An Uneasy Embarkation

I woke up in a small town in Eastern Australia, crying. This was not the start of a trip-of-a-lifetime I’d expected. The past two days were spent moping around my second cousin and his wife’s house in Narrabri, halfway between Sydney and Brisbane. Here, in this charming farmland town, I did a whole lot of not much, other than sleeping, weeping, and trying hard not to bum out my tolerant hosts. It was a mere fortnight ago that my family’s tranquil existence has been irreversibly disrupted, destabilising the vibe around the trip I’d been planning for many months as result.

We were sitting in the kitchen – our familial congregating area, its cramped cosiness and proximity to the fridge much preferred to the larger living room, only ever used for watching TV or entertaining guests - my mum, my sister and me. I was on a long visit, sort of an elaborate pit stop prior to commencing my long-planned trip, but in reality an excuse to spend much needed time in the bosom of my family. I’d been living away for so long, this was a singularly precious opportunity to gain some quality time on the family loyalty-points card.

Sitting in the kitchen, as we were, not unlike any other day, my sister casually mentioned she thought, but wasn’t certain, she may have a something lump-like in her breast, but perhaps it’s nothing. ‘I’m not sure’, she added laconically. My mum and I exchanged glances. ‘How long has it been there?’ we asked. ‘A few months, really’, she tentatively offered, fully recognising the implication of what she was saying, and the overwrought histrionics she may be invoking, ‘but honestly, I couldn’t tell if it’s anything. Here, feel it’. I knew, as soon as my fingers touched that Ping-Pong ball sized solid protuberance, that it was cancer. I’d felt it before, oddly, on my dog, years ago. I knew what it was then, and I knew now. ‘Make an appointment to see a doctor’, I said pointedly, whilst trying to maintain my cool. She seemed taken aback at my unequivocal tone, rather than being placated with a dismissive ‘oh it’s nothing to worry about’. But we all knew there was now no time to lose.

I was due to leave for my trip the following week, but was no longer sure I wanted to, or even could bring myself to. We went to see the doctor together, confirming what we’d already suspected, and set the wheels in motion for the next inevitable steps. Ominous words like ‘chemotherapy’, ‘terminal’ and ‘death’ were constantly going through my mind. I agonised over the decision whether to pack it in and stay put. But mulling it over with the family, they repeatedly pointed out that a. we didn’t know how soon, if at all, any treatments were to start, b. there is nothing any of us can do for the moment and c. I’d spent much time and money organising this trip and ought to at least begin, then if necessary I could always return.

I had just recently completed a postgrad diploma, later in life than is conventional, a feat undoubtedly driven by the dissolution of my marriage. The divorce papers have also just come through, the coinciding events both milestones of some epic. Feeling this was as right a time as any for a Sabbatical, I quit my UK based job, having put some funds aside for my adventure, and became a lady of leisure – for the next year or so, anyway. The plan was to travel around the south east of Australia, using Wwoofing as a great way of seeing as many remote parts as possible. Wwoofing consists of volunteering on sustainable and environmentally aware, mainly smallholders’ farms, sometimes organic or biodynamic, being provided with food and accommodation in exchange for 4-6 labour hours per day. My trip was then to take me around the north and south islands of New Zealand; however, here some work permit restrictions meant Wwoofing was not an option, and so I begrudgingly booked a hop-on-hop-off tour bus, with the intention of stopping off for independent hikes in various places. The final leg was to be around the southern states of the US, mainly by Amtrak train. I felt the tingle of freedom and yearned to consummate it by roaming the world, unshackled by concerns and trivialities of routine life. But now, It seemed, reality has sniggered smack dab in my face. Best laid plans and so on… a new perspective heavily wrapped round my escapade like a thick duvet. Still, I resolved to push on with my plan and put a brave face on. The airport goodbyes were not easy.

