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It’s a strange time at the moment. Our son is now fully independent in his own house after a VERY long transition period. Said house is literally at the end of our road, but that is perfect: far enough to put the space we need between us and near enough to stave off anxiety and loneliness on both sides. We can now see each other when we want to and not because we have to: Sam can get on with his life and I can get on with mine.

That really should be true! He is 25 and has plans and I am 55 and, wonderfully, I have some plans too – and the freedom to pursue them… except for the ball and chain. Ah – no matter how we try to forget it, ignore it, enjoy life and pursue normality we always get brought up short by this dragging weight attached to an ankle. Like a dog on a leash I can run as fast as I like, but am jerked back when I reach the limit of the chain, held into the circumference of family and home… by the cancer.

Anyone who has any type of cancer in the family probably feels the same – once it’s there it’s always there, like an unwanted lodger. Sam’s sister is currently illustrating a proposed children’s book about what happens when this monster turns up in your household – how it waxes and wanes, takes over and recedes, gets way out of control and eats everything in sight then through medical care is brought back to heel again… I am biased but it is going to be very good: I’ll let you know when it gets published 😉

Sam’s tumour acts as a ball and chain to us – to me. I seem free at first glance, but if you look closely you will see the chain round my leg, the limited distance I can go. We’d like to relocate and downsize, for instance, but how can we leave the convenience of this arrangement, having had the good fortune to get him this particular house so near to ours? As I wrote before, our exit is blocked.

So I have to get creative with my ball – carry it around a bit, sit on it, paint a face on it and call it ‘Wilson’, perhaps… At times it is way too heavy and all my energy is sapped – grief does that, you know; I have to find ways to make the ball smaller, lighter – employ some kind of coping mechanism. I wonder if I can ever really make friends with it, subdue it or perhaps submit to it? The nearest might be to be able to just accept it…

On the same theme, but perhaps engendering a little more hope, I passed a lock for canal boats the other day. The boat was low down and the water coming in to bring it up to the level where the gate could be opened and the journey continued. I guess I feel like that too… stuck in a confined space, waiting for life to start moving again. The process can’t be hurried and you certainly can’t open the gate before the water levels adjust – the weight of water is too great to be pushed away by human strength. There is simply nothing to do but breathe in the delicious smell of the water, hold the boat steady and peacefully bide your time.

Watching this scene again reminded me why canal boat holidays are actually so wonderful –  giving the boatmen and women no choice but to slow down and live life at 4mph; one is forced to go back to basics and the natural pleasures of scenery, fresh air and wildlife. It is, of course, no problem to walk along the towpath faster than a narrowboat can travel…but why are we always in a hurry anyway? I should go barging again sometime – it’s a good reminder to enjoy the moment.

I suppose I should try to do that again anyway – because ‘now’ is really all we have. The water of time is pouring in the floodgate, loading up for the next round soon enough. Whether I have my ammunition ready or not, I can’t live the future yet anyway: despite the restrictions we face I really should focus on making the most of the present, limited range or not.

And just at the moment all is well, so I really don’t want to waste it. And nor does Sam.