25 May 2024

‘For the Lord is a great God, and a great King above all gods. In his hand are the deep places of the earth: the strength of the hills is his also. The sea is his, and he made it: and his hands formed the dry land.’ Psalm 95:3-5

I don’t have a ‘bucket list’. Well, I suppose I do, but the only things on it are people and time: I’m not interested in ticking off experiences or places. We are off to Scotland today not chiefly for the mountains or the scenery, although we adore both, but to see two very special people.

To know exactly how important my Auntie Jean and Uncle Michael are to me, we need to go right back to the beginning. To a time when my Mum fled her marital home in Sutton-in-Ashfield with just 9-month-old me and a bag of nappies, travelling south to seek refuge with her parents in Maidenhead.

Mum did not ever go back, and my biological father was perfectly happy to sign me away for adoption by another man when Mum married my Dad a couple of years later. Notice who I call ‘my Dad’. Blood is so often not thicker then water. A father is defined by what they do after a child is born, not what they contributed to their creation. It has been a natural question for me to be asked in my situation: ‘Are you going to try to get in touch with your real father?’ The answer, however, is an easy ‘no’. The terms ‘real’ and ‘father’ do not apply. I am curious about the 4 half-siblings that I know I have (and possibly more) just to see if I am something of an anomaly within the family or if musical passions are flowing elsewhere… but this is still not something I intend to pursue. I have my brother James and he is awesome. Wait, doesn’t that mean he is really your half brother? I hear the clever clogs among you ask, having worked out that James must have been born to my Mum and her new husband, John, my Dad. Nope. Blood/water again: James was born when I was four and we grew up together in the same family unit, sharing everything. He is my brother.

So my toddler years were spent with my Mum, Nannie and Grandad in their semi-detached council house in Maidenhead with its beautiful garden, and my earliest memories are of this time.

My grandad was head gardener at the Dropmore estate at nearby Taplow (hence his own beautiful garden) and I loved being taken for rides on his little tractor with Mum.

Nannie was a quiet, gentle lady with a deep faith, whereas Grandad can be best described as a clown, full of fun and practical jokes. I adored them both, but Grandad and I had a special bond.

And Jean and Michael were a constant in our lives, Jean often helping Mum out: in one clear memory she is pulling me to nursery school on a sledge through the snow.

Ever since those early days, Auntie Jean has played a large role in my life. My Mum Gill’s only sister (in fact, her only family apart from her cousin Mary), Jean has been almost a second mother to me, naturally intensified by the fact that she and Michael were not able to have any children of their own. Jean and I are similar in so many ways and have shared everything from deep conversations to crazy fun times over the years. Michael and I too; he is a keen pianist and music lover, and has delighted in my musical journey. We have a shared passion for Chopin waltzes and would play them to each other whenever he and Jean came to stay; for most of my life they have lived in Scotland, so they would travel down to Surrey twice a year to spend time with us. And I have enjoyed many trips to Scotland to stay with them: a post-GCSE cycling holiday with Ali (we struggled to keep up with my super-fit, bike-enthusiast aunt and uncle), special times on my own when I was at York, and innumerable visits with husband, babies, toddlers, small children and teenagers in tow. Jean and Michael spent many years in central Glasgow but now live on the Isle of Bute in a beautiful spot overlooking Rothesay harbour.

So we have quite an adventure awaiting us today: I’m writing this on the 06.11 train from Stevenage to Edinburgh, where we will collect a hire car and drive to Wemyss Bay for the ferry to Rothesay. Jean and Michael are very elderly now and can only manage visits of a couple of hours, so after seeing them we will be embarking on further intrepid adventures: a different ferry and a road trip to a cottage on a loch in the middle of nowhere. No phone signal, no shops, no pub (hmmm…).

I’ve been working on transcribing my GCSE compositions on the train since about 6.30 a.m., marvelling at the fact that I was writing in complicated keys such as G sharp minor at that age. And then Isaac snatches the laptop from me to work on his own composition. In B flat minor. I totally get it, and smile at history repeating itself. I show Isaac some more of the intricacies of Sibelius, deeply appreciating all of these little opportunities to set him up for a future that I may not be a part of.

Oh- almost forgot- I have News, of the good kind… at my check-in with Superprof this week Steve decided to ask him about my hair, which is still very much attached to my head. Prof said that if it was going to go it would have done so by now- it will thin a bit more, but basically it is STAYING! He added that this is very unusual, so for once I’m in the small percentage of statistics in a postive way- hurrah! Just to buoy me up even more, he added that I’m coping with a very difficult chemo ‘fantastically well’. I hope that I can continue surprising him…

Anyway, back to Auntie Jean… After our first meeting with Count Onc at the beginning of November, which kicked off with ‘We have very limited options’ and quickly deteriorated to ‘we may not have any options’, the palliative care nurse translating that into ‘weeks to months’, I obviously had a lot of phone calls to make. The most difficult calls imaginable of course. Except Auntie Jean’s.

‘Oh Sammy,’ she said, her voice as calm as the sea on a windless day, ‘How wonderful.’

