Many people nowadays do have such chances, but most choose instead to slave on, often well past 65.

 

When I recall the long era of the pension at 65 (or 60 for women), I often think of my father. I don’t think he was given any choice but to retire at 65, and his body was certainly tired at that point, even if the main contributory factor behind that was not mining coal but puffing fags. There was nothing unusual about that, and the outcome was probably quite a common one too. He retired in January, had a major heart attack in March, then took on a job as a cabbie, which he loved and served him to sail past his 65^th birthday in June. But an even bigger heart attack followed in the next March which did for him, so he never made it to 66.

A plot of male death ages during that era would probably indicate 65 as its mode. Retirement offers liberation, but for many the additional stress of rebuilding a marriage and of finding enjoyable things to do. Heavy smoking often catches up with us pretty quickly too.

 

What about myself? Well, barring a rapid catastrophe today or tomorrow, I have at least made it to the milestone age of 65. On my 63^rd birthday I did not rate my chances of reaching 64, and 65 seemed a long way away when I turned 64. Looking back, I didn’t fully realise it but I believe cancer was already active by my 62^ndbirthday. I did not feel well that summer and the symptoms were surely there if I had been looking harder. Thank goodness I actually did something about my eyesight symptom, and rather more quickly than most.

 

Now I suppose I have to think of the chances of making 66. I don’t see any reason to change my internal model for that, some sort of modified Poisson distribution. At 62 and a half, once diagnosis was established and prognosis possible, I alighted on a guessed life expectancy of 12-18 months. Furthermore, as long as I felt much the same and displayed similar symptoms and response, that life expectancy would stay about the same.

 

There have been a few bumps along the way when 12-18 months seemed rather optimistic, but luckily these have all passed so far and my overall condition remains much as it was. A 66^th birthday still seems a long way away, and we continue to use a three month calendar for planning. Anything further away than that seems too far to anticipate.

 

I should also note that there some immediate benefits from turning 65. It varies by country, and I will have to do some research for Portugal, but I think I can now expect free busses, discounted cinema tickets and a wealth of other minor benefits. I have quietly been enjoying some of these for years already, without much attempt at cheating. The first time somebody offered me their seat on a Dutch tram I was still in my mid-forties – but then I always looked old for my age.

 

Are there lessons to glean from such rambling? Probably not many, and the most significant might be to remember my old age entitlements before throwing cash at people. At the more significant end, there is the luxury question that many can now ask themselves, about whether and when to retire, recognising that retirement can look very different for different people.

 

Pn balance, following the old joke about people approaching St Peter with the wish that they had worked harder (i.e. nobody). My guess is that more people would be wise to take retirement rather earlier, but I understand how personal such a decision is. For me, on this subject as well as so many others, I have no regrets at all.

 

Now, after this weekend, you can officially call me old.             

Dreams can come true

 Our move to Portugal has often been described as fulfilment of a long-held dream. In some respects that is a fair description, but we learned quickly that the move would be much more complex and there was no certainty that it would end well. Luckily, it has turned out quite well so far, but of course a seizure or other setback is always potentially around the next corner, so all dreams have to be considered somewhat provisional.

 

Dream-like thoughts go right back to when I bought the villa in Portugal with my ex-wife nearly twenty years ago. Certain repeating experiences felt like fulfilled dreams from the start, which helps explain how Portugal has always had an over-exalted place in my heart. I have always associated the arrivals area in Faro airport with a particular smell, and that odour still puts me in a good mood, without even needing to enter any airport building to experience. The villa itself evokes positive feelings, especially after the recent upgrades. There has always been a tradition of standing on the roof terrace with a glass of something bubbly to observe the lovely view, especially around sunset. Then, over time, our stable of favourite restaurants has steadily grown, each one somehow with its own place in my heart and dreams.

 

Of course reality always challenges the naivety of our dreams. We can think of our lives as living out our dreams, and that is probably a healthy attitude to take, but real life causes us to adjust again and again. Stuck in my dreams, I constantly underestimated the degree of difficult adjustment imposed on my wife daily, an adjustment that can never be fully completed.

