A Beginner's Guide to Dying E-Book

Simon Boas

• Herausgeber: Swift Press
• Kategorie: Ratgeber
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 133

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

As featured on BBC Radio 4 'Funny and touching' Sunday Times 'Extraordinary' Observer 'Full of both wisdom and humour' Julia Samuel 'Funny, moving, brave' Jeremy Bowen 'I had the privilege to conduct Simon's last broadcast interview - knowing his wise words on the page could live on afterwards' Emma Barnett *****READER REVIEWS 'Simon's cheerful voice comes through every page' 'An absolute gift of a book ... This book has the potential to change your life' 'Stunning' It isn't quite 'Don't buy any green bananas'. But it's close to 'Don't start any long books'. In his mid-40s, Simon Boas was diagnosed with incurable cancer – it had been caught too late, and spread around his body. But he was determined to die as he had learned to live – optimistically, thinking the best of people, and prioritising what really matters in life. In A Beginner's Guide to Dying Simon considers and collates the things that have given him such a great sense of peace and contentment, and why dying at 46 really isn't so bad. And for that reason it's also only partly about 'dying'. It is mostly a hymn to the joy and preciousness of life, and why giving death a place can help all of us make even more of it.

Leseprobe

SIMON BOAS was born in 1977 and spent his childhood in London and Winchester. He got the bug for Overseas Aid after delivering his first aid convoy to Bosnia (at 16) in 1993, and went on to spend his career working for development charities and the UN. He worked in Africa for many years, and lived in Vietnam, Egypt, Turkey, Nepal, India and the Palestinian Territories, including three years running a UN office in the Gaza Strip. He spent his last eight years living in Jersey, running the island’s overseas aid agency, accompanied by his beloved wife Aurélie and his scruffy French sheepdog, Pippin.

SWIFT PRESS

First published in Great Britain by Swift Press 2024

Copyright © Simon Boas, 2024

The right of Simon Boas to be identified as the Author of thisWork has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designsand Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from theBritish Library

ISBN: 9781800755031

eISBN: 9781800755048

This book is dedicated to my beloved wife Aurélie,to my parents Anthony and Sarah,and to my sister Julia

Contents

Foreword

Jersey Evening Post Articles

‘Cancer Penguins’

‘My Cancer Situation Has Developed Not Necessarily to My Advantage’

‘My Cancer Hasn’t Cooperated’

Death and Equanimity

Introduction

1   Perspective

2   Meditation

3   Gratitude

4   God and Religion

5   Counselling

6   Others’ Grief

7   Other People

8   Psychedelics

9   Miracle Cures, Hope and Acceptance

10  Thinking about Death

11  Optimism

12  Regrets and Bucket Lists

A Beginner’s Guide to Interacting with the Dying

Recommended Reading

A Short Chronology

Random Facts

Epilogue: Excerpts from Simon’s Eulogy

Final Word

Thanks and Acknowledgements

Foreword

The kernel of this little book is three articles which I wrote for my local paper, the Jersey Evening Post, between being diagnosed with advanced throat cancer (in the summer of 2023) