Terminal one; deadmanwriting

IT'S fair to say that as I am terminally ill, I am also terminally depressed. One reader pointed out that the column title means that I have given up already, and that I am already a "deadman". I just wish I had the energy to put up an argument, but I don't.

Although I'm on anti-depressants, when I wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, wondering what lies ahead, I am depressed and scared. And who wouldn't be? Some days, it's hard to even raise my head from under the duvet as I lie in my favourite foetal position, warm and safe. And even when I do venture up from the safe haven of my bed, it's never until at least midday. My next move once I'm up is to retire to the comfort of my reclining chair in my now cocoon-like room. And why not?

My mum and dad pop in to see me periodically because they don't like to see me on my own, but company will not cure what I have. I do have visitors whenever I'm up to it though. I'm lucky to have so many good friends who come to see me whenever I need them. And their presence often lifts my spirits.

I have other ways of dealing with the disease that has blighted my life though. I have to admit, I'm a cancer spotter. Ever since I was diagnosed, I do this thing which has become my obsession - I trawl newspapers, looking for headlines that point to grief, loss or anguish. And it's not the kind of obsession many people could probably identify with. I'm not losing sleep over a girl. I don't bite my nails. And I don't collect rare stamps. I'm just fascinated with reading about cancer in the news and how it affects everyone, celebrities and ordinary folk like me. I like to know how long someone's battle has been, how they fought it; in fact everyone last detail.

I am in the fourth year of my own fight, which is considered a long time when you have the kind of cancer I have. According to the statistics this is the year I should actually pop my clogs which is perhaps one of the reasons why the depression has kicked in so heavily, and may also explain my increasing obsession with cancer deaths in the press. But at least I don't have a book for clippings. (Well, okay, I do, but it is for clippings mentioning me. I know, forever the narcissist - it'll be the death of me).

I don't limit my obsession to stomach cancer either, oh no. I have been following Sir Jackie Stewart's wife Helen's battle with breast cancer. Despite her having a successful operation at the world- renowned Mayo Clinic in the United States (my first appointment after winning the lottery, thank you very much), the statistics have not been kind to the Stewart clan. Sir Jackie's son, Paul, is also having a long battle with stomach cancer too, (notice a pattern here - I'm sorry but I told you I was completely obsessed).

Fortunately Paul is in remission, but as we know, the spectre of cancer will forever have him looking over his shoulder. The statistic of one of us in three falling foul to cancer has been harshly exceeded in their family, and all the money they have, while initially giving them instant access to the best care in the world, will, eventually not amount to much. Cancer pays no heed to dollar signs.

I'm about to digress, but indulge me. At my charity auction, one of the prizes was a day's tuition at the Sir Jackie Stewart school of shooting at Gleneagles, kindly donated by a reader. It is sad to say, but cancer seems to be taking pot shots at the Stewart family. I just wish them well because even celebrities, rich folk and those who appear in Hello! magazine deserve our best wishes.

Meanwhile I will go back to scouring the papers, finding justification for my illness, and taking little comfort from it. Perhaps it's okay to have a duvet day sometimes because perhaps it will keep me from my obsession for another dayu To read any of Jonathan's previous columns, log on to www.sundayherald.com/ deadmanwrtiting You can also email Jonathan at Deadherald@aol.com

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