A Quest for Life

The whole expanse of the world is stretching out before me - magnificent mountain ranges, deep lakes, interminable deserts, lush valleys, bustling cities and many long roads. But I am sitting alone on the concrete stairs outside my flat, on my street, in my city, feeling morose. The evening is quiet and I am craving adventure, yet seem to be wishing for it on my doorstep, where the likelihood of realisation is somewhat diminished. Since my father’s exasperated and drawn out death by breast cancer a month ago, much too torturous and stalled for his taste, my entire outlook on life has drastically altered. That is, whilst remaining the same in essence, my perception of its brutal truths has shifted. Seeing myself more lucidly, I've been forced to confront my naked and raw identity, which had until now been obscured by someone else’s ideals. With him gone, I was supposedly free to discover who I really was, and guiltlessly indulge my reckless side, my wildness and irresponsibility. My father gave moral structure and organised stability to our lives, upholding conformity and boundaries. These were harnessed by shackles, however, forged of loyalty and the need to please him. Mustn’t disappoint my ethical benchmark.

 

Moralistic he did not remain, however. At 71, my dad stunned his little tribe of three by confessing, first to his wife, then his two daughters, to an on-going affair with a mentally unstable colleague. My mother’s world was turned upside down, as was ours – was right still right, or was it now wrong? What, of all that we’d believed in, was still worth believing in?

Death, however, is the get out of jail free card for forgiveness, and callous cancer reifies the need to blame and punish, revealing petty hues. This new exonerating circumstance gave our anger permit to soften. We were able to experience a moment of grace with this man, seeing him for the first time as fallible, vulnerable, human. His dogmatic values of an inherited source no longer applied, allowing our timid hesitancy to be taken over by a confident sense of our own discretionary consideration. Taking care of him in the final months required non-wavering compassion, mixed with ruthless conviction of daily life-or-death decisions. Having my father’s life in my hands has been the single most powerful experience of my life, in the sense that any doubts I’ve ever had about my capacity to be a caring, loving person, responsible for another, have been thwarted. Now, at least, I had proof of the seed of good in me. Perhaps I am to be trusted, along with my instincts.

With the turmoil and chaos of my repeatedly deconstructed reality - firstly by the betrayal of trust, then by unconditional giving, and finally loss - I expected the finality of death, when it finally came, to serve as relief; a definitive remover of inhibitions, a tremendous motivator. I felt this was sure to be the moment of clear perspective, when I finally stand up renewed from the ashes, and pursue my true purpose. But here something was still undeniably blocked, like a corked barrel. My loss, my grief, only managed to shake the barrel and effervesce the contents. However the cork would not dislodge. I couldn’t understand what more was required to provide a final straw. I had realised that any significant change would not occur during the initial shock phase, and fully expected to have to wait it out. But the process of grieving had taken a disheartening turn, as the pain of losing my closest male friend, my ally in eye-rolling at family gatherings, my confederate in introspective nihilism, my enabler of the darkest of humour, intensified, rather than subsiding. The solid stability and core structure my dad’s presence bestowed upon my existence acted as a mould, without which the contents, jellylike and formless, spilled out, proving impossible to re-gather and reshape.

 

I felt paralysed, powerless and lost. Utterly unable to even begin relocating my path. All that I’ve managed to achieve since his death, in terms of real change, had been increased propensity towards self-destructiveness, a sense of listless aimlessness, and a desperate need to set my course for terra firma of my aspirational dreams. My jelly, it would seem, would inevitably have to form into an entirely new mould. Although what shape that mould would take, I had absolutely no idea.
 

This has not been my first encounter with cancer and its life-altering path of destruction. But unlike this current craving to surrender to spontaneous flights of fancy, eight years previously my adventure and travel lust pre-existed the illness. A round-the-world trip I was about to embark on had been recontextualised by these new circumstances in a way I could not have foreseen. What was meant to be a carefree expression of my newfound freedom, and transcendence into full blossom, became an introspective journey of darker hues. Or perhaps it was always going to shape up that way. You can plan and make provisions for the way forward, but after all, it’s the impulsive decisions, wrong turns and detours that eventually shape our lives, and rarely as predicted.

 

This time round, sitting on the stairs, I could not see over the edge of the bottomless hole I fell into. Alone and in the dark I summoned a route out.