In my last Cancer Diaries blog, I announced boldly that it was my last one. I was wrong. I have a postscript which I feel is important to say, as much as it hurts to do so.

So. I wrote the blog to give me something to look back on to remind me of the shit I’d been through. My very own cathartic chapter of melancholic self-pity. An excuse for future failings perhaps.

But also to push home the fact that cancer is curable. A cancer diagnosis really does not have to be a death sentence and we need to rejoice in the significant success rate of so many who go on to live a full and healthy life.

And that mantra worked wonders for me. It kept me focused, determined and hopeful even when the chips were down. Stage three throat cancer is no walk in the park. The treatment is tough but success rates are relatively high and its legacy is limited. I was well prepared for what I was going to go through … and I was rarely shocked or doubted a positive outcome.

Sadly, last week, my very good friend, confidante and cancer partner, passed away.

Mandy Taylor, nee Barwick, passed away in the arms of her loving husband after suffering a short final stage of cancer following three previous attacks of the disease.

In the end, her passing was swift and merciful, although many of us did not get to say our goodbyes.

I was diagnosed with covid on the day she went into Kirkwood Hospice and that removed any hopes I had to see her before she died.

We did speak on the phone and exchanged messages, in which she, typically, told me to “get well soon”.

Then, two days later, she had gone.

And so, a cancer diagnosis can, in some cases, indeed be a death sentence.

For those of us who have survived, certainly in my case, I feel guilty. Mandy had a kind soul, was a beautiful person and dedicated herself to others. It seems so wrong that she has gone and not me.

But. It’s not a competition. And Mandy would not wish it any other way.

And so. The postscript is this: #bemoremandy and the world will be a far better place

Mandy Taylor RIP

The following is shared with permission from Andrew:

Mandy, soup and me

I’ve wanted to write a poem to remind me of you but the words just do not flow. So I’ve turned on the music and lost myself in so many lyrics that remind me of what it was … still is … to be Mandy.

Ballerina… the way you hold your head when you dance. Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer …
Teacher … sit me down and tell me what I need to know … sing me a song Mr Piano Man
Sister … guide me through the darkness so I may stumble but never fall
Wife … a beautiful companion and a best friend for when you get old
Friend … to so many near and far. Oh baby baby it’s a wild world …
The songs keep on coming as do the memories. The joy. The fun. The laughter. And, of course, the glitter and feathers!

Every pause in the sentence, each look up to the clouds… a new thought collides with the others like asteroids in the sky. You were so much to so many.
I’ve remembered our very last conversation and it went something like this:

I’m out walking along the Thames towards Kew village. Phone ringing, it’s Mandy.

Me: Hi darling, how are you?
Mandy: Oh, not brill if I’m honest.
Me: Oh no. What’s the matter?
Mandy: Well, don’t tell anyone, but they’ve found shadows on my lungs.
Me: Oh. That sounds bad. Is it?
Mandy: Yes. It’s basically the worse news. It means it’s spread.
Me: Do you know how long you’ve got?
Mandy: No. But it’s weeks, not months or years darling.
Me: Oh fuck. That’s shit. I’m off to buy some soup. Take care. Love you.
Mandy: (Laughing) Yes. You too.
Me: (Crying) You too. Bye xx

She always had a way of normalising tragic. If anyone reading this is ever passing Chiswick Marina, do pop in and have some soup with me. Mandy would like that. I would too.

#bemoremandy