My half-full Glass

 I started this series of health-related blogs last August with “Health and Happiness”. I wrote it before I knew there was anything seriously wrong with me, but after I had first noticed the strange change in my peripheral vision.

 

At the time, I felt physically fine, but I was worried, and about to start on the process that eventually led to the discovery of the tumour in my brain. I was in two minds about it at the time, but It turned out to be fortuitous that I noticed the symptom and acted on it.

 

I can reflect now on how things might have been different if I had not noticed the change in my peripheral vision. The tumour was inside my brain but was, as the doctors later described it, relatively well-behaved. So I would have been able to go about my life normally while this disease was growing inside of me. But at some point the disease would have revealed itself, and most likely this would have been in dramatic fashion, via seizures or falls or fevers or in some other serious incident. This incident would have brought me to hospital, whereupon the tumour would no doubt have quickly been identified as the root cause. But by then the tumour would have been large and spreading and beyond effective treatment options, and life-expectancy would have been short.

 

Still, I have spent the last six months wondering if that might have been a better option for me. I have always thought that the best way to die was suddenly. If we must die at a particular age, then a catastrophic car accident or huge heart attack has always seemed a better option than a long and painful demise.

 

It is a bit of a selfish thought, because for those we love the opposite probably applies. It is hard to come to terms with the sudden death of a loved one. So many regrets are possible from things left unsaid, business left unfinished, and memories left unprocessed. An extended period of being a carer is tough, as is watching someone we love suffering and becoming gradually diminished, but at least that allows plenty of time for reconciliation and closure.

 

I recall a morbidly funny play broadcast on British TV several years ago, in which two elderly residents of an old folks’ home passed the time by playing a game together each day based on the list of obituaries in a local paper. It turns out that the great majority of short obituaries include the word “peacefully” or “suddenly” to describe the death of the subject. In the play one person scored a point for each reference to a peaceful death while the other scored for “suddenly”. The game may have had a few other secondary rules, such as bonus points for expressions like “after a long illness bravely borne”. It was a typically dark and creative British piece of art and the play stayed with me a long time and served as a great conversation starter too.

 

My recent dilemma is almost a personal re-enactment of the play, and the question I have toyed with was at the heart of the drama. Is it better to die slowly (yet ultimately peacefully, without having to bravely bear any illness) pr suddenly, presumably with only a rapid burst of pain and suffering? Having suffered a fair bit of emotional and physical pain over the last six months, I have mused if I might have been better off being blissfully unaware of my condition until it could kill me off suddenly. Part of the premise for the dilemma is found in that first “health and happiness” blog. It is hard to feel happy when we are not feeling healthy. Ill health tends to infect all aspects of our daily life and can even feed off itself during a prolonged state of anxiety. At these times our glass feels decidedly half-empty.

 

The musing was always theoretical. I never looked back on the decision to act on my symptom, wherever that action might have led. Partly that is to do with the selfishness concern. The way things have turned out has been tough for my wife and family, but a sudden phone call with bad news would probably have been far worse for them. Thankfully, we haven’t really had any marginal choices to make so far, though these may arise in the future.

 

I now have a new answer for my dilemma, and it is a much happier one. A couple of weeks after the end of the intensive treatment phase, I underwent an MRI and met my doctors last week. They were very happy with the results, proposed progression to a less intensive phase of monthly five-day bursts of oral chemo and released me to travel. The meeting was reassuring, but I am feeling quite well too so was quite optimistic about its outcome.

 

I know I must be feeling well, and that is a good indicator for truly being well, because suddenly I see many things through a half-full glass. I am experiencing many sensations from an optimistic viewpoint. Only this way do I realise that my glass has been half-empty for several months.

 

There are many examples of this half-full glass. I was walking in March and felt the warmth of spring on my body and started to laugh. I also start to notice the beauty of nature again. I have been permitted to swim again for several weeks now, and the sensation of moist heat on my body from the steam room feels lovely. Last week I went alone to a Broadway play and was able to stay wide awake and appreciate the action. I am consciously enjoying choir rehearsals once more, and last week put a lot of energy into a dress rehearsal with kids and still felt good at the end of it. I remarked to myself how that would not have been possible even a month before.

 

The most obvious feeling of a half-full glass comes from a renewed appreciation of food. The intense treatment killed my appetite and caused thoughts of many of my favourite foods to make me nauseous. Now I can once again appreciate an ice cream and even the rich cake that my sister baked.

 

A stranger half-full glass sensation is that I have started dreaming again. I am waking up fully satisfied with my sleep and often prodded into life by a vivid (and not scary) dream. I have no idea what this signifies but it does invoke thoughts of a half-full glass.

 

With a half-empty glass, only love and support keeps us going. It is hard to feel happy when not feeling healthy. The half-full glass is a great indicator of happiness, and that must also indicate something about good health too. Even if that good health turns out to be fleeting, it is real, a bonus period that I feared would not arrive, and a reward for persevering through the treatments so far. I also hope that this sense of a half-full glass is not only indicating a period of fair physical health, but of emotional health as well. I know I am lucky to have been given these blessings.