Beyond her Jaynee W alters course by about 120 degrees as having been lightened by transferring fuel to the ferries she makes her way to Fawley for replenishment. There is nothing very pretty about her ungainly mass of pipework and derricks above deck, nor anything attractive about her rust streaked black sides rising above her grubby faded red antifouled hull.
Without one the other would struggle but Brittany Ferries would no doubt find a way to navigate around the absence of the Jaynee W. It may not be as easy or convenient but it would be done. Life's like that.
Sat here on this beautiful Saturday watching ships pass in the serene way that ships do from the comfort of our daughter and her partners flat it occurs to me that I have a nothing day. A day when I don't have to do anything. A day when I'd be happy to do even less.
A day when you feel it safe to allow your mind to reflect and bask in calm contemplation. There haven't been many of these recently. And hitherto the fear of allowing ones mind to revisit recent memories has inevitably led to an aversion to permitting it free rein.
Today feels a fresh day. A refreshing day. A day when you're prepared to allow the mind to revisit places you wish you'd never been. A day so bright and lovely that looking out of the window details of the far shore are revealed in stark clarity. Not that the Isle of Wight has a particularly attractive shore line but it is interesting if only because it is there.
On Thursday 12th October 2017 at about third coffee of the day whilst sat in the garden enjoying the sun on a hot day the phone rang. The screen lit up "Paul MOB" and the heart lit up too. We're coming down a day early, OK? Of course, silly question but before I could say much a note of caution shimmied across the ether. They were cutting their holiday short.
I need to speak to mum.
I passed her the phone.
I watched through the kitchen window as she sat, listened with increasing attentiveness and then slowly drawing paper and pen towards her addressed the paper with absolute concentration.
Countenance giving cause for concern. I went indoors but kept my distance desperate to know but anxious lest I disturb.
Conversation businesslike, notes taken swiftly, look of sadness growing ever deeper, short instructions.
End of conversation, more concentrated looking at notes, minor corrections, clarifications.
Without looking up another phone call. Very businesslike, short, clipped, determined, desperate. Borne of recent experience she knew exactly the person to speak to, the form of words to employ and the tone of voice used no doubt said more than the words.
Finally, looking up I was told that "it's you all over again"
Within a couple of hours Paul came through the front door. That very instant I knew. Only a few weeks ago, August Bank Holiday he'd been so well, or so it seemed but looking back, closely examining the photos there were signs.
Within an hour he'd seen our doctor, within another two he was in the very ward I'd been in at the start only nine months ago.
Seventy two hours later the phone lit up with "Paul MOB" again.
Again I answered. No joy this time. Angiosarcoma. Terminal. A few months, maybe a year. Starting chemo here. Pretty much now.
Nothing can prepare you.
Nothing can affect you so dramatically or effect you so wholly.
Not even being told exactly fifty one weeks later on 5th October 2018 at shortly after nine that your numbers aren't good, the scan showed a lump where there shouldn't be a lump and we can start chemo on Monday.
Whoa! Hang on. Slow down. At times your brain fills with questions but it somehow triages them ruthlessly. How wonderful your brain is.
I feel so well. You look so well. We will stop all the blood tests, have a scan in two months and see you on 5th December. We will start chemo, aggressive chemo, then.
But I feel so well.
Depending on the scan we may delay till January.
Prognosis?
No cure but on average from the start of chemo life expectancy is 13 months.
If there is anything you want to do, do it in the next two months.
It was nowhere near as much of a blow as Paul had been, for me, at least.
It also assumes that I want chemo.
Looking up the Union Flag tells me the wind' s gone more northerly and stiffened, there's no one in shorts so the first day in jeans is the right choice and the ugliest class of vessel afloat, Autostar, Portuguese registered, 22,000 tons steams past at 16 knots delivering how many thousands of cars I can only guess at or Google if I could be bothered. But for all her ugliness she is a fine sight and doing the job for which she was designed with ruthless efficiency. To my left a voice describes her a a monstrous slug sliding along. A bit harsh, although apt, she is merely doing her job as best she can and at maximum benefit to her owners and vendors of her cargo.
According to AIS, Drive Green Highway, red and white split by a black go fast stripe, Panamanian registered, 76,000 tons, doing 15kts will be passing shortly with another umpteen thousand cars aboard. A rough calculation tells me I can get up, make coffee, get back comfortably in time to watch her pass by. I can do this all day.
Life goes on.
Wonderful, isn't it?
No comments:
Post a Comment