Re Sunday 17th

I’m a gardener. Self-employed. Always half-joked that I’d have to keep on working until I keeled over in someone’s garden. Reality is, I’ll end my days bed bound, pumped full of drugs and starved. What we want versus what we’re given. I reach sixty-three next month. Always disliked birthdays but likely this is the last I’ll see. The time I’ve wasted and the time I’ll never get. The season has changed now. I glimpse a tiny bird dart into foliage that is now a vivid red. Everywhere I look is telling me, this is probably the last time you see this. Do I pay more attention or turn away? 

I haven’t been able to work this fortnight. Radiation treatment to my pancreas has proved more gruelling than I had expected. Now just Wednesday and Friday to go. Increased abdominal pain, back pain, almost constant nausea, digestive disruption, sleeplessness due to being unable to find a comfortable position to lie in: the hour-long drives to and from the hospital every other day: mounting exhaustion. At the weekend, I finally had a decent night. Which gave me, it turned out, enough energy to cry. Because on Sunday morning I was ambushed by a song, a particular piece of music, that took me completely unawares. The best guitar work you’ll ever hear came in at the five minute mark and just tore me apart. It caught me and I was gone. 

[Drive Home by Steven Wilson. You’ll find it on YouTube if you want to.]