I am in Hong Kong. It’s early and my head
is foggy, which is par for the course on Sevens weekend. It’s now Saturday
morning and the Friday night, despite our best efforts to have "a quiet one”,
got a little out of hand.
As is usual these days I reach for my
phone, check the time and then open my emails. That’s when I get the news. I’m
sat on the side of my bed and I’m sharing the room with my mate Dhugal.
“Fuck”
He leaves it a few moments before
responding. My voice tells him that this was no ordinary profanity.
“What’s up?”
“My dad has cancer.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
I do the only thing I can do. Pull on an
egg costume and go on an 18-hour drinking session.
I am back at the hotel. It is sometime
after 8pm and the five of us at the stadium all went in different directions
upon leaving. Gudetama, my depressed
egg costume, has gone straight in the bin and all I want to do is phone
home.
All day I’ve not been able to get the
opening line of my mum’s email out of my mind.
“Dear Alan, It’s the worst possible news.”
Being in the South Stand, which carries the
slogan “where the world comes to play” has proved a handy distraction for much
of the day, but not all of it. Despite God knows how many drinks I still feel
sober as a judge.
I get my sister on the phone and manage to
speak to both my Mum and then Dad. All I can remember is him saying that he
is in a lot of pain. I feel incredibly far away, and in 36 hours I’ll get on a
plane and fly five hours in the opposite direction. Back to Japan and a whole
world of uncertainty.
I am in the office. The staff all know, but
only three of them have expressed sympathy or concern; the rest did not say a
word. I’m angry, but shrugging it off. I have made the simple decision to
get on a flight home by the end of the week.
My boss is being very supportive, and
everyone at the ICC Regional Office in Melbourne, who are due to arrive in
Japan in just 10 days to run a tournament that I have been the lead on, are
being equally so.
In the end, despite my initial upset at my
team for their lack of decency, the staff all step up and take on my workload
for the tournament; for which I am very grateful.
I step off the CX 509 from Tokyo to Hong
Kong. Transiting through Hong Kong feels strange. Last time I stepped off a
plane here, less than one week ago, I was full of excitement about the weekend
ahead. This time it is fair to say I have an incredible sense of foreboding.
Next is the CX
253 to London Heathrow. On the flight I cannot concentrate enough to watch movies
or read books. I managed to get the exit seat, but there is no window to stare
out of. Instead I fix on the woman curled up in blankets on the floor near my
feet. Clearly she didn’t like the people sat next to her. There is a song by
the Chilli Peppers that I can’t get out of my head. It doesn’t help.
I am on the train to Cornwall. It is a four
and a half hour journey, the same length as the flight from Tokyo to Hong Kong.
At least this time there are windows to stare out of, and I watch as rain
buckets down on the UK; a pathetic fallacy if ever I have experienced one.
The news during the past week has been slow
and not exactly positive. We are told we should be thinking of months rather
than years. Packing for the flight was the worst, I had no idea what to bring, how
long I should stay or what I should be preparing for. Eventually I booked a
five week stay, but made sure the flights were changeable.
I stopped overnight with my sister in
London and had a good update from her. She’s not sleeping well and there is not
really much I can say to help with that. I am hoping that just by being around
I am helping, but it seems a bit hollow. Her words after I booked my flights
have stayed with me: “You coming home means it must be real”.
I disembark at Truro and get a taxi to the
Royal Cornwall hospital at Treliske. It’s funny how cabbies are so much less
chatty when you ask to be taken to the hospital. I’ve still got all my stuff
with me, so it’s clear I’ve travelled a long way.
I meet my
brother and my Mum then go to see the patient. He is in a ward with three
others and the first thing I see as I walk in is “Bunny”, a skeleton of a man who
looks so unwell that I immediately panic about what Dad might look like.
Opposite Bunny on the right is a chap vomiting into a bowl. It is Easter
Saturday, and I don’t think I like this place.
