I was diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumour in 2021 after the kind of headache that felt like being burnt from the inside of my skull. I could almost smell the pain it was so intense.
"Whew" I thought when they pulled round the MRI scan on a trolley at hospital. I was looking at a cyst the size of a tangerine and a tumour the size of a golf ball. "Now they know what it is. Now they can fix it."
They couldn't fix it. Not really. They offered me standard of care: surgery, radiation, chemo. But "fix" implies return to normal, and there was no normal to return to. Not now.
Everyone told me to stay positive. Fight. Never give up. Be grateful for every day. Find the silver lining. Keep yer chin up lad!
I tried to. For months, I tried. I played the good cancer patient: my kids, my friends, my family. I pretended to be grateful. I told everyone I was "hanging in there" when really I was terrified and angry and exhausted by having to perform politeness, gratitude, humour for everyone.
So I started searching for something that might actually help with the feeling of dread.
I went through stacks of books. Psychology. Philosophy. Self-help that made me want to throw up. Cancer books full of grim stories. I was looking for something, anything, that could give me emotional release without the inspirational nonsense.
Eventually I found something. In a practice I'd learned years before but never applied to the biggest, most terrifying part of me: Death.
In early December 2021, I started writing letters. Angry letters. To all the people who expected me to be something I wasn't. To doctors who'd delivered news with the wrong expression. To the medical system itself. Pages and pages of everything I'd been holding in.
I didn't send those letters. But writing them discharged something critical: the rage, the fury, the sheer upset with being given this fucking diagnosis.
And then one to Death.
On the morning of 1 January 2022, after weeks of emotional discharge through writing, I thought "OK. Let's have a conversation with this Death person. Let's see what he has to say."
I set up my iPhone's camera and started self-facilitating the process, not knowing if anything would happen.
Death was silent at first. Reluctant to speak.
When he finally spoke, his first words were: "Calm down or you won't be able to understand me. Take a deep breath."
"My first suggestion is you stop performing for everyone." The bastard had nailed me.
And then: "You don't need all this stuff, where you're going. Pack lightly."
"Pack lightly..."
Pack lightly. "Fuck" I thought.
Suddenly I had access to the part of me that had been watching my whole life. He knew every value I'd compromised. Every convenient lie I'd told myself. What mattered versus what was just performance. He knew the difference.
That conversation shifted everything that followed.