Sacrilege

It wasn't an auspicious opening.

A dingy part of North Belfast. And a gang of teenagers stealing paving slabs at the park entrance. They pause, sneer a little as I walk past, then resume work.

I ascend the grassy slope. A familiar view from atop the rise, huge grey stones standing in a ring.

Screams and howls. Many people careering about.

Not a neolithic sacrifice to a pagan god. But the fun of running, jumping, tumbling and bouncing back up - on an art work.

Jeremy Deller's life-size model of Stonehenge as a bouncy castle had come to Belfast.

Shoes off and I join in. Me and my inner child race helter-skelter through the stones. Different generations from divided communities are happily larking about. The masts of Black Hill above and the great yellow cranes of Harland and Wolff below.

And why shouldn't public art be fun? There are some particularly stodgy examples locally. The dull geodesic globes at the roundabout on Broadway and the turgid maiden with the ring beside Queen's Bridge. Afraid of causing any offence, committees of public officials seem bound to choose the most boring and least memorable designs.

Well done Jeremy Deller. Unleash that inner child.
 

www.sacrilege2012.co.uk

Living Now

Some time ago a good friend sent me a postcard. The front of the card contained just two words: in bright and bold letters it said 'Enjoy Now.' I smiled and put the card on the office wall, beside the door, and turned to some mundane task or other.

Had someone then challenged me – are you really enjoying now? I would have said (without thinking too much) yes, of course. If pressed I would have added, I'm trying. Then some setback or disappointment would occur and my gaze would linger on the postcard. It stared back at me implacably, posing a tough question about how I was living my life that I didn't know how to answer. So I would look away, sometimes with a sigh, and get on with things.

This situation persisted for years, during which I finally left my job (with an early-exit package) and became a full-time writer. On leaving the office I took the card with me. It got bundled up with other things.

Several months ago I found the card again and put it in my bedroom, on the chest of drawers facing the bed. Now it is the last thing I see before going to sleep and the first thing I notice upon waking.

Actually doing what the card advises isn't so difficult anymore. I am learning to live in the here and now. With short-term horizons, my path seems clearer. Either I do things or I dont. I avoid maybe's. This brings a focus and an intensity to my living.

'Take care of today, and tomorrow will take care of itself.' This derives from Matthew (6:34) and I now feel its truth. In the past, I spent a huge amount of time and energy trying to take care of tomorrow

The change in me has of course been wreaked by the illness. When your longer-term survival is actively in question, everything becomes different.

Yet the big question of life is posed for everyone – and truly, nobody knows. So most people go around avoiding thinking about this challenge (with real determination), like I did for all those years.

Perhaps you're wondering whether I've become a Buddhist? Despite spending several nights in a temple on top of a holy mountain in Japan, going to sleep as if it was my last day and rising as if it was my first remains beyond my reach. As does living with no possessions other than saffron robes and a begging bowl (I'm glad to have the comfort of my home and the financial package I left work with).

What seems to have happened is that the traumatic power of the illness broke down the edifice of the old me. It left me in pieces. But unlike Humpty Dumpty, I have put myself back together again. In this process I did need some help (from local cancer charities, instead of all the king's horses and men). And through doing so I've become more truly and fully myself.

The All Clear

I've just come through another series of medical tests, examinations and reviews. These have ranged from the simple (various blood tests) to the more onerous (collecting all my urine for 24 hours in a large plastic container - to test my kidney function). At first I wondered why they had given me such a big bottle, but later I began to be concerned that I would fill it to overflowing. In the end it reached the brim, a whopping three litres.

I have most of these medical tests every six months. They are all mentally and emotionally troubling, especially when you are waiting for the results: each test could signify that an important part of you is not working properly (after all, I only have one kidney now).

By far the worst is the CT scan. This is to check whether there is any evidence of the return of the disease.

The scan itself is no real problem. You come to the hospital an hour before the appointment and steadily drink a large jug of clear fluid. It has an aniseed taste. The fluid is called contrast, it contains metal particles and helps to clarify the images taken of your soft tissues. Then you lie down with your arms above your head on a slim bed in front of an enormous white ring doughnut. This is the scanner. The radiologist goes to the control room. Suddenly the bed slides into the centre of the scanner. It feels a bit claustrophobic. Then a strange mechanical voice tells you to hold your breath. The scanner spins and whirrs like an aero engine. A little panel at eye level counts down in seconds and the voice tells you to breathe. You go through this procedure several times and then the scan is over.

The weeks leading up to your scan are filled with anxiety. And afterwards it gets worse. The stress is intense, until you hear the results. For you know that if the disease did return it would most likely be fatal.

After the scan is done the images are assessed by a consultant radiologist and a report is written for the medic who requested the scan. The report is usually done within 24 hours and uploaded to the hospital information system. It is the responsibility of the medic requesting the scan to relay the results to the patient.

The result of my latest CT scan was all clear. A fantastic relief. And all the other test results were normal too. That means I'm out of the clutches of medics for the next six months.

But I didn't receive this news from the medic who requested my scan, my Urology consultant. Indeed, I still haven't been contacted by him. And I had the scan almost four weeks ago.