 

Then again, our time here in Portugal so far has turned out very well. There have been ambushes to evade everywhere, and every likelihood of major setbacks, with health or otherwise.

 

Thins have gone so well that at times it really does seem like we are living out our dreams. Only considering the month of June, examples are manifold.

 

We started the month with one more singing holiday, this one with the familiar surrounding of the Italian Adriatic coast. Every time I do a singing course nowadays I have some fear, with the travel to add to the everyday health risks. Although it was tough week musically, it turned out very well overall, with my wife able to hop on a train for a couple of days in Florence as a great bonus.

 

The week after travelling also worked out very well. The local choir that had performed the Mozart Requiem in April offered up an encore show. It was a bit of a strange project, and at one point I feared that our a capella Ave Verum might be among the most embarrassing of my life, but, as tends to happen, improvements in late rehearsals and performance helped a lot. I remember Ave Verum Mozart performed in Church as maybe my first “You can take me now, Lord” moment soon after diagnosis. Each time I have a feeling like that it feels almost dreamlike. The new church community that we are testing out offers potential promise of many such moments.

 

The week of the concert offered up another huge bonus, coinciding with a visit of our daughter from the Netherlands together with her boyfriend, introducing him to us for the first time. We hope there will be many subsequent opportunities to meet him, as the visit went very well indeed. What more joyful dream-like experience can there be for a (step-Dad) than a meeting like that?

 

As the month continued, a legion of visitors, mainly cousins of my wife, spent some days with us. We had twelve sleeping at the villa and four more at a neighbour’s place. All six of the kids turned out to be great company, and the whole week seemed to be filled with recurring dreams coming true. How splendid it was to observe six kids frolicking in our pool? What about the adults sitting on the terrace chatting and reminiscing late into the night? Visits with our large party to beaches and familiar restaurants? Maybe best of all, we were able to revive a treasured tradition, that of sharing a toast of something bubbly while enjoying the sunset from our rooftop.

 

After the visitors all departed, we have been able to resume more of our habitual routine. As the weather has become warmer, we try to take our morning walks by the seaside earlier in the morning, before the heat becomes too oppressive. These walks, often with a coffee at the end, are one more dream reignited. I am so lucky to be able to continue this tradition, so far at least.

 

So June has been a bit of a dream month for us, much as the previous two Junes turned out. We can also remind ourselves that it does not require a large cast and complicated props to experience a dream coming true. What can beat a good morning cuddle? Not a perfect morning coffee, but it can come close, as can twenty minutes sitting outside in the warm morning sun.

 

June has turned out to be the true zenith of each of the past four years. Each time, things went somewhat downhill later in the summer and into the autumn, starting in 2022 with its strange summer vision symptoms culminating in the cancer diagnosis. Perhaps this summer and autumn will turn out similarly, or maybe we can avoid some of those seasonal setbacks this year.

 

One key, as always, is to try to lead a full life with a positive attitude. Recurring dreams, with their associated joy and tears, have been very therapeutic so far.     

Cancer in other people

  

My remarkable run of good health has continued And I feel almost as well now as I did before cancer struck. It becomes even easier to focus on feeling gratitude, while remaining aware that setbacks will surely arise eventually.

 

I lived sixty years with barely any practical understanding of cancer, because almost nobody I associated with fell victim to it. I vaguely recall one rather distant friend dying of a cancer in his forties, but I struggle to recall any other examples.

 

There is good news and bad news from a life untouched by cancer. It must be good news to avoid a common source of fear and anxiety, but the other side of the coin is that many of us are not ready to face up to cancer (in ourselves, loved ones or acquaintances) and are likely to be thrown off balance when the time comes.

