Monday and I am awake quite early as my partner goes to work. I complete my getting up rituals and then before actually escaping the bedding I surf the net for a bit and found something that I was not expecting. I stumbled across the Thrift Books web site, and there was my poetry collection The Cancer Years: So Far. The surprise was what they had written to sell it. I was taken aback to say the least, but made me realise how things in the public domain can be perceived and then projected on to others. Below is how this publisher is selling me, it’s scary.
“THE CANCER YEARS: SO FAR
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Introducing “THE CANCER YEARS: So Far” – a poignant poetry collection penned by Roland Woodward, a retired chartered forensic psychologist from the United Kingdom. Despite battling prostate cancer since 2019, Roland’s dyslexia serves as an unexpected enhancement, allowing him to express his experiences with eloquence and depth.
In this heartfelt anthology, Roland shares his reflections on life, love, and resilience amidst adversity. Each poem offers a glimpse into his journey, chronicling the mundane, crises, and challenges of living with cancer. From moments of vulnerability to flashes of hope, Roland’s verses resonate with authenticity and raw emotion.
Inspired by his battle with cancer, Roland embarked on a poetic endeavor, chronicling his experiences through regular blog posts for family and friends. Now, he invites readers to delve into this intimate collection, offering insight into the complexities of life with a life-threatening illness.
As Roland navigates the nuances of his diagnosis, he finds solace and expression in poetry, joining local poets and considering publication. “THE CANCER YEARS: So Far” marks his first step into the realm of published poetry, with hopes of further collections in the future.
Embark on a journey of resilience, introspection, and hope with Roland Woodward’s “THE CANCER YEARS: So Far” – a testament to the power of the human spirit in the face of adversity.
Read Less”
My gast was well and truly flabbered. It was quite something to start the day with. I get up with this in my head and go to the kitchen to make bagels for breakfast, take my meds and put my clothes away from the weekend trip just to keep my feet on the ground. My plan for the morning goes well and one turkey sandwich later I am ready to get my new bird feed storage dustbin unpacked and into the Shed. This part of my plan goes well and even the recycling goes well. When it comes to the actual food for the wild life I was expecting to find peanuts, to my chagrin it turns out to be bird seed. Not being daunted I manhandle the sack of seed into the garden and fill the new storage dustbin and find a way of getting it into the Shed. With the bird feeders full I finish the recycling and continue to listen to Mock the Week while drafting the blog.
While I do all this I continue to think about the poem I am trying to write about being overcome by the noise of the people at the weekend. It has clearly affected me but I am struggling to find the right words to convey what it was like to stand there overcome by the sheer weight of sound. The experience was one of cacophony, it just alienated me from being in the room with the people there. Sound in the form of music has been some of my most memorable experiences but this was different in that it was so aversive. The sheer experience of that noise made me loose all interest in the people making it and turned it into something that just needed to be survived. I know I was not alone. When I recall looking round the room there were others that had withdrawn to the fringes of the room and were silent and the couple the following morning who apologised for their lack of engagement in conversation at the table because they could not cope with the noise confirmed that I was not alone. Usually I can find a form of words that gets close to such experiences but this time it is proving difficult. This is as far as I ‘ve got with it.
377A My eyes defocus and I am left, awash on the waves of a cornfield of sound. Standing in a pack of people all talking in that good time way. Louder and louder it grows as I sink beneath its tides, it is unbearable as on it sweeps building into an ocean that drowns me. Cacophony fills me, as I falter, desperate not to hear, to be struck deaf to this babbling; I retreat to the toilets. Sitting there in an oasis of ordinary silence, interrupted only by the occasional occupant’s coughs and farts I find respite. If I am to dine and participate in this nights entertainment I must return to the cauldron. Sitting at table seven trying to make conversation with nice people, the pain continues. Over breakfast a couple come and apologise for being quiet for they too were deafened by humanity out for a jolly time. I know what purgatory Is now. 377A 07-04-2024
It is clumsy and lacks the weight with which I experienced it, but it is an attempt. It seemed important to try and capture something of the experience. I am wondering now how I will be on Wednesday when I go to see Carmen, I relish the thought of the opera but now it is the hubbub of the bar before hand that I am wary of. I suppose the answer is to arrive as late as possible and minimise that pre waiting time and become that awkward bastard who arrives at the last moment and clambers over half a row of people to get to their seat. Perhaps my Loops will help if they arrive in time.
The evening looms and I look forward to reading and having my ignorance confirmed by Only Connect and University Challenge, interrupted by the Tesco order when it arrives. So far its been a good day without any sign of Uluru (my bladder stone) creating any problems for me, so it’s business as usual, which is of course me and Rocket fight the best we can against the cancer. I think more and more we are edging towards the reckless or at least giving the rower a go again. I can’t go on being this slothful.
