My People....Robert! How the better half lives!

Wow! High five, low five and all the other fives!!(??) I am so thrilled and happy that Robert, my better half (his term, not mine!) not only agreed , but actively wanted to contribute to this blog! If you knew what an intensely private person he is (and some do!) you would realise why this is worthy of a round of applause! He deserves my Jacqui Gong for so many reasons, but this task is beyond the call...Also I was so excited to read it because his literary talent goes before him. Add his dry wit to that and..voila..perfect blogging material!
I can't begin to explain how stressful and wearing it must be to live day-in day-out with someone with cancer over a long period of time. Only HE can really tell you what that has been like. We have been to hell and back, but as he says we are in a good place now, despite my illness .He has travelled this uneven path with me and is still at my side and I thank him daily for that. I fell in love with him (instantly) because of his sense of humour (and NOT just because he's 6'3", with boyish good looks and  had excellent prospects!) It's his ability to turn a tragedy into a comedy that has kept me going. He didn't sign up for this but he has risen to the task with a love and kindness that is rare to find, and that makes me feel so proud and privileged that he is My Robert! Here is his version of events:

A Cure for Slippers ?

While reading Jacqui’s vibrant bloggings (sorry tech-speak) and reflecting upon the great bravery (and sheer damn defiance) that she has and continues to throw in the face of this relentless 24/7 experience – my mind is drawn to key moments and feelings that have had a major impact on us as a couple and which have run the gamut of both deep emotion and surprising humour.

Our learning curve (as both wife & husband and patient and carer (carer competence  open to some question here) has been a steep one – but we are in good place, albeit via a route neither of us could have imagined when we first planted our feet on the green fields of Athens back in 1997 (or was that the bit of shrub land at the back of the apartment?). 

It was only a few years in, and we had already retreated from the standard expat city lifestyle, to find some greenery and a bigger garden fit for dogs. Even before Jacqui’s diagnosis, I was already displaying symptoms of early pottering – and we had just rescued our beloved Floyd (a deaf, wonderfully stupid and loving Dogo Argentino) from a petshop window.

We planned a long life in Greece - whose beauty (outside Athens), people and perfect climate had already captivated us.
I therefore recall strongly how strange it was one evening to be sitting on the balcony, enjoying a warm sunny evening and discussing a lump that Jacqui had recently discovered. We had absolutely no idea what was to follow….

Fast forward to a hospital waiting room and I can still see the doctor emerging from Jacqui’s initial operation wearing a resplendently vivid green outfit, without a mark on him. In perfect Greek / German dialect (betraying his years of training), he formally announced that while only one lymph node was malignant - apparently the body’s traffic lights had gone green and all nodes had to be removed to prevent further spread. I hadn’t paid much attention in Biology classes, especially when it came to lymph nodes – but we had agreed in advance that he would do what was necessary. I recall feeling very confused and lonely while Jacqui was still on the operating table.  

It’s also amazing what then goes through your mind. "Hang on a minute – is this a scam to convince us that Jacqui has cancer and for the doctor / hospital to wring as much money as they can out of us and the company medical insurance? " However, faith prevailed and we never sought a second opinion.

X years later – I would now like to bang the drum for conventional wisdom !!

Jacqui is still with me – she has suffered by god, but she is still here fighting. No magical fix yet exists, so her treatment has been reactive but still state-of-the-art from current medical thinking. It could be that a diet of wild berries from the Panamanian rainforest, or bile from the gall bladder of the pygmy sloth, are a panacea for some – but from what I have witnessed Jacqui’s periods of remission have been hard won through true grit and the progression of conventional science.

As Jacqui blogged – the first day of chemo (9/11) will stay with us forever. As the TV screen showed the 2^nd plane hitting the towers, Jacqui was sat there wearing an ice-cold boxer’s helmet and squeezing my hand so tightly she nearly ruptured my knuckles.

I knew then that such a determination to keep her hair, despite the barbaric headwear, would translate into a fierce fight for life! Subsequently we both agreed that the cold-cap was not the way to go and I have in recent years started to get feeling back in my fingers. Sadly though – I will never be able to play the piano again ! Family sing-a-longs, after a long day’s ski-ing are now a thing of the past for us both.

As you may imagine over the years we have become slaves to the Greek hospital system (albeit private) - and like many long-term kidnapees have become somewhat defensive of our captors. In truth, Jacqui is surrounded by a great team of carers at the hospital – and while the need for that in principle is sad, we cannot say enough about the goodwill of the people. So not exactly Stockholm syndrome – but Jacqui freely admits that she draws comfort from the good attention in what has become a second home – bed, satellite tv, ac, private wc & shower, refrigerator, plentiful cupboard space, chicken soup - mashed potato & pork chop (unsalted – I know that as I’ve eaten it quite a few times), and no housework.          
That said - be it private or the national health brown envelope system (fakelaki in local parlance), the system requires a visit to the Accounts office before any glimpse of a bed, a drip or a vivid green gown.
We were a little naïve to say the least when we first bowled up to the registration desk – proudly announcing that we were with BUPA and that Jacqui needed a room.
The look of incomprehension was startling – we could have equally said that I had a Man at C&A card and would that do ?
Many many many visits later, taking advantage of Jacqui’s grasp of Greek and the help of a dear colleague in my office, we have the admissions to Hotel California down to a fine art.

