Roger v Hercule 19—28th September, 2018:
I Fell Over in Public

I used to be very accomplished at walking. Not to boast, but even as a child I was able to do it. And in later years I could go days without falling over even once.

It's a different story now. Walking feels unnatural. My legs are floppy. After five months of almost no use, they have the robustness of overcooked spaghetti.

It's so bad, sometimes my legs can't even agree to go in the same direction. I lurch around like a drunkard—without the actual benefit of having had a drink*. Now and then, they just give up altogether, dumping me on the ground. The other day, I kneeled down to do some filming with my phone and collapsed on to the pavement. Mercifully, the people in the car who witnessed my topple didn't stop to see whether I was all right. That would have been embarrassing.

The feebleness of my legs makes running impossible. I live on top of a hill. It's quite substantial. I used to run up it. At the moment, it may as well be Everest or... which is the really vicious one? K2? Annapurna? Either way, my hill is a daunting brute beyond my abilities at the moment. I wonder when I'll run up it again?

*I haven't had a drop of alcohol in five months. If I'm given the all-clear on 8th October, screw Go Sober, I have some serious catching up to do. How soon I drink after I'm declared cured depends on whether I'm allowed to bring a bottle of claret and a corkscrew with me into the meeting with the oncologist.

Did I Destroy Everything?

The dust from the impact is clearing. I'm starting to see the devastation. It's shocking.

I don't even know where to start describing it.

I'll begin with what means most to me. My family. Those closest to me are wandering around the impact site like zombies. My wife in particular. She has been shredded by the burden she has carried over the past five months. She is exhausted. My brother-in-law too. It's remarkable either is still standing.

My daughter carries herself elegantly amidst the debris. I'm worried her scarring is all internal, though, despite the powerful armour my wife and brother-in-law wrapped around her.

The explosion blew the doors off my business and shattered the windows. It's only thanks to the support of remarkable friends and clients that there is even a shell of shop still standing. I'll have to sweep up the mess and open for business again soon. I haven't worked properly for five months.

Then there's me—lying at the centre of the impact crater. My body smashed to pieces—ineffectual and weak.

I don't know what's worse.

The feeling that this is all my fault—everyone's pain, all the devastation.

Or the uncertainty about whether or not another impact is imminent—ripping towards us, unseen yet inevitable.

I'll know when get my scan results on 8th October.

Spierkater: Beanie Styles

(Remainers, Brexiteers and Donald Trump voters, you should skip this section.)

I wear a beanie all the time, even in bed. Partly because I'm still self-conscious about my baldness. Partly because my head is cold constantly.

You can wear a beanie a number of ways. Here are some of the most popular.

Spierkater is my running alter ego, soon to become my cartooning alter ego: www.spierkater.com.

This Time of Unstatus

When exactly is 8th October? I've been waiting ages already. Can't it hurry up?

It's dangerous for someone in my situation to be wishing time away, but I can't resist. I'm like a child in the backseat of a car. Actually, I've always been like that, but now more so than ever. I just want to get there.

I need to remind myself that I might not like what I hear when I do, so best enjoy this time of ignorant unstatus.

I wish I could see this spell as a holiday. But I can't. The concerns of everyday life are creeping back in and troubling me. I feel a great pressure to be well again and functioning fully. But my body and mind aren't able for that yet.

I'll tell you what has been great: driving my daughter to school and telling stories. There was a moment, soon after I was diagnosed, that I thought I'd never do that again. You can imagine what it feels like to have had this returned to me.

The next time you hear from me, we'll know whether or not we won.

Roger

PS—Previous issues of Roger v Hercule are here:

How to live through high-grade non-Hodgkin lymphoma type B and not lose your sense of humour