Rage in the mind.
Updated: Jun 30, 2022
Ok, this is going to be: -
Sweary, oh boy, I think it will be
Raw, isn’t it always? I’ve neither tried to sugar-coat nor finesse too much.
Emotive. Who knows? There’s emotion for sure; did it provoke emotion?
Meandering. Oh yes, this will meander; this sentence was written after the 4th paragraph.
Offensive. That’s up to you. Don’t make me get my doll out and ask you to show me where my words hurt.
Logical. Probably in some parts, probably in others. Does that make it fuzzy?
And that list right there is not intended to be exhaustive, complete or limited to. So strap yourself in, folks, this could be a fair old ride, or it might not. Let’s see, eh?
As an adjunct to my little intro, I will also say the following, all of which are true of my Blog, not just this post.
This is my truth; it may not suit yours.
It’s probably indicative of how my mind works, now and in the past; indicative of the future, who knows?
It may have taken more than a couple of sessions to write
It is aided (to some extent) by grammar and style tools (but I make so many mistakes that correcting them all takes longer than writing)
It will have been reviewed a few times and probably got to my version of
‘that’s good enough
‘I’m happy for people to read that. ‘
‘it generally represents what I wanted to say’
‘largely, I care not what they think.’
‘although, I hope some enjoy it.’
And here's the fundamental paradox, I've fucking calmed down already since I started writing this. Getting a new MAC (well, a re-built one) up and running at dark-o-fucking-clock, loading apps and the general jiggery-pokery of ‘setting up tech’, which I like strangely, has had the effect of taking the edge off my rage.
So, I need to add that this is, whilst representative of my thoughts, somewhat concocted as well as conveyed.
FOR FUCKSAKE, I've only been trying to set the scene, haven’t even written anything, strap yourself in.
I'm really angry right now.
We have a phrase in Scotland; Raging!!!!!
I care not a jot if it is particularly Scottish vernacular or not. But I feel it's filled with what I am feeling just now.
I am RAGING. And right now, I kind of don't want to calm down either.
How fucking dare this disease happen to me. How dare it happen now. How dare to put me through this. How dare it put those close to me through it.
First logic check? What is put through? What even is ‘happen to me’?
Put through is, I guess, a function of how one responds to this, is that in our Control? ‘Happen to me’ is a function of symptoms, responses, reactions and how we respond. Again, is that to some extent in my Control?
Why the logic check? I have a mate. Let’s, for the sake of argument, call him a good mate. I've looked up to him. We've been work peers; I’ve worked under him/ for him. I’ve been directed by him. And I've told him to fuck off many times amongst many other things. He is as frustrating as fuck. He purports a persona of stoicism. He likes to have people think he doesn’t care. He doesn’t do fickle emotion and he certainly does not do regret or remorse. He taught me that I cannot make someone feel anything. That only they can do that as their response to their version of a situation or my actions/ words. Is that Stoicism? I think, in the true sense it is. But in his version, it's FUCKED! Fucked because I reckon, he does care. I think he cares a lot. I think he doesn’t like the fact he does. So, he tries to suppress it, but I think he does. I have tried to be, read that as wanted to be, like him. Articulate, intelligent, funny, purposeful, outcome-oriented and Stoic. He's helped me with a lot of that and I believe in some of his thoughts, but I simply believe that his logic is flawed because he just can’t switch off those feelings that Stoicism advocates against.
So what is being put through? Is it me putting myself through this? The disease does things or not. It's factual. I feel a lump or not. I get night sweats or not. I lose weight or not (by the way I'm not, FFS). It proliferates to other organs or not. Putting myself through it is a function of mind, it’s a function of my response. Do I get scared/ apprehensive/ emotional about a lump? Do I get concerned about the bedsheets being drenched? Do I get worried about stuff?
Yeah. Kind of. I do. And I think that’s human. So, old mate, you can fuck right off just now.
I acknowledge there is a large element of self-pity here. But, for fucksake, I've tried to do good. Do well. Largely not make clusterfuck decisions (well, not with the info at the time).
Yes, I acknowledge that I have made a couple of monumental decisions that, prima facie haven't worked out, I've made some poor consumption choices and cognitively dissonant lifestyle choices but haven’t we all?
So why me? Why now?
