"I am stepping out of time into eternity"
Late last year Tony Foley, a 41-year-old tax adviser, was told he had terminal cancer. In this frank account he explains how he has coped
2 October 2009
Human life is truly astonishing. At times one can feel almost a participator in eternity. The reality of death can seem distant and remote, a thing belonging to another space and time. And then, following a routine investigation for a low iron count, the message is proclaimed: "You have oesophagus cancer and it's inoperable. You have months, rather than years, to live".
In that moment, everything that has gone before crystallises. The question of "is this happening?" will repeat itself time and again in the middle of the night and first thing in the morning. For my wife and I, the first six weeks are a kind of living nightmare. At work, when asked the question: "How did the appointment go?", a Roman amphitheatre thumbs-down seems most apt, then the countless explanations to colleagues. Not long after, I meet a colleague at the coffee machine. He had been away on secondment and told me that he was leaving the firm to go to a client. Being a bit of a devil, I could not resist saying: "I too am leaving the firm."
"Where are you going".
"Well, I am dying of terminal cancer" (a big laugh). In fairness to him, he took it in his stride. If he were Irish, like me, the response, I am sure, would have been a bit more theatrical.
But, why accept? Why not a solitary whine? Or perhaps even a trite: "This is not fair." Because all is grace, all is gift. And it is time to give the gift back, freely and willingly. A strong sense of Divine Providence strengthens me, a sense that I have been prepared for this. Both my wife and I had fairly dramatic conversions around the time of the death of John Paul II and the election of Benedict XVI. Since then the liturgy, particularly the Benedictine monastic liturgies at abbeys such as St Cecilia's, Quarr, Downside, Solesmes and Le Barroux, have become, for us, a foretaste of the Heavenly Liturgy. What can one say but when the cantor announces: "Deus, in adiutorium meum intende ("O God, come to our aid") our souls will fly to the stratosphere and we will be among the angels. And then, after the chanting of the psalm, the bow for the "Glory be" is a bodily enactment of what the soul proclaims at that moment: "All is well, God is in the heavens and we are his sons and daughters!"
So imbued, as I am, with the hope of meeting such a wonderful master, the floodgates of sadness do not open up, though sadness comes at times, particularly when I think of my wife and wider family (I have a mother, brothers and a sister and wider family back in Ireland, although we have no children of our own - I suffer from a genetic disease called cystic fibrosis, and because of faith and reason we do not believe the de-personalisation and instrumentalisation of human life involved in IVF is morally justified despite the undoubted joy that new human life brings).
Rather, one can be possessed by joy and, dare I say it, one can begin to taste a little excitement at the thought of stepping out of time into eternity. But the horror of the rupture and wrongness of death must not be denied and it is thus not right to be too joyful.
There is an oddness about modern funerals I simply cannot fathom. Why are people so chirpy? I will leave clear instructions: no jokes and no beatification ceremony (the modern custom). Instead: I desire that people pray unceasingly that my purgation will be short.
I have now understood the psalmist when he says: "You shall not fear the terror of the night." Night car journeys for Compline at the monastery at Le Barroux in the remote hills of Provence in October made the primordial terror of the night clear enough. But the liturgy was a sufficient tonic for bruised hearts and the terror was dispelled by Christ, our Hope. One can live in joy and peace while facing death especially when one has a mate like St Paul (and he is a mate). His words from his letter to the Philippians have become an antiphon for me: "For me, living is Christ, and dying is gain."
Whatever happens, I am a victor in Christ!
I started chemotherapy in November and nearly managed three 21-day cycles. This required three trips to my local hospital to get two drugs intravenously, followed by 21 days of tablets. Thankfully the side-effects were fairly minor - strange sensations in the nerve endings, some pleuritic pain and tiredness. The key thing is I could feel the chemotherapy having a positive effect in that swallowing became less of an issue. This added a surreal dimension to my life: knowing that I am terminally ill but with no symptoms! But not long after my third chemotherapy and just before Christmas, I developed a flu which then went into my chest. I should say that my chest is my Achilles' heel, having lived with cystic fibrosis all my life. The lungs of a person with this disease are usually colonised by some nasty bug, in my case pseudomonas. I am afraid that the flu galvanised pseudomonas into having a laugh at my expense. So early in January I was admitted to the Royal Brompton for two weeks where I was pumped with three intravenous drugs and an anti-fungicide. I seemed to be on drugs all day. I should add that the care I received in the Brompton was first class. Bizarrely, I got worse not long after going into hospital and ended up with some ferocious fevers, hitting 40 degrees centigrade.
There is a humbling dimension to being in hospital - one is struck forcefully by the fact that there are others who are much sicker. My bed faced a 30-something chap who also had cystic fibrosis. His sufferings were hard to take in. It was like being opposite the crucified Christ; he was having fevers and was constantly hooked up to some respiratory equipment, be it oxygen or a special gadget designed to blow down air into the lungs. His patience in dealing with his sufferings was exemplary. Another chap in his 30s was a very serious asthmatic, who, to the naked eye, looked fine. But he required an enormous amount of medication to keep him alive, including taking injections in the middle of the night. Despite his sufferings he was good-humoured, a good roommate, and even managed to wander outside for a few walks. And then one morning his breathing went to pieces. There was pandemonium as he was rushed to intensive care and placed on a ventilator, desperately struggling to breathe. It was very distressing. I thought he was going to die and only hope he's recovered now.
Seeing the suffering of those around you, there is an inevitability about sinking into the depths, and I did sink. But God was there. I cried out and he answered me. It is really only when we are at the absolute end of our tether that we begin to realise our nothingness before God, that there is nothing that we can offer him but our free will, our sufferings and our tender love. What else can we possibly give Him as the whole universe belongs to Him? In those depths, we can, if given the grace, reach out to God, as Father, and speak to him tenderly knowing that he loves us infinitely more than we love ourselves.
I got out of hospital and my equanimity returned.This gives my poor wife some respite. Visiting me was a nightmare for her, a four-hour round trip on top of a day's work as a teacher. I am most grateful for her kindness and care and, when sorrow comes, as it does from time to time, my sorrow is for her, who will be left behind alone when I am laid to rest.
Since then I have had both radiotherapy and another cycle of chemotherapy following more tightening in the oesophagus and pain in swallowing. Also both my wife and I have been to St Cecila's Abbey on the Isle of Wight where I became affiliated to the abbey as an oblate. Indeed, my wife is becoming affiliated as well soon. I was most grateful to Sr Claire, who looks after the oblates and the abbess who has waived some of the rules to make an exception in my case. I love the Benedictine liturgy and am delighted to have become a novice oblate as my prayers and sacrifices will mingle with those of the nuns, forming a single chorus of praise.
All I can do is devote as much time to prayer as possible to prepare me for the road ahead and take whatever treatment is on offer to slow the advance of the cancer. The good thing is that this cancer, while aggressive, seems to wear one out gently in many cases. One just fades away. That seems rather fitting, no dramatics please!
from the Catholic Herald Online