‘But it’s not really fair,’ she continued, and I could tell that she was smiling. ‘I’ve had my bags packed for ages and I’m waiting at the door..’

Jean is a Christian believer, old, tired and ready for heaven. Despite her tongue-in-cheek disappointment that I might beat her there, she was utterly overjoyed at my own potential short cut.

Now I’m doing well on treatment, of course, it’s anyone’s game… What I do know, however, is that this is most likely the last time I will see Jean and Michael. Some things we think we go on forever; people we have always known, places we have been to so frequently that they feel like home. But there will and must be last times. And being faced with these rather sooner then expected does make it extra hard. I hope that we can focus on joy today rather than sadness.

26 May 2024

We did. Focus on the joy, that is. There were emotional moments of course; my 93 year-old uncle holding my hands and saying through glistening eyes: ‘it’s a miracle… you’re a miracle..’. He really didn’t think they would ever see me again after my diagnosis: to be honest, we thought the same.

It was truly wonderful to see them; despite their frailties and obvious struggles they were still the same aunt and uncle that I have always known and we were able to reminisce about past times spent together as well as talk honestly about the present. And Isaac brought them the gift of music by playing Einaudi’s Earth Prelude most beautifully on their ancient piano.

The time passed way too quickly and we had to say our goodbyes. To be honest, when it comes to the crunch you realise that no-one can say for sure if it is the final goodbye so the only thing to do is to assume that it might not be. Makes it easier, for sure…

I was feeling emotional nevertheless, but this was remedied by the need to focus on our next mission- beating the grocery delivery van to our cottage in Lochgoilhead to ensure that we didn’t starve for the next two days. Just driving fast wouldn’t be enough-or even possible: we had to negotiate a second, much smaller ferry and then miles of single track road to get to the tiny village. It was a beautiful drive, though, aced by Steve, and we arrived with one minute to spare before our delivery slot.

Lochgoilhead is the sleepiest but most idyllic spot imaginable, perfect for a couple of days’ escapism from reality. Our amusingly-dated but pretty, comfortable cottage was right on the loch shore with the most gorgeous views from its picture window.

The day’s deep blue skies and sunshine were showing no signs of abating when we had finished dinner, and the next day’s forecast wasn’t nearly as favourable, so there was only one thing for it: an evening hike. Or rather an evening climb to the highest point we could get to and still make it back before dark…

Crazy maybe, but it was entirely magical: the hills, the mountains, the ever-changing light, and a glorious abundance of vivid purple rhododendrons at every turn. So kind of them to be the right colour; it felt like they were talking to me, whispering: ‘It’s ok. Just live.’

And so I did. I soon remembered that this is what I have loved most- the adventure and freedom of the wild, the excitement of scrambling up a stream bed or forging a path through wet ferns, the exhilaration of standing on a conquered peak, whether a mountain summit or more modest hill. We climbed about 800 feet yesterday evening, yet it felt like we had reached the top of the world.

Isaac was as delighted for me as I was for myself: ‘You did it, Mummy!’ He knew how much I had wanted to be able to climb something. On the way down, he took my hand and helped me negotiate the steepest parts; I was so touched by his thoughtfulness as well as hit by the poignancy of this sudden role reversal.

When we awoke to the expected rain this morning, our enthusiasm remained undampened. Steve and I like to make the most of every minute when we are away, often resulting in the rolling eyes and protests of our children, but happily today Isaac was as keen as we were to embark on an early walk (mainly to enlarge his collection of quartz rocks: 48 of them are laid out in front of me as I write..good job we didn’t come by plane).

Rain was no problem: we rocked the waterproof trouser look and enjoyed a good couple of hours’ walk filled with forest, waterfalls and quartz-hunting. After a brief pause to join the church service on You Tube and make a quick lunch, we set off on yet another expedition. And it really was an expedition, much more fun for getting lost and navigating through dense undergrowth, up impossibly steep slopes and over fallen trees…to say that I was in my element is an understatement.

We never did find Donich Falls, our intended goal. but we did somehow make it to the top of Steeple Hill, 1250 feet of steep, boggy scramble. Given that a few days ago I struggled to climb the stairs in TK Maxx, this was an almost laughable challenge but I didn’t doubt for a minute that I could do it. The more you push your body, the more it is capable of. I’m going to have to extend my usual walking circuit back home, methinks.. Now if only we had mountains in Hertfordshire…

Tomorrow’s plan is a wee road trip back to Edinburgh via any interesting places that we decide to explore along the way: we have all day to get there so I’m excited about what we will see and do. We will be back in Knebworth sometime after 11 pm, meaning a quick turnaround unpacking suitcases and packing my bag for the next day’s London chemo. I wouldn’t have it any other way: the newly-made memories and pictures of wonderful Scotland will carry me through anything. And I can’t wait to tell Irene all about it…

‘Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad; let the sea roar, and the fulness thereof. Let the field be joyful, and all that is therein: then shall all the trees of the wood rejoice before the Lord’ Psalm 96:11-13