The Gospel According to Tom Hanks

Tom Hanks is the kind of Hollywood legend I would enjoy sharing a pint and some peanuts with.

A few years ago he was interviewed on one of my favourite podcasts, 'Kermode And Mayo’s Film Review'. It was for ‘A Beautiful Day In The Neighbourhood’, where Hanks plays the iconic US kids’ television host Fred Rogers - possibly one of the least cynical movies you’ll ever watch. At the end of the interview, which was a few months before Covid-19 sent us into lockdown, Simon Mayo asked the actor if he had any words of reassurance for people worried about the state of the world. You can hear his answer in the video below…

“This too shall pass.”

These four words have returned to me again and again in the last few weeks. Trying to maintain some sort of perspective has been hard - especially at the moment while I’m waiting to discover exactly how far the cancer has spread. But despite this current uncertainty, I’m slowly learning to realise that the varying emotions - whether good or bad - that colour my days will pass.

I woke up on Saturday feeling pretty positive, partly due to the hundreds of kind messages sent our way after I posted my diagnosis on Facebook on Friday afternoon. I was also amazed, and humbled, to find out later that day that around 60 people had gathered at our church on Friday evening (who goes to church on a Friday evening?!) to hold us in prayer. After dropping Macy at the train station early on Saturday, I did the weekly Aldi shop and then chatted for a while with Lisa about my diagnosis.

Lisa popped out with her friend Esther, so I began to work through the thick bundle of booklets in the plastic wallet the hospital handed me. With titles like: ‘Understanding Rectal Cancer’, ‘Holistic Needs Assessment’, ‘Understanding Bowel Cancer’ and ‘Eating Well’, they were quite a lot to digest (ahem). I’ve never had a ‘proper’ operation under general anaesthetic, and reading through the details of what rectal surgery might involve, including different tubes being inserted, parts of my bowel being taken away, the need for a stoma and the recovery time in hospital and beyond, hit me pretty hard. As I drove to pick Reuben up from his mate’s in Cannock Wood following a birthday sleepover, I was overwhelmed with emotion and just cried out to God: “I can’t do this. It’s too much.” As if on cue, my Spotify playlist began ‘Be Not So Fearful’ by Bill Fay, sparking laughter through the tears. I’d dried my eyes by the time I picked Reuben up, and felt lighter for the outburst.

I think the reality that I have advanced cancer only hit me at the weekend. It’s like the knowledge has arrived in increments I can cope with, a little more each day. I can now see that other people - especially Lisa - grasped this before I did.

So, there’s the crap. And then there’s the goodness. I’m starting to give myself permission to ‘velcro’ the positive emotions - the fun stuff, the laughter - when they happen. It’s not escapism; it’s the other side of the coin. I can live in the reality of my cancer or the reality of the rest of my life, which is overwhelmingly good and now in sharper focus. Both are equally valid and seem happy to take it in turns.

Then there’s the bittersweet spot where these two things meet. The kindness of family and friends, the free NHS prescriptions I’m now entitled to, the discovery of the wonders of a daily glass of prune juice to keep my bowels honest when it feels like they'd rather hibernate. Every cloud…

The first of these is the best. I’ve always tried to be kind and compassionate to other people, but I feel like my vague efforts at loving my friends (and enemies) have been like paper or tin compared to the gold that’s pouring my way at the moment. So much so that I’m having to stagger when I read messages because they are so much to take in. I’m aware these may slow down over time, but it’s comforting to know I’ll be able to turn back to them when the rubber hits the road in terms of chemo starting in the coming weeks.

I’ve also appreciated those who in everyday encounters have crossed the awkwardness threshold to ask how we’re doing, such as Reuben’s football coach and his wife when their team played in Pheasey on Sunday. This means a lot as I know it can’t be easy.

Although many people have thanked me for starting this blog, I wonder every day if it’s TMI - both for you, but more so for myself and family. Although there are some details I’m leaving out, I’ve experienced several ‘vulnerability hangovers’ after posting things here or on social media in recent days where I just feel raw and exposed. But the hangovers do seem to be getting less painful with each post and writing this blog is a tonic for me - especially now I’m not working.

Then this morning I found the clip below from Fred Rogers in the movie I mentioned earlier: “Anything human is mentionable. Anything mentionable is manageable.” Which sums it up perfectly - mentioning this stuff helps us (me in particular) to manage it, so I’ll carry on.

Fourteenth-century mystic Julian of Norwich, who compiled the earliest surviving writings in the English language by a woman, lived in a secluded cell attached to a church during the Black Death, which probably accounted for her family. There she dispensed advice to pilgrims through a window in the wall.

Julian famously wrote: “All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.”

That she needed to say this three times suggests there was some convincing to be done. But there’s a depth and truth to her words that Fred Rogers, Tom Hanks - and me - can choose to cling onto, whatever the current clouds of uncertainty.