The Long Trick

‘And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.’

Cancer changes you. There is a distinct ‘before and after’ from the time a doctor first calls to say something is up. That call came for me late afternoon 3 January 2025 and even then, according to my journal, I knew that it was the day when I had to start working out what was important to me and discarding the rest. My PSA was at a level where, statistically, cancer was more likely than not.

The mental change persisted through the protracted process of diagnosis. My GP thought the most likely cause of my high-ish PSA was benign prostate enlargement and so did the urologist. An MRI was inconclusive and the consultant recommended a biopsy to confirm the diagnosis of benign enlargement. The transperineal biopsy was undignified,  uncomfortable and unpleasant though not acutely painful. The medical team were great and also reassuring based on the MRI scan. That was Saturday 28 June; the following Thursday I ran 5K with no great difficulty. On 16 July it was confirmed that the biopsy had found cancer. It was only then that I talked about it with anyone other than Kirstin.

Despite it all, I was sleeping well and was reading Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act, a book that has a mixed press but which I like as a series of short pieces that provoke thought whether you agree with them or not. It reinforced my view that creativity is resistance. I kept up the creativity through the whole period of diagnosis, decision making, treatment and recovery but its expression varied. I made some notebooks/journals, rebound an old copy of The Lord of the Rings, wrote some dodgy poetry and tried to keep going with the novel-in-progress, though the latter was difficult. I began a separate journal dealing with what might loosely be called Spirituality trying to deal with thoughts that arise from that ‘before and after’ moment. Lately I’ve been playing guitar more.

And through it all, the thoughts of reinvention in the face of (averted) mortality continued, but the thing is, once you have been confronted by potential mortality, the encounter does not leave you unscathed and the need to reconcile oneself to it remains.

And so, reading John Masefield’s great Sea Fever in bed the other night, the final couplet quoted above packed a powerful metaphorical punch. I don’t know if Masefield actually intended the poem as a metaphor for life and death, but it read that way and once seen can’t be unseen. What was once something of an old warhorse suddenly overflows with meaning.

To be clear: I’m fine, just changed a bit and working through the changes.

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

 

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

 

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.