 

My run of good fortune of having low exposure to cancer in others has come to an abrupt end in 2025, Scarcely a month has passed without unwelcome news of somebody we know, in some cases quite closely. It is probably primarily to do with age. Many cancers do most of their damage to people who are already sixty or over, including me. Nowadays we do have to consider sixty or even seventy a young age to die, but we should remember that some are afflicted much earlier. The toughest moments in my entire journey have occurred in the radiation therapist’s waiting room, upon realising that I was sharing the space with a sick child. Those poor children, and their parents and siblings, deprived of so much.

 

The run of bad health observed in others in 2025 has led to some new thoughts. Cancer comes in many forms and can strike at any time and any age in many different ways. It invariably triggers an emotional tsunami, for the victim, their loved ones and potential carers and for everyone else who is touched in any way. I suppose we have learned many things from our experience so far, and perhaps what we have learned might be useful to others.

 

Perhaps the most significant lesson and certainly not a thing I considered before diagnosis, is to understand that this is not just about you. If you are victim with good prospects or poor prospects, a life partner, sibling or offspring, or any friend or relative, cancer strikes in the gut where we are all vulnerable. We have to be as ready as we can be, and try to form part of a team that supports each other.

 

The life partner can be the most neglected. This is the most important relationship and one that can be a salvation or a curse. Whatever the diagnosis, both partners are victims whose lives are changing forever, but on different trajectories. Good medical professionals recognise that both partners should be treated as patients who need care, albeit different care.

 

Next, we can all take comfort if we realise thtat,that for most of us, cancer is much less physically painful than we think it will be. Our mental image from film and TV is probably of somebody bedridden and often in pain. There is some pain, but usually that is quite fleeting and easily borne. It is the emotional anguish that is the tougher challenge, and worthy of lots of discussion, even when it brings on tears.

 

Another observation is the value of trusting a medical team. That is the best way to avoid anger and other emotions that boomerang to your own detriment. Sure, doctors make mistakes and there is a lot of guessing involved in most cancer treatment, but most patients will only suffer if they do not trust their team. We have been especially fortunate, and my wife exceptionally smart, in this regard.

 

Part of trusting a medical team is avoiding putting them under unwarranted pressure. In most cases, doctors will try to avoid offering over-detailed and overly-time-specific prognoses. That will usually turn out to everyone’s benefit.

 

Anyone with a cancer diagnosis and a partner or team of supporters will be well served by hammering out a communications strategy. Increasingly, this is central to regular business situations as well as medical ones, but it certainly helps in the medical field. We chose to be open, a strategy we have maintained throughout and which I believe has served us well. We try to recognise that most people have issues with openness. Most are able to cope well with our openness and even come to appreciate it, but a lot of people, especially younger people, find it hard to talk about cancer in somebody they know well. We have generally been able to respect this reticence and hold back from sharing when the outcome might discomfort people with different communications preferences.

 

There have been many lessons from our own cancer experience. The cancer of others has reinforced some of these lessons and created opportunities to learn more. That can help me, it can help my partner and the rest of my close team, and perhaps it can help other sufferers as well.       

Anniversaries

 Anniversaries

 

Last weekend, at Easter, offered me by chance a trio of very different anniversaries. It is strange how these coincidences come along from time to time. When they do, they give us a chance to reflect and learn.

 

The first anniversary that I noticed was fifty years of Lenten fasting. I first gave up alcohol for lent as soon I had started drinking alcohol at all, let us assume when I was rising fifteen. At school there was talk among some of the religious teachers about the virtue and benefits of fasting.

 

The dangers of alcohol had been impressed on me by my mum long before this. Alcoholism really did seem to run through my family. My suspicion is that this dependence made my family more normal rather than more exceptional, and this may still be true across parts of the world. I don’t think I ever saw my Dad’s sister sober, and Dad himself had a history of alcohol abuse before allowing himself to be “saved” by Mum.

 

Whatever brought on the pledge, I decided one day at school that I could happily do without alcohol between ash Wednesday and easter Saturday, and duly proved it without serious difficulty. And my guess is that this Easter marked the end of my fiftieth consecutive such fast. The logic was always the same. If I could live without alcohol for six or seven weeks each year with no cheating, then I could be sure that I had no alcohol problem. It still works beautifully.

