A Bird on My Shoulder by Lucy Palmer Page A

called myeloma – it’s a cancer of the plasma cells. Apparently that’s why I cracked my ribs on the plane.’
    ‘Really? You mean it’s in your ribcage?’
    ‘I suppose so. That’s why I stayed on – to have the scans.’
    He hadn’t mentioned any scans.
    ‘How did they find out there was a problem in the first place?’
    ‘Do you remember I told you my friend John White wanted me to have regular blood tests? I didn’t know what they were for, but apparently I’ve had a high level of protein in my blood for quite a while. It’s not usually a huge problem, however if the protein levels get too high, it’s indicative of other issues.’
    ‘Like this cancer?’ I asked.
    ‘Yes.’ Julian sounded resigned. ‘I think John must have known a long time ago. I wonder why he didn’t tell me?’
    Julian was not a man who often expressed his deeper feelings; he definitely had a case of the classic English stiff upper lip, a quality of self-restraint and dignity I admired and understood. He wasn’t a cold person, not at all, but his true feelings often remained unspoken. Even so, I could sense what a terrible blow this was for him.
    ‘They can slow it down,’ he said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘They also said I might be a candidate later on for a bone marrow transplant, which could be very effective. I may have to start some very low-dose chemotherapy in the next few months.’
    I stared at him, bewildered. I just could not make sense of what he was telling me. In our earlier conversations he had been optimistic, so why was he now talking about chemotherapy? Later I discovered that there is a common phenomenon when people are given an initial diagnosis of a serious illness – particularly if they are alone: afterwards, they don’t necessarily recall clearly all they have been told.
    Julian’s account seemed to come back to him in disjointed fragments like an unsolved jigsaw, incomprehensible and impossible to frame. But the underlying facts were clear enough – after only eighteen months of marriage, any certainty we had about our future was over.
    I reached over and took his hand; our wedding rings glowed in the evening light.
    ‘I don’t want you to worry, darling – I plan on being around for quite a while yet,’ he said with a pale smile. He squeezed my hand.
    Exhausted, we sat for a long time, buried under the rubble of our own thoughts.
    •••
    It was not long before news of Julian’s cancer was common knowledge. It came as a terrible shock to his older children. They all came to visit as soon as they were able, something that cheered him up enormously.
    On the surface, Julian dealt with the diagnosis with his usual grace and equanimity; at times he was even quite upbeat. Learning about his particular cancer became his new mission and he threw himself into the task with his usual gusto.
    Julian was not easy to pigeonhole or predict; the layered rock of his personality defied simple labels. After the diagnosis I presumed he would take the most conventional route and simply follow an orthodox medical path.
    However, when he came home one day enthusiastically brandishing a newsletter from the Ian Gawler Institute in Melbourne – a radical approach to life-threatening illnesses which recommended meditation, a strict diet and daily enemas – I was surprised to say the least.
    Julian was a red wine, red meat, cheese and brandy man who lived life at an intense pace; I found it hard to imagine him sitting quietly meditating with a bowl of vegan salad and talking to a group of strangers about how he felt. To my amazement, he decided to go.
    The course, held just outside Melbourne, was to last ten days. Partners were welcome to attend too, but we did not think it was feasible with a young baby.
    I certainly did not harbour any hopes of a miracle cure but going to the retreat made sense to me – even if he could not ultimately beat his cancer, Julian might have more chance to live well for many years