By chance I found out through a short-cut. One of my GP's has special access to the hospital information system and he logged in and downloaded the scan report for me a few days after it was posted. Such access for GP's is under trial in Belfast, I believe it is intended to become the norm.

If I was still waiting to hear the result of my scan (by letter from my consultant) I'm sure I would by now have become very ill due to prolonged stress. And of course this would be highly detrimental to my longer-term health.

Communicating with out-patients is a big weakness of the NHS. Last year, when I was an in-patient in the same hospital (Belfast City), I was given the results of each of my scans within 24 hours.

NEST

Over the road from the Titanic building and underneath an enormous yellow crane, 1500 donated objects are laid out across the concrete floor of a huge warehouse. In the main they are everyday objects, but each one is special: they are mementos from thousands of lives in Northern Ireland. Each has its own story, written by the donor on a small magnolia label attached by string.

The long rows of objects lead to the far end of the building where sits the 100 piece Ulster Youth Orchestra and a community choir, 200 strong. A note sounds, Brian Irvine raises his hands and the performance begins. It's the opening of a new oratorio and art installation, part of the 2012 Cultural Olympiad.

The orchestra play beautifully, exuberantly then wildly: the choir sing movingly then stamp their feet, chunter in unison and eventually howl like dogs. All the pieces are inspired by the donated objects and their stories: such as 'a mermaid with a mechanical tail' and 'two penguins and a snowman'.

They form a grand sound-scape that reverberates throughout this industrial cathedral. A tribute to memory and everyday things in a site replete with its own history of manufacture and loss. The oratorio closes with all performers ringing bells and one by one slowly leaving the stage, until silence once again reigns.

John Donne's powerful meditation on his life-threatening illness came to mind, where he speaks of interconnectedness. And then its later transposition by Hemingway to his novel of the Spanish Civil War. Such resonances are strongly present, from so many mementos of the twists and turns in everyday life to the recent bitter conflict here.

'Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.'

John Passey RIP

I met him at secondary school. Central Technical School for Boys in Gloucester. A school that was staffed by a weird collection of misfits, incompetents and sadists. Most teachers had their own preferred instrument of violence (often referred to by pet names) and particular method of inflicting pain and humiliation. I recall being beaten with various sticks, a plimsoll, large books and a board compass (as well as being punched and kicked). They repeatedly told me I was useless and stupid, that my lack of learning was my own fault.

Amid this sea of educational darkness there was a shining light. He was John Passey: the English teacher. John was full of enthusiasm and encouragement. He loved poetry, particularly Gerard Manley Hopkins, and he instilled that love in me. He also encouraged his pupils to write poetry and short stories, no mean achievement for 14 year old boys who thought they were tough. And when, full of fear, we read our work out in class, he praised it highly. My adolescent poetry was, of course, dire and highly derivative. But through John, I left the school believing that, although I was stupid, I did have a story to tell.

John Passey's funeral took place in Gloucester Cathedral last Friday. He was a talented and generous man and had touched many lives. The tribute was delivered by his son, Alan. He explained that John was so very proud of the boys he taught and what they went on to achieve. And despite the limitations of that school, these achievements were many.

In his will John had asked for his coffin to be carried by us. Unfortunately, this was vetoed by the Cathedral. But as professional pall-bearers transported John's coffin through the nave of the cathedral, two long lines of 'old boys' formed a guard of honour. It was a fitting send off for the man.

Chris O'Ryan, John Taylor, Dave Ballard and myself (with Alan Passey on my back): a chance encounter with the Passey family in Weymouth.

Nietzsche, Tractors and Limits

Last year a cardiac surgeon sawed open my sternum (breastbone) from top to bottom. This is called a median sternotomy. He then undertook open heart surgery, whilst a vascular surgeon worked on my vena cava. After this surgery was completed, the two halves of my sternum were joined with wire sutures (titanium, I believe) to hold them together so it could heal. Needless to say, my sternum was extremely sore for a good six months as the bone was growing back together.

There is now a long white scar that runs down the centre of my chest. Underneath it are a series of small ridges and little lumps. These are the wire sutures. Here my chest is still very sensitive to touch. My GP told me that full healing takes around two years. Little by little, the bone grows over the wire sutures and incorporates these into the sternum. When that process is complete, he said, my breastbone will be stronger than before.

Recently, I related this to a farmer friend of mine. He nodded and pointed to a welded repair on his tractor, telling me that the weld itself became the strongest part of two pieces of metal after they had been fused together.

Then I thought about Nietzsche’s infamous dictum - 'what does not kill me makes me stronger.' Not because I see any of this experience as heroic. But because we normally live within safe limits and when we are tested to the very edge of our limits, we either fail or come back stronger.

The Scan

I'm currently waiting for a CT scan. It's a time of heightened anxiety. This scan is the only way of knowing that you are clear of the disease.

I'm scheduled to have a CT scan every six months for the first three years.

I had a review with my Urology consultant last Tuesday (delayed from the previous month). He marked my scan requisition as 'urgent' and sent it to the CT Department. Today I rang them to find that I will get this scan in 3 weeks time.

I wonder how long 'urgent' is in other parts of the NHS?