I'm 54. I have 2 teenage boys, with whom I was looking forward to the stage of late teenagerhood and (hopefully) strengthening relationships. I (we) am on the verge of an apartment move. My job appears to be going well, in a great Company, with super Colleagues and a good contribution. I’d made the macro decision that ‘this is it’ (well that’s today’s version). I could see myself working there for the next 6y, hanging up my career and going to do something to pass the time in semi-retirement.
Seems like long enough not to care too much, not to be concerned. But for once, I had a plan that projected beyond a ¼, a ½, or a full-year Sales outcome. A plan that reached beyond ‘what car next’. One that I could take steps towards as opposed to conspiring on the ‘how to make it happen now’. Such is the way of the short-term plan.
Now some fucker, or some fucking thing wants to make me work those years (which I was planning to do), but there's NOTHING after, potentially.
No cruisy routine that involves morning coffee with a group of similarly offensive older cants, putting the world to rights, discussing all and sundry like experts, arguing nicely about sport and politics, generally not giving a shit and being probably by today and certainly by 6years’ time’s standards, quite a bit offensive. (in that paragraph there is a deliberate spelling mistake)
No leisurely travel plans, which are preferences of oldies. Train journeys, travel to see world sites. Travel with the boys and families. Travel to unusual settings. NO FUCKING OCEAN CRUISES. But, maybe a river cruise, maybe.
NO nice car that I can polish weekly, drive like I own the road and have road-rage at others.
No involvement at some banal oldies collective. A club. A group. A gathering of similarly minded people. the topics or focus of which I probably haven’t even thought about yet.
This thing wants those years. It wants them from me.
I've fucking saved for those years. I've worked hard. Some would say not proportionally to what I've earned, but they can fuck off. I've been pretty good. Tried to be a good bloke (won and lost sometimes). Tried not to be a cant (too much). Tried to give a rationale where I have (been one).
I've had a poor diet – so I'm fat – so I’ll change.
I’ve drank too much – so I’ll drink less – so I’ll ultimately stop. And it may shorten my life.
I've consumed the wrong stuff at times, see above.
I've not exercised enough – so my body mechanically may not be great. I can live with arthritis or fucked joints. ‘sake, some of my contemporaries are on titanium hips and knees already.
I’ve had broken bones through misadventure. The time to pay will come.
I've got fucked teeth through misadventure and have paid (like a King’s ransom) and will pay for the rest of my life and will do so more as I age, probably.
I've smoked, so my lungs may not last like someone who hasn’t.
But I get all of that. I get the cause and effect.
What I don’t get is……Dr fucking Greenwood telling me this is incurable and it's not because of something I’ve done. It's not caused by anything that we understand. They don’t know what causes it. All they know is how to (MAYBE) extend someone's life!!!!!
AAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!! Why me?????
It’s so FUCKING UNFAIR!!!!!!!!
It’s unfair on Kerry. It’s unfair on Carter & Miles. It's unfair on anyone else that cares about me in their life, for good or bad.
Why me, why now, why this. Of all the fucking things.
I get not only Cancer.
A rare Cancer.
A rare, aggressive Cancer.
A rare, aggressive incurable Cancer.
A rare, aggressive, incurable Cancer whose course is unpredictable.
A rare, aggressive, incurable Cancer whose course is unpredictable and is surrounded by shite phrases like ‘watch and wait’ in some instances, but NOT FUCKING MINE!!!!
A rare, aggressive, incurable Cancer with unpredictable trajectories, surrounded by shite terminology and by all accounts is what I’ll die from.
A rare, aggressive, incurable Cancer with unpredictable trajectories, surrounded by shite terminology and by all accounts is what I’ll die from and, in the grand scheme, could be soon.
Might not be, but could be.
Why the Boys?
I'm crying now. So, it comes to an abrupt stop, sorry.
Actually….after reading it one last time…..I’m just fucking sad! 6y is the median.
It could be much quicker. I could be MUCH longer. Can you see I've already revisited this? Yes, I get that it could and probably maybe longer but right now, deep in chemo insomnia and side effects, I'm just scared.
I think that's ok. I hope you'll allow me it, just a bit. I reserve the right to feel similarly in the future, too.
Is this melodrama in retrospect?