I'm a 52 year old husband and father. Another privileged white bloke, but one who realised just how blessed I am during aggressive cancer treatment in 2009 (that I later learnt nearly killed me). In June 2016 I had a second diagnosis and surgery to remove and replace part of my tongue.
We lost the whole of Tuesday. I woke on Wednesday in Marsden's ICU. Still high on whatever they had pumped into me!
It's happening tomorrow.
June 27, 2016
Today is a strange day. Yesterday was too. Emotionally charged, difficult to concentrate. Helpless.
The Brexit referendum is driving that. I arrived back from New York early on Friday morning and stared disbelievingly at the blue and yellow numbers on the screen. How can that happen? Cue intense emotions: shame, anger, confusion and disbelief. Over the last three days those emotions have certainly outweighed any cancer related emotions. I have woken up in the morning and felt sickened by the referendum and the dark forces it legitimises rather than anything happening in and around my mouth.
As I sit here now, on the train to meet my anaesthetist, I am absolutely clear what I would choose if some paranormal entity offered either a rerun of the referendum or tomorrow's operation. The operation is going to be really rubbish for a week or so. But as a country we'll never be able to get back what we've got now. After the operation I may sound and possibly look different, but I won't feel different; less whole and coming from a grubby backward, inward looking country.