So Dumb

[I found this on an old computer today] 

Brain tumours are so dumb.

He sits there, burrowed into my mind, plotting my downfall. Months go by, during which my son is born (hurrah!) and I lose my job (boo!). I get  through four rounds of chemo pretty much unscathed, besides a bit of tiredness. 

About three months ago, I started to lose all sense of direction. Big crowds, especially those in places I’ve not been to before, begin to intimidate me. Nevertheless, I negotiate the Rolling Stones live in a big venue; I walk about two miles a day with the dog. I go to London purely for the honour of being made redundant in person, during which HR ask me ‘how little I could survive on’ by way of an opening gambit. Charmers to the last.

Then last week, stuff started to shift on me - my anti-seizure meds are up a bit, and holding, but I’m not as sprightly as I was. Walking to our local shop, once a nonchalant trot of about 10 minutes, now feels like an expedition that needs to be considered before it’s completed. But I am still, broadly speaking, OK. My research has also proven that wine is an effective deterrent to most ills.

We saw the mighty Jenner clan last week, which was and will always be a joy. Hope, were it a candle, would flicker at the slightest breeze, having brought from the dark by friends and family, and those I need. Some mornings I feel like I will be dust at Christmas; until recently, others made me forget anything is happening. But now, all mornings carry a reminder that I am finite, and that below the waterline, the ship is, slowly, sinking.

But I am not sunk yet. When I had my op in January I worried that I wouldn’t be able to play shit bass guitar again. I was right. Slowly though, I have been able to pick up the pieces and play. Initially, playing itself made me dizzy; too much coordination needed, too many inputs, too much data requiring processing. But today, 303 days after my op, I played as well as ever, nice and loud, for 90 minutes. 

This is significant, because if I could have my time again, I would throw myself into learning and playing music more vociferously than i did this time round. Listen to Miles Davis, or Coltrane, or The Roses, or Metallica, or any decent musicians, and what you can hear is the result of someone wanting to make noises that are great fun, or emotional shorthand for something else, with and for their best friends. 

Being in the same room as a bunch of people intent on creating something with you that wasn’t there seconds ago, and if you stopped, would cease to exist altogether, is actual fucking magic. It is a glimpse of the inner workings of the mind. It is the higher state - pure creativity, emotion, clarity, faculty and freedom. It is as close to telepathy as you can get with your clothes on. 

Music has power. It started a civil war in Yugoslavia, and helped to end the war in Europe. It can evoke untold suffering and limitless joy. It is the only thing that can stop a room in its tracks. Humans are driven by it, inspired by it, die for it, are, sometimes, even made thanks to the atmosphere it can generate.

So, to know that I can still command my fingers to hold my bass in such a way as to make a sound I recognise as music, when I was warned that my treatment might - perhaps should - have taken that away by now, is good to know. The reason I started this by saying that brain tumours are dumb? Mine stopped me playing for a year, right? I couldn’t play stood up, like I have since I was 17. In a revolutionary moment, I sat down, giving my brain a rest, as it didn’t have to deal with balance issues that have been increasing for a year or more. With all those issues stowed, I could play, properly, again. 

All I can say is, sometimes it’s best to sit on your arse. 

‘The worst tragedy that could ever happen to anyone, in my opinion, is that when they die, they never sang the song that was inside of them. They were never able to give their greatest gift away.” 

“But the beautiful opposite of that is that if you pass away and you know that you’ve sung your song - that you gave your gift - that’s the greatest accomplishment I could ever hope for anybody.’ - Flea

 All I seem to be good for is getting into pointless fucking arguments, pissing people off, and surfing the fucking internet. Discuss. 

Oh, how I look forward to absolutely nothing at all enjoyable fucking happening. 

Before that, though, my son's just a biting, hissing, spitting, deaf, violent shambles I don't have any patience for and cannot understand. 

It's a good job he thinks Tam is the centre of the fucking universe and I am, at best, a surly, incompetent fucking prop, put on Earth to carry shit, pick up shit, wash up shit and shout at him.

I don't know how much more I can take.

They'll say I'm overreacting. I'm over-dramatic. They always do. They'll say I'm not present. I don't think they want me to be.

I can't say anything.

I can't do anything.

What did we do this for?

 What I actually want to do is go on a big holiday, away from everyone I know - everyone I've ever known - and never come back.

My wife hates me. We have not had sex in four years. I have no interest in breaking that streak. It feels like that's what got us into this mess in the first place.

My son either ignores or attacks me. I am blamed for his every unwelcome personality trait, and asked/told to leave the house if ever I get upset. Yes, I sometimes strike him out of sheer frustration, but never hard, and never without significant provocation. The atmosphere in this house is toxic.

I'm dying.

My in-laws are the least pro-active people I've ever met. Dithering, unworldly inertia isn't my thing. They are 71 going on 85. Look at Mike at their age. They're pathetic. Too timid to meet my parents before my Mum died. Too skint to travel down to Barton because of petrol money. To nervous and afraid of other people to sit in a pub and just chill out for a couple of hours. These are not my people. Quite happy to ask for £10,000 for a loan to pay off the remainder of their mortgage a month after I inherited my money, though. And then too spineless to tell me what it was for, and accept £5,000 instead. So, how much was left on the mortgage? We don't know, but I'll bet some of that loan was spent in fucking Morrisons. 

Actually give them real money, though, and before you know it, they're off pissing it up the wall on camper vans they use to visit... other areas in Devon or Cornwall (£20,000) and holiday lets  which promise 12% returns on investment. Sign me up! Here - have my £54,000! I'm in!

What's that? You need to advertise, promote, insure and physically know how to run a BTL? Oh, well in that case we'll leave it for a year, wait until OCTOBER before asking our daughter how much to charge for it, then realise it has a rodent infestation. Then, realising that we've got an entirely predictable £2,000 annual services charge looming, we'll fucking panic, and sell it for approximately £30,000. We're so stupid that Pam will actually cheer audibly at 'being free of the spectre of that bill.' 

How fucking outrageously stupid. And then too stupid to realise that they'd need money after that.

I have no desire to work. To do so makes no sense. I should just relax and look at the flowers. But flowers are boring. Money is useful. So I'll work. Better that than spend whatever time I have left looking after a child I can barely relate to, in a house 200 miles from anyone I love or know well.