Dancing on the Precipice, My Fight With Cancer

50 Pages·2016·0.31 MB·English

by  Lutoslawski

Dancing on the precipice
My fight with cancer
by
Bolesław Lutosławski

PUBLISHED BY:
Bolesław Lutosławski on Smashwords
Dancing on the precipice
My fight with cancer
Copyright 2004 by Bolesław Lutosławski

Translated by Emilia Korczyńska 2015

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of this author.
A porcelain princess
– Non-Hodgkin lymphoma – dr. Ellis informed me.
– Is it cancer? – I asked in a trembling voice.
– Yes – The doctor looked me straight in the eye, and then added: ‘We’ll start
chemotherapy next Tuesday. Do you have any questions?’
I didn’t have any questions. I was too shocked.
Something I had been afraid of had just happened.
I was sitting there, paralyzed, with vacuum in my head. The fear has not awaken
yet. I felt like someone thrown into a cave and left alone without a torch.
Very slowly, in no particular order, the different thoughts started emerging from
the dark, a tangled mass of formerly unknown feelings that were now filling my
heart. Of course I wanted to know what my chances were and how long I was
expected to stay alive, but I was afraid to ask. In addition, the doctors break into
talking about statistics and numbers straight away instead of admitting they
simply don’t have a clue.
– What shall I do in this situation?
– You need to take good care of yourself, go on long walks and believe in your
future, while we will do our best to fight this lymphoma.
–Is this going to be enough?
– You’re standing on a precipice I’ve never been on – said dr. Ellis quite
honestly.
– Can you remove it?
– Indeed.
– Thank you.
I said goodbye and went home, but I took a longer route, through empty streets,
as I was crying and wanted to be all alone.
Three days later, on a late Friday afternoon, we went to a Chinese circus. The
boys had been waiting to go there for a week. The circus was set-up just outside
the city centre of Cambridge - on Midsummer Common, next to Jesus Green,
where we often went to feed the ducks and swans. I was walking with Max,
holding his hand. Roman was running ahead with a balloon we had just bought
for him. At the entrance to the Big Tent, we nervously searched for the tickets. I
finally found them in my pocket. A beautiful Chinese lady dressed in white
kimono, who looked just like a princess made of porcelain, bowed to us then and
led us inside. There, amongst oriental décor, lanterns, ribbons, the boys spotted
their friends from school in the crowd and pulled funny faces at them.
Soon, brightly dressed young men started their performance – they were jumping
through hoops of fire, climbing each other’s arms with the nimbleness of a
gazelle, forming human pyramids, and juggling anything that has fallen into
their hands. But I was hardly noticing them; I was too busy watching my own
little family. The fascination with what was happening on the ring and with the
magic of the circus I could see in my boys’ eyes was the greatest experience I
could wish for myself to take part in.
– Daddy – exclaimed Roman – Have you seen what he did?!
And he gave me a fleeting glance full of admiration for the agile acrobat. I
smiled at him…even though my heart was bleeding from the thorns that were
biting into it; I was wandering how long I would still be there with them…when
will they lose me? Will they manage without me?
I had absolutely no illusions as to the fact that I would die. I was totally
convinced that the word ‘cancer’ equals ‘death round the corner’.
After the break the ring turned into a stage where the entertainers performed
vigorous acts, telling us mystical histories of the ancient China through their
dance moves. The warriors, suspended on their steel ropes, were swinging across
the tent, fighting with swords and burning torches, while smart ladies in masks,
clad in brightly coloured dresses played on small drums and pipes. To be honest,
I had no idea what this story was about; boys were enthralled.
Suddenly, the lights went out and the warriors froze in strange poses, smoke
burst from both sides and the familiar porcelain princess run into the stage from
behind the green curtains, only that this time she was wearing a tight pink suit
and her head was adorned with a small hat.
We waited anxiously to see what was going to happen next, following each of
her moves as she, walking in small steps, approached the huge silver ball that the
acrobats pushed into the middle and put in motion. A moment later, one of the
warriors hovered over the stage, scooping the little princess on his way, to put
her on top of the spinning ball.
– She’s not going to fall off, is she? – Asked Roman, looking for my
reassurance, that everything would be fine.
– Everything will be fine – I said soothingly.
What happened next exceeded all of our expectations. While the princess
managed to keep on top of the ball spinning under her feel with great skill and
grace, two girls, who were juggling empty rice bowls, threw them to her one by
one and she was catching them mid-air.
– She has three in each hand now – Max informed me in a whisper, without
taking his eyes off the stage.
– Maybe that’s all she can handle? – Mused Roman.
But the princess motioned with her hand that she wants more, albeit this time
they were throwing the bowls onto the tiny hat on top of her head.
– One, two, three, four…the children counted the bowls out loud, and then –
bang! – the fifth one fell down. The princess demanded another one, which also
fell…so they threw her another one and this time it was a success.
The children let out a sigh of relief. It was so, because children like happy
endings, because they live with optimism, because they rarely give in…
We– adults - are different. We – adults - believe in failure, since we know a lot
of things in life do not come about as requested, as we are used to loss, disaster,
and hopeless situations without a way out. We accept pessimism and it makes us
weaker. We give up easily, losing faith in our fate and ourselves.
And I, as an adult, saw my future, as a catastrophe, whose finale has already
been arranged, has practically become my reality already. I was mournful about
my fate, but without objections. Cancer was winning already.
After this wonderful night with my family, carefree and full of fun, we made our
way back home. I kneeled to do the lace in one of my shoes, and the boys
continued walking ahead of me. They looked so innocent and I realised how
much I didn’t want to leave them.
‘So I won’t leave them’ – I decided and felt that my guardian angel will add ‘and
who asked you to leave them?’
That’s how I started my gruelling fight with non-Hodgkin lymphoma, only that
now I wasn’t a victim thrown as an offering to that illness anymore.
Toast with God
I couldn’t sleep, even though I was tired. I was closing my eyes and a minute
later I was looking at the stars again, on the trees in my garden rustling in the
wind, which started blowing that night again, and at the wall with a portrait of
Marcel Proust hanging there.
The same thought kept coming to my mind all the time as if someone wanted to
put me to sleep with repeating the thought itself: what will you leave behind?
What will you leave behind? What? What…
I was telling myself quietly that I will leave behind wonderful things, as if it
made any difference, and I looked at the stars again which winked at me
beguilingly…only that I wasn’t in a hurry to join them. So I turned my back to
the window and looked at Marcel Proust again.
‘Maybe I should write a book?’ – I thought – ‘About everything that is
happening now, however undeserved!’
And the first words came to my mind immediately. I planned to write them
down in the morning…
But… then….who cares what’s on my mind, if I’m ill and I’m dying? Maybe
they will drink a toast to me once a year, maybe someone will sometimes cry for
me…but who needs a book?
The sky turned overcast with clouds and it started to rain. There was no way I
could fall asleep now, but at least I couldn’t see these annoying stars anymore.
I was lying on my back and counting how many people would read the book,
learning about my fight with the cancer, its determination to destroy me.
Well…maybe they will be upset that I’m writing about the illness? Maybe they
would rather read about something funny, about good times, not about the
tragedy, which swaddled me so suddenly? Yes, I will write about something
nice, something that can bring smiles to their faces when they are reading it…
about travels, unrealised ideas, because I did not have enough time in this life to
do everything I wanted…
I felt sullen.
Meanwhile, the rain outside turned into a downpour. Maybe this rain was like
tears falling from the sky? Maybe someone felt sorry for my woes? Maybe I
should write about it? Or about how I did not want to leave my family? Or