 

Despite my pledge, alcohol and its dependence continued to play a central role among people close to me, including some of those I held most closely. At one point I embraced Al Anon, a sister organisation to AA, and that choice did me a lot of good for a few years. Addiction is a horrible affliction, for the addict and those close to them, and I am grateful to mum and the teachers and proud of myself to have kept up such an effective antidote for so long. Nowadays my wife joins my fast. The first glass of wine at Easter is one of the joys of every year too.

 

The second anniversary that came to mind recalls an event of two and a half years ago, just one twentieth of the Lenten fasting period. All the anniversaries refer to times around the third or fourth weeks of April or October. For some reason those weeks seem to have assumed unusual significance in my life. I can think of others long after fifty years ago but long before two and a half years ago. My first marriage was during the fourth week of October, thirty six and a half years ago. And the Portuguese villa, now at last our home, was purchased in the fourth week of October too, nineteen and a half years ago.

 

Two and a half years ago was when a CT scan first revealed a mass in my brain, a mass later described as lesion, then tumour, and later on confirmed as the sort of tumour that usually resulted in death within eighteen months, a Glioblastoma. I had noticed a slight change in my vision during that summer and managed to find enough common sense to tell an ophthalmologist about it. I cannot be sure, but I suspect I would no longer be alive if I hadn’t made that move, because the tumour would have been present and doing damage for too long before meaningful treatment.

 

I Carry around a lot of medical quotes in my head. The first neurosurgeon, among other unhelpful proclamations, declared that in cases like mine sometimes people lasted years while others lasted only months. Our research also came up with a 6-18 month median survival window and a five year survival rate of less than 10%. I make assumptions based on some of these statistics and on what has transpired, which by happy chance is the passage of half of the five year period without really serious illness or near miss. Does the clock start again, or accelerate? Is 6-18 months still valid as a median survival window or is that now too long? Time will tell, and I try to avoid becoming fixated by such ideas.

 

The third April 2025 anniversary marked six months since our arrival in Portugal. It has been a remarkable time. We had deliberated over many years about whether and when to decamp to Portugal, and, despite both of us claiming to be good planners, the project went far from smoothly. Last summer involved some health setbacks so during the critical months I was not much help for my wife, and she had to execute many practical things while fragile emotionally and harbouring doubts and anxieties about the whole venture. Yet somehow we made it without calamity, my health reached a good plateau and has remained resilient, and, little by little, we move forward.

 

We remain aware of our ABC model, and that provides the context for everything we do in Portugal. We strive to enjoy every healthy day to its fullest, and to do that together. Then we both know there will be a transition to a period, short or long, where I will need progressively more care and support, and when my wife will have to put some of her own plans on hold. After that she will have to find a way to build a different life, a way that works for her. No matter how much anticipation and planning has been possible, that will surely be a shock and a challenge that persists for months and years.

 

Still, we have successfully reached our first six-month anniversary in Portugal, and can enjoy each day together while trying to be ready for what must follow. When we arrived here, six months seemed a long time ahead, yet we made it and used the time well. Now we are into the second interval of six months, and, who knows, maybe there can even be a few more to look forward to. Throughout my illness we have continually found ourselves changing our time horizon for planning, and our moods have also swung with the seasons and events.

 

This constant adjustment of our time horizon is something we are well used to by now, but it does catch some people out. If somebody is thinking of visiting us, they might make their plans without considering our strange situation, only to panic when factoring in what my cancer may or may not do before their visit. Should they leave it until the last minute to book, just in case? Should they come at all? What questions should they ask? Of course our preference would be for them to plan as normal, but not everybody finds it easy to talk about serious illness.

 

In any case, six months in Portugal feels like a milestone to celebrate as well as the start of another six month period, whatever time horizons we may end up using during that interval. Six hundred, thirty and six months form a neat triad of anniversaries for now, and each contributes to our mood in a positive way.   