To be honest  - I hate being in hospitals. There can be few greater feelings than to walk out of a hospital on two legs and under your own steam. It is like regeneration, like sleep - you should be able to bottle it!

Bizarrely, the doctor’s office where Jacqui was first treated was located in the Maternity ward. Sitting in the waiting area, I retain these fixed images of ladies of all ages shuffling along the corridors in slippers and pyjamas – and wearing big nappies!  Then moving onto the cancer ward with further shuffling / pyjamas and slippers – I couldn’t help thinking that if I am ever finally consigned to such a corridor promenade, I hope that my mind or the drugs will have already transported me to a beautiful Greek sunset overlooking the sea (and the pampers are undetectable!) .
I do wonder often if I would display a fraction of Jacqui’s bravery in the face of her suffering?  To that end she has boldly resisted the slipper shuffle and very long may that continue !!   

I shouldn’t forget also the politics of the hospital waiting room, another almost surreal take on life for those consigned to seek salvation from their medical messiah.

50 people in a room, many of them possibly dying, and yet they will all be condensed in a fifth of the space around the door to the doctor’s office.
2 important things also to know about our Greek friends at this juncture – no sense of embarrassment and no sense of queuing. This comes as a bit of shock to dear old Brits who are taught at a young age to be self conscious / critical (even when succeeding), and that standing at the back of a queue all day doesn’t matter – as long as you have done the right thing…
Suffice to say, that grand gestures of importance (and pushing) are king in a Greek waiting room – irrespective of health. And being British here will kill you long before the cancer!

And then to great fanfare Papa Doc comes marching in – with all of us yearning for that glance of recognition that will likely beckon us as first in the queue - and undeniably most important. Such recognition is almost as good as a cure.

When finally ushered into the hallowed ground, it always strikes me that despite numerous blood tests, CT scans and pneumatic MRI bombardments that Jacqui has endured – and with a file of 20 plus x-rays, the doctor always manages to flick through these in 10 seconds – then proudly pronouncing that he is “content”.
Admirably, Jacqui will never be fobbed off and the doctor then has to respond to her many questions and a keen self-diagnosis (after many years of personal research borne from self-preservation) that is now bordering on professional knowledge.      
Having endured this cross-questioning, with much relish he then announces that he is thinking of leaving his wife for a younger beauty and would value our opinion -  You couldn’t make something like that up !  
Morals aside and asunder – we still believe strongly in his stewardship of Jacqui’s life over these many years.       

As for my darling wife I can only scratch the surface here in describing the level of inspiration that she has instilled in me in the face of her battle for life. 

I feel it is also time to come out now and say that as a Man I have tried to be a carer – albeit from the closet (or should I say a cave somewhere on Mars).
"In sickness and in health" is an easily repeated phrase during a ceremony, but in those early days I was not pre-prepared to watch & support Jacqui’s suffering with any great empathy, and nor to see aspects of our life together (as we had envisaged it at that time) slowly stripped away.
I read statistics showing that many marriages do in fact fall by the wayside in these circumstances – which is very sad.

I can only say that through a number of trials we have laughed, cried, shouted, screamed and sat in periods of strained silence – most of that coming from me.

We have had to compromise and lose any sense of rage against the disease, but always the over-riding love between us has kept us strong and together.
For the first time, I recently shaved Jacqui’s head (as you do – to stop hair falling all over the bed) and felt a great sense of togetherness. Hard to describe in words and certainly not often seen in a prenuptial agreement.
And she does have a lovely shaped head!   

 As I said from the outset we are now in a good place and while our lifeplans for global navigation and social frivolity have been somewhat curtailed - a coffee in town is as good as a cocktail in paradise if you are with the right person.

In the land of clichés having to cope with cancer (from both sides) certainly helps to focus on what is important and who is most important to you.
The role of the partner is also to keep a sense of grounding when the disease at times takes its grip. I have often said to Jacqui that the day she cannot iron me 5 shirts is the day to really be concerned – and she feels that too.
Actually she doesn’t, and has remarked recently that the iron is getting a bit heavy.
Need to think about a lighter option (note to carers).

Finally, I read recently that progress in breast cancer research is now leaping forwards and we can only hope that Jacqui may benefit. Meantime – we will continue to follow the conventional path and fret about it as little as we can.

As we sit on our terrace overlooking the bay and admiring the sun setting over the water, I glance down and notice that I am wearing Lidl slippers – now that is  worrying……………….