Backs against the wall; deadmanwriting

I KNEW cancer was not going to be easy but this is hell. Hell on earth. I am pumped full of drugs: methadone, morphine, opium, marijuana, the whole lot. But does it help? Not a jot. I have a pain at the base of my spine that is destroying my soul. I have prayed to God. I have made pacts with the Devil. I have drunk concoctions that have me gagging between gulps. No good.

There is nothing as lonely as sitting at the end of your bed, sobbing through pure pain. I am no wimp. I would face off with anybody, I never back down once I have set out my stall, but this is back-breaking.

What hurts me just as much is trying to hide the pain from my mum. She has put her life on hold to look after me but, for all her expertise and love, cancer just has us both beat. I wonder if this is it, the slowish descent to my demise.

I am reduced to taking a mid-afternoon nap. Imagine the scene: a nursing home or hospice somewhere. It's a bright day and the sun's rays are streaming through the window. Next to the window is an armchair, on which an old man sits, dozing quietly. Except the old man isn't old. He is me.

I can't sleep at night and the tiredness during the day is devious. It creeps up on me. I could be sitting reading a book, then my eyes get tired so I rub them for a second. But that second they close is so nice and I think, well, the book can wait. It is not going anywhere, whereas I am going to a nice warm, comfortable place where I am safe and get to meet friends I haven't seen for years, relatives from my childhood and situations that can only take place in your dreams. I love my dreams. Sometimes I prefer my dreams to real life. Is that sad? Maybe I should give up now.

Sometimes I let the good days get away with me and I slip into a normal life routine. The eye-opener is not the pain or discomfort - what really brings it home to me is when I try to move outside the envelope that cancer has stuck me in and my mum says, "but Jonno, you're sick". She knows me inside out and to hear from her that I have a killer disease, that I am dying and that death will be sooner rather than later really stings.

I really enjoyed watching coverage of Ellen MacArthur, the 24- year-old who sailed around the world single-handed. Now that's brave, whereas sitting here with cancer, typing a magazine article, is not. All I can hope to be is entertaining. What have I done to be special? I consider walking the West Highland Way without the help of drugs to be the "bravest" thing I have done. I learned a lot about myself that I would not have discovered otherwise. I also found out how to lose a stone and a half, and that you can achieve whatever you set your mind to do.

I counted my toilet breaks today. Thirty-eight. There goes my chance of a job in a call centre, since their toilet visits are monitored. As regular readers know, I like my mum or dad to be present when I am yakking up. During the night I was ill (it was worth it, fish suppers down in Ayr cannot be beaten) and vomited bright red blood. My mum says not to worry, that I have probably just burst a blood vessel. If it was serious, the blood would be dark brown. What happens next? I retch up a load of dark brown liquid. Then limp back to bed with my thoughts. What is Mum thinking? Has she given up? I can't ask because I'm afraid of her answer. I know I am living on borrowed time.

I got a phone call from an old friend the other day, someone I grew up with. He is a respectable businessman now but when we were young we terrorised Glasgow's nightclubs, drinking, carousing and doing a lot else I can't mention. He stays in London now, so I need to visit him soon, because my windows of opportunity to travel are closing. We talked about the good old days and my mum looked in to see what was causing the raucous laughter.

It's good to know that all over the world people are thinking of me. Early last year I stayed with my fellow columnist, Aaron Hicklin. Aaron is one of those rare people who has a great life, but deserves it. He gave me and my parents the run of his beautiful apartment while he worked crazy hours at his ultra-hip magazine, Gear.

I happened to mention my favourite book was American Psycho, the satire on Eighties yuppie life, by Brett Easton Ellis. Yesterday a package arrived from Aaron containing a signed copy of the book with a message to me from the author. It reminded me that no matter how caught up in our lives we are, how intense things get, you really can make a difference to someone's life.

Thanks Aaron

Copyright 2001
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved.