Dying at the party
I sit, lost in thought in the hours leading up to the party. Lost in dread, really. Muted and motionless on the couch, watching the winter sun slowly arc its way across the lounge room floor, I am elsewhere, fixated on a question – a question I know will be put, and must be answered, before the night is out. A question most have no problem with. That many relish. That I myself have faced many times before, usually without issue. A question, after everything that has happened in recent months, I can no longer answer.
The Uber arrives precisely as promised. An electric vehicle, which I ordered ostensibly out of concern for the environment. In truth, it was probably more an attempt to bolster the self-identity of the person who must soon answer the question. My partner and I struggle with handles and belts and excessively minimalist design as the driver and I exchange sufficient pleasantries. Finally seated and restrained, the car slips away with ethereal ease towards the party.
En route, my mind soon settles once again on the question. I toy with a range of honest yet completely inadequate responses. Too vague, I risk appearing aloof. Too direct and I’m sure to kill the vibe. The problem isn’t so much with the answer itself – that much is clear and straightforward. The challenge lies in how best to frame the answer, the questioner’s reaction to that framing, and the impact of that reaction on my fragile ego. And the ego stakes are high. The evening is in honour of a highly successful go-getter. I imagine the party will be teeming with guests of similar ilk.
Arriving at the venue, we climb some stairs and confirm our whereabouts with a member of staff. The staff heave on a huge, solid wooden door and gesture for us to enter. Inside, the door firmly sealed again behind us, I brace against a wave of strangers and music, finger-food and frocks, laughter and booze. Having defeated a screaming urge to turn and leave, I launch our coats at an overladen coatrack and follow my partner through the sensory overload towards the bar. A minute or two later, each a glass in hand, we wade back, searching for the nearest patch of free floorspace. Aren’t I supposed to be good at this sort of thing by now?
At the heart of my anxiety, I want to avoid being the guy with cancer at this party. The awkward pause when this is revealed. The tight smiles. The strained eye contact. Assertions about the miracles of modern medicine. Stories about old uncle Pete who we thought was a goner but took to eating Goji berries and went on to live twenty more years. The impossibly wide chasm between the lived experience of cancer and how people without prior exposure, myself from six months ago included, think of cancer. The inevitable grasping for new topics of conservation. Any new topic.
Hovering, rapidly sipping away at our drinks, we spot a couple we are acquainted with. Someone my partner once worked with. They look equally as lost. We swim over and embrace them as though long-lost friends. There is immediate mutual enthusiasm to form a little life raft together. With earnest effort from all, our conversation slowly gathers steam. Another round arrives. We relax and begin to blend in.
Later, the speeches begin. Gushing tales of stupendous achievements. Lavish accounts of extraordinary virtues. Speaker after speaker. I stand and hold an awkward smile and try to focus on feigning rapt attention, bar the occasional glance at other guests standing and holding awkward smiles, feigning rapt attention. With the final toast blessedly behind us, our release and return to hobnobbing amid the din couldn’t come soon enough.
And then, there it is. The question.
“So, Cam, what do you do?”
It’s not that I don’t have things to do. There are practicalities attached to a terminal prognosis. Things that need doing. Many things. All of life’s clutter quickly moves front and centre and starts firmly staring you in the eye. Stuff clutter. Digital clutter. Administrative clutter. Relationship clutter. Some ignore it. They go ahead and die and leave it for others to sweep up. After all, why should they care? They’ll be dead. Personally, I want things settled. Nothing undone. No undue burden on anyone. It seems I’m as fussy about death as I am about life.
Swirling my drink a little, I hesitate. Everything I rehearsed has vanished. I suppress an urge to unleash an unreasonably open answer… I have no idea what I do anymore. I have a terminal illness. Not long to live. Paradoxically, despite being told in no uncertain terms how my rapidly diminishing future is likely to play out, everything seems far less certain than ever before. My treatment and side-effects all but rule out holding down a job. I can’t realistically do what I used to do. I can feel my skills, my capacity to earn and provide – my very identity – slowly ebbing away. Most days I can’t fathom if it’s worth starting anything at all, let alone deciding precisely what the what should be.
“Well,” I respond, “I’m a kept man.” Sheepishly nodding at my partner. “I have cancer. I’m doing treatment.”
Before an awkward pause could arise, before any tight smiles could emerge, another party-goer abruptly joins our group. We cheerfully accept the intrusion, eager to abandon the question. The newcomer sends our conversation veering off on endless new tangents. More drinks arrive. The night wears on, and we wear out. We spot our opportunity for goodbyes and make our exit back through the heavy wooden door. Another Uber (standard this time). Home. Silence. Crisis behind me.
The following day, back on the couch, back in the sunshine, I realise that beyond the pressing need to cull possessions, beyond cancelling Netflix, closing bank accounts and divvying up my estate, there is a deeper, more complex clutter. The clutter of identity. Who I was, can no longer be. Things I held as deeply important, foundational even, just aren’t any longer. My existence, my role, has changed forever. Like it or not, my new job is to wind back responsibilities, abandon goals, and surrender independence. To dismantle myself, piece by piece. To live my life, while simultaneously undoing it.
I decide to embrace a spring clean. That decluttering my identity will be a good thing. That it’ll make space – space I can use and enjoy for what’s important, or for new things, in the time I have left. Plus, when it comes time to die, I’ll be ready. No legacy me means no regrets.
And if, for some reason, I live, I’ll be free. Free to live, free of clutter. Free to rebuild myself. Free to answer, What do you do? however I wish.
Thoughts? Email cam@camgrant.com.