Give me an argument and give me a hug

I’m in no doubt there must be a balance to our existence, a natural Hegelian dialectic on life. Where there is good there will be bad. It’s enough to drive you nuts, especially when you are caught in the middle, wondering what is going to come next and whack you, the positive, the negative, or that higher level of truth.

A couple of weeks ago I was doused in the negative, so poorly the doctors cancelled my chemo in the hope my body would recover quickly enough to endure another session. It did, so that was a positive, and I received my delayed dose of chemicals yesterday, so we’ll see how that works out for my fragile mortal mechanics and whether I dip into another slump.

Psychologically though, there was a bit of a lift. For those who have never experienced, either personally or with a friend of relative, the world of oncology and chemotherapy, the darkness of the journey can provide a lightness of being, especially when you are among your fellow travellers.

Yesterday was one such occasion. I took the remaining seat in the chemo’ bay. My five fellow patients were quiet. Three had had shared time with me before and there was a friendly greeting before the silence returned, broken only by the bustle of the nurses as we were tubed in and checked.

Then it happened. A new face made a comment to no-one in particular, and it fell. I was sitting there and decided to pick it up. Old habits die hard I suppose.

I chose the career I did because I am intrigued by people’s stories. Everyone has a tale to tell and a tale they are living. They don’t always realise it but the individualism of each and every person contains a fascination for those who are willing to listen. All you need to do is get someone to open up. I always wanted to be that person, but also the one to write it down.

Just before I started as a trainee reporter I had some loose ends to finish up before abandoning my post graduate studies at what was then Fife Technical College. My father drove me along to Kirkcaldy to have a pointless dissertation printed and, as we sat on a wall outside waiting, he expressed his concern over my entering the world of newspapers, and my suitability to what would lie ahead.

He saw a world of pain, of crime and violence; lives full of sadness and loss, devious politicians and exploiters. I would be living in a world of tragedy and bad news, and that wasn’t something he felt I was made for.

I didn’t see it that way. I saw a world full of tales of triumph over challenges, tales of joy and hope, redemption and salvation, of tears but smiles.

In the end he was right ... and so was I. I tasted both, that dialectic of life, bad and good.

The former shaped my character and cynicism and while I wish I could erase some of the memories I have they have played an important part in my development throughout life. As for the good, I wish I could sharpen their focus and remember more clearly the lift they gave me, and still do.

One memory I carry every day with me, probably because it belongs to the place I now call home, and I regularly pass the house where the interview took place. If I recall correctly, his daughter called me as I was responsible for the East Neuk pages in the paper I worked for. We ran a weekly ‘Personality’ piece, a feature of around 1000 words, and that was a tough ask.

Some interviewees, unaware they were going to be the next week’s ‘Personality’, expecting a couple of paragraphs on a little snippet would get restless wondering why you were still there an hour on and asking about their parents’ childhood. Not everyone was happy at the inflated publicity, or any mistake that might slip in because of illegible shorthand or a misunderstood recollection from something that couldn't be checked from 50 or so years ago.

On this occasion, it was definitely a ‘Personality’. The woman who called believed her father had a story worth recounting, especially of his war years, but he would be a reluctant subject.

I arrived at the cosy little bedsit he had in the family home and, with the formal greetings over, I then spent a couple of hours with this gentleman who did eventually open up to me, probably because of my genuine enthusiasm for what he was telling me. It turned out to be one of these features where I only turned to my notes for the odd spelling or date, writing it was easy; it was like telling the story of a movie you had just seen. I didn’t need notes, this old seadog had taken me with him on his adventures.

When the paper hit the shops on the Wednesday morning, I received a call from his daughter. Her father wanted to see me, and wouldn’t say why. She sounded worried, I was too.

People imagine a newspaper would simply take the attitude of “Tough, and put the phone down”, but when it is your patch, and you might have messed up, it is best to face the music and try and smooth things over.

I stepped into his little room overlooking the sea, and into an awkward silence. There was a copy of the article lying on the small table beside him.

“I wanted to see you about what you wrote in the paper,” he said, and my heart started thumping. Then he went on to explain that he was worried after he spoke to me about how he would emerge. He didn’t want to be seen to be a braggart or to be selling himself as some sort of hero, and he was frightened that was what would happen.

But it hadn’t. He felt I had really told his story as he wished it told … and then he started to cry, repeating his thanks.

It was an incredibly moving experience and one that still shines above the murders, accidents and horrors that were part of our regular news diet.

Finding that empathy was something I always hoped I could instil in staff when I became a chief reporter and then an editor.

I don’t know if I ever succeeded, probably because I worked with folk so much more talented than I was, or could be.

Oh, there was the slapdash copy that needed tidied, a piece filed that had come from the “it’ll do” school of thought, and then there was the piece that made you think, “I wish I had written that.” All of these could come from the same typewriter.

With barely an exception, I’ve seen people fail to make the grade but can’t think of one who didn’t give it their all in going out and speaking to someone then grafting away at trying to tell the story. Honesty, diligence, hard work and integrity were not always enough, but I remember those I let go with affection and regret that I couldn’t or didn’t do more to help them.

I am fortunate that I have remained friends with many of those I worked beside, all of whom probably don't realise they helped me far more than I helped them.

But the story and the thoughts behind every piece of copy are still to me the fascination.

And in the chemo bay, your personal details only ever trickle out. There are those being treated before surgery, those after it. The bewildered soul who has just been diagnosed and is starting the journey. The young parent worried about her kids. The guy hoping he’ll feel well enough for his 40th birthday. And all are isolated, not just mentally and physically by their illness but also through Covid and the lockdown.

All live with the management of their cancer and what they need to do within their bubble to reach the next milestone in the treatment strategy.

But what we don’t get is the chance, like ‘normal’ people to blether, argue, debate, gossip … and laugh.

So when that comment fell on a silent bay, I simply picked it up and asked a question, then someone else offered up a view and, soon, we were off.

At times the nurses were bewildered and puzzled as to what was happening.

Without pause we offered our views, sometimes loudly, on the pandemic, vaccines, children and grandchildren, Salmond/Sturgeon, independence for Scotland, UK Prime Minister de Pfeffel Johnson, the bizarre world of Donald Trump, social change in the Netherlands, right wing activism in France, Spain, Italy, Poland and Hungary, the Russian Revolution and subsequent civil war, the War of the Roses, and the ruthlessness of the House of Plantagenet. The Royal Family was a short-lived subject, ending abruptly with the very mention of Prince Andrew.

All in all a good session of friendly but heated banter, taking everyone’s mind off the tubes and the reason for them.

”A good session”, hah! An ironic phrase. Chemo is divided up into sessions. Among us there are those well into their program, some just beginning, some returning, and there are some finishing.

Nurses and fellow travellers say lightheartedly to those ending this particular part of the treatment, “All the best, hope we don’t see you again.”

But I do, albeit without the tubes and bags of chemicals, somewhere in the sunshine with a drink, where we could laugh and argue in companionship and understanding. I want to hug them all, but, more than that, I want to be hugged back.

Picture: Dimitri Houtteman