A letter to Wonder Woman

I tried writing once before.  Just after our life changed forever.  My diary at the time: “I know it’s hard for you when you see me in pain and discomfort”.  You say “I wish I could make it go away” or “I wish I could make it better”.  What you mean is – you wish you could make the cause disappear – but you can’t.  In that respect you’re just like me – helpless. The hardest lesson for you is to know when you can help and when you can’t.  Looking back it seems a bit pompous; but you did learn what you could and couldn’t do.  You found a niche.  
  
You brought me comfort; in hospital (the first time), you brought in fresh home-made sausage sandwiches (still warm), a bag of Kettles crisps and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.  We had an illicit picnic surrounded by the sounds and smells of old men who were very, very ill. 

You got me out of bed.  You became my personal trainer.  Tentative steps up the road and back.  Then out on our bikes.  Over time our roles changed – in my new lycra, I beat you up the hills.  I was showing off, but I wanted to make you proud of me.  Your opinion – more than that of the doctors and nurses, family and friends – matters the most.  Two years on, we rode our bikes across the country from the Irish Sea to the North Sea.  Mission accomplished.  Or so we thought.

Four years later this disease returned, bringing with it unimaginable complications.  You took charge.  The various specialists were not talking to each other, so you phoned their secretaries, coaxing and cajoling and nagging (your management style beginning to crystallize), photocopying and delivering letters, making a general nuisance of yourself – even having a row on the phone with one consultant - until you snared him with your lasso of truth.  The system finally crumbled under your will: And thus Doctor spake unto Doctor.

Another thing I wrote back then: “You cannot truly know what this is like – and for that I am grateful.  There are some things I cannot share”.   

Again I stand by that – I wouldn’t want you to go through this for anything.  But I also recognise that I don’t really know what it’s been like for you either.  Perhaps the hardest thing for me to admit is that I could not do your job as well as you.  That’s another reason why I wouldn’t wish this on you.    

And now this week, 19 years after our first visit, another trip to Cancerworld. The past resurrected, like some errant schoolboy hanging around where it shouldn’t.  You gave it your teacher’s look.  With your one good eye.  Gone.  You’ve still got it.

I always tell people that we both had this disease – I had the symptoms, you had the consequences. You fetched my pills, you wiped my brow, you hugged me when I needed your warmth. You were as important to my survival as all the drugs and surgery. I know what you did for me.  Thank you Wonder Woman.