You don’t always get to choose who shows you how to live a good life
……and for me it happened to be the Hairy Bikers
Some people are just always there, aren’t they? Until one day they’re not, or at least you get an inkling of their mortality. I’m not particularly into cookery shows, apart from the odd wallow in Nigella’s creamy universe, but there was just something about the Hairy Bikers with their intense but completely everyday love for one another, their delight in the good things of life like travel, good food and good company, that felt like sinking into a warm bath. My daughter felt it as well. We don’t have a great many tastes in common, but we always enjoyed watching Dave and Si’s adventures.
And then there was the Christmas special, and suddenly Dave looked fragile in a way every cancer survivor or patient (or loved one of the above) will instantly recognise. For me it was a bit of a double whammy because I’ve only just emerged from a year of cancer treatment myself. And you’re never quite the same again. People think that if you’re lucky you can be cured of cancer. But in a sense you never are. It can always come back. Hopefully that will give you a renewed appreciation of what life’s all about and you’ll throw yourself back into it thankfully. But - and this isn’t often mentioned - it can also make you all too aware of life’s finiteness and fragility. And it’s quite possible to swing from one pole of that balance to the other, sometimes in a moment.
People tell me I had a good attitude, that I was very brave. Sometimes that makes me feel a bit of a fraud. Cancer totally sucks, of course, but it is straightforward to deal with. People understand why you feel rough and can’t make plans for the future. Later, even if they are as kind and accommodating as ever, you don’t always feel able to share its emotional fallout, which can be devastating at times.
Just after Christmas, I succumbed to a nasty chest infection which left me wiped out by periods of debilitating fatigue. I panicked, I wore a heart rate monitor, I watched anxiously as my feet swelled up or my blood pressure spiked, I tracked the amount of discomfort at my old surgical site and I wondered if, after all the good news, my time was up after all. I don’t feel very proud of my depression and self-centered brooding. I wanted nothing more than to jump back into the plans we had lined up to enjoy life to the full, yet I couldn’t even muster the strength to chop up the Christmas tree and put it in the compost bin.
A close friend’s daughter did of the disease that hadn’t killed me. It didn’t seem fair. I wasn’t exactly guilty, but I felt she’d have done more with her life if it had been spared than I, right now, was doing with mine. I slipped into depression and none of my usual fixes seemed to help, and I went through torments of guilt because I wasn’t well enough to travel to her funeral. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help notice that people my husband, who’s a few years older then me, knew, were starting to die - okay, sometimes they had particular risk factors, but it seemed so much closer than it had before. I cancelled plans, said no to invitations, stalled on booking holidays. I began to feel that, although I haven’t reached retirement age yet, my best years were behind me.
One of my comforts recently has been The Hairy Bikers Go West. Was it just me, or did Dave seem different somehow - more than ever aware of the beauty of simple, life-enhancing things like a belting meat pie, or a beautiful view, or just the chance to hug his best mate? At at least one point in his gruelling round of treatment, detailed in their Christmas Special, the thought must have gone through his mind, “If this is it, if I knew I didn’t have long left, what would I most want to do?”
I think we probably know. Get riding again, and have one last trip. Appreciate it all just that little bit more, knowing how precious those moments are - on the road, with mates, just enjoying the things that don’t seem all that important but, by God, they are, man. They are.
So they threw everything at it. Got him bike-ready, and then they had a party for everyone who’d looked after him, and then off they went. And, whether they knew it, or not, every time they whipped up a sauce or bunged something in the over, there’d be the feeling that it could be the lsat time, so it was all the more special.
And that’s what they’ve taught me. It is special. All of it. Whether you’ve ten weeks left, or ten years or more, life is a collection of moments of happiness and connection and the wind in your face and the smell of a good meal in the oven and the laughter and presence of loved ones. Yes, you’re going to die. That’s the one certainty. So live like this could be the last time. Always. Everything. Whether it is the last time or it isn’t, that’s how much it matters. More than worrying about getting the washing on the line, or the jobs on the to-do list ticked off. It is okay, even in this world of pain and chaos and fear, to be simply happy, enjoying the moment you are living through, and letting yesterday and tomorrow take care of itself.
I’ve tried religion. I’ve tried therapy. I’ve tried meditation. All of them helped. But right now, it’s Dave and Si that have got through to me, got me back on my feet and given me back what I had all along, had I but realised it, the awareness that life can ben good - very good - and when it is, we shouldn’t be ashamed to say to ourselves and to others just how brilliant it can be to be here and to be alive to live it.
That’s not a bad legacy to leave, is it?