It’s Monday 24th April, nine
days since I arrived and Mum and I are on our way to the hospital, for what we
all hope is the last time in a while. Doing the journey everyday has taken a
toll and we are both exhausted. It is helping keep Dad sane however. He has
started on his memoirs and has asked for my help. We talked about this
sporadically over the years and now he has suitable motivation things will move
along.
Bunny is no longer with us and his bed was
taken immediately by someone considerably noisier. It is safe to say Dad is
happy to be getting out as well. He looks and sounds much more like himself. We
were told the previous Thursday that it is prostate cancer, it took more than
two weeks after he was admitted for that to be figured out, which seems a long
time to me.
He is able to walk very short distances
with the use of a zimmer frame and someone next to him for support. Pushing him
around the hospital in a wheelchair during the last week was weird, but getting
out of the ward was always a high priority, even if only for 20-30 minutes.
We are all incredibly relieved to be
getting him home, but we are also acutely aware that this will bring with it a
whole new set of challenges. A hospital bed was delivered the previous Friday
and we have various other items to take back with us. Things are changing.
It doesn’t take long for the challenges to
emerge. A first tumble, boredom, side effects of the drugs and a struggle to fill time when we would rather be making the most of it. On the plus side we did go out and by a 50-inch flat
screen TV; so watching sport is now awesome. We are watching a lot of sport.
We are back in the car on the way to
Treliske. It is nearly four weeks since we last drove this road and Dad is back
for his first visit with the specialist. We are hoping for good news, but Dad is
not optimistic. He is not sure he wants chemotherapy and keeps saying how
important quality of life is.
My Mum has been a super trooper. She is
tired and working constantly to do the best she can, but there are hurdles all
over the place. I am due to leave tomorrow and am worried about how everyone
will do after I go. I am not sure I have done much, but an extra pair of hands
and someone to talk to over a glass of wine seems to be doing something.
We learn nothing from the consultant and
are told to come back again in a month. Not much help for me but both my
parents seem happy with it. A new drug is prescribed and hopefully this will
help manage the pain, which seems to be considerable.
That night is
not a pleasant one. There are lots of people around, my sister has come to visit with
her family and my girlfriend has flown over from Japan. It’s hectic in the
house and there are some frayed nerves leading to tears. I grab a beer and go
down to the beach on my own for 45 minutes. I’m not sure why, but it seemed
like a good idea at the time.
I am a little drunk and on my friends sofa
in Tokyo. It is May 14th and Dad has been for a second visit with
the consultant. Everything has changed. Since the last visit his mobility has
improved no end; the zimmer frame is a thing of the past as, for now, is the
hospital bed. News comes through that the revised worst case scenario is
two-three years but with chemo that could increase to four or even five.
“Stop the Rollercoaster” one of my sisters
messages. We are all relieved, and Dad is now happy to have a go at
chemo. He is aware of the potential side effects but feels it is worth
it now. It will be an 18-week course, so with any luck will be done by late October.
Nick, who was
in Hong Kong with me the weekend I heard all this for the first time, but was not aware of it
until much later, suggests we have another drink to toast the news. I am more
than willing.
It’s today, Sunday 2nd July. I
am reading back over the messages from Dad yesterday. We were in regular
contact during the rugby; the British & Irish Lions have just beaten the
All Blacks for the first time in 24 years.
He started chemotherapy on Friday and his
messages read:
“You
will be glad to know I have slept well. I have no nausea as yet and I will not
complain if I need more sleep. Keep smiling, I am.”
Later in his messages he is talking of a
beer and pasty outside and I wish I was back there again. The difference now is
that I know I’ll get more beers and pasties with him – even if only for a few
more years. It is a hell of a lot better than a few more months.
There are still
tricky times ahead. I feel like I’ve been turned upside-down, spun round and
round and flipped inside-out. For the first time in a while however, I am in a
genuinely good mood and think that things might just be OK for a little while
yet.