Shrinking Tumours

 The last few weeks have taken a circuitous route to added uncertainty. I had my second MRI in Portugal in mid-March and met the oncologist a week or so later. We could hardly believe our good fortune when we were told that the tumours had not just limited their growth, they had actually shrunk by about 20%. I didn’t think such shrinkage was even possible at this stage. We have ruled out further operations and the more experimental treatments, and radiation has reached its toxicity limit. But the absence of worsening symptoms suggests that something is working. Although shrinking tumours do seem too good to be true, perhaps the  current treatments, maybe with one more new chemo,  can limit tumour growth for some more months, as I approach my third summer with cancer. 

 

This has been an emotional few weeks for other reasons as well. My wife spent the last week of March and the first week of April back in New York, sorting out the closure of her job while spending time with family and friends. We both found this separation tough to handle and we are pleased that it is over and that we are reunited in Portugal. My sister was kind enough to visit me here during most of the time while my wife was away, and the timetable also allowed for another friend of my sister to visit too. We were further blessed by a week of lovely weather, ushering in a new season after an unusually cold and wet March in the Algarve. We are now eagerly awaiting a glut of other visitors during the next few months. With each month that passes, the villa and our new surroundings feel more and more like home.

 

For all the excellent health news and the welcome company of my sister, emotions have run high. The first and last days of separation involved many tears on both sides of the Atlantic, as we were both reminded of the reality of our situations and what must lie ahead. The period of separation brought our respective fears to the fore. Perhaps in both our cases the greatest fear might be loneliness.

 

I was only alone for a couple of days at each end of our separation, but they were long, tearful days. I had to cope with being semi-marooned at home, being unable to drive safely and with no simple, safe walks available. Our neighbours kindly visited a couple of times, but the days, and the evenings and nights, dragged on anyway.

 

Amid all the tears came many thoughts and questions. Although collapse and seizure are always possibilities in my condition, I did not really have those type of fears at the top of my mind. But how would I cope if the separation was extended, perhaps due to flight delays? If I was living alone and with health vulnerabilities for an extended period, how would I cope? Would I be able to settle into a tolerable routine? And how could I cope with the loneliness?  

 

I wonder if my wife was considering the same or similar questions, but from her own future situation. For all of my good health and positive indications, the cancer is still highly likely to disable me progressively and then to kill me. But what about my wife? The caring months as I decline will probably be tough, but the real difficulties for her may only kick in once it is all over. No matter how long things last, no matter how surrounded she will be by supportive family and friends, I guess that loneliness will be her toughest challenge and will be difficult to shake off. As usual, we are preparing for different futures, helping each other as much as we are able.

 

Once we were joyfully reunited, this past week still had another challenge for us, when we had an e-meeting with our New York oncologist. Whether he was dealing with different photos, different technology or different skill sets, he did not subscribe to the idea of tumour shrinkage, but instead saw some progression which might indicate different treatments. He will now connect with the local oncologist and make recommendations.

 

As usual it took us a day or two to process the new information. But we could both understand that the general tenor of the news was more positive than negative, and that in itself is quite remarkable after two and a half years of living with glioblastomas. Whatever lies ahead, fortune has been kind to us.

 

There have been many lessons to learn from these unusual weeks. Regarding the shrinking tumours, perhaps we can reflect that when something seems too good to be true, it often is. If available, multiple medical opinions can help everybody. I am delighted that we have managed to avoid slipping into anger and blame over the seemingly inconsistent medical interpretations.

 

The wider lessons might be about separation and loneliness. In a loving couple, especially one with at least one vulnerable member, loneliness is a frequent reality and constant fear, more of a concern than pain or even death. A loving partnership finds ways to cope, but fear of loneliness can come to haunt both of the couple. There will come a time when the survivor feels utterly alone. No matter how prepared the couple are, that will help.

 

For people not living in a loving couple, these fears are likely to be worse. Many people we know are ageing alone. Living alone suits some people well, but coupling does offer enormous benefits for many of us. As I continue to observe people separating in their 50’s, I do hope those people don’t come to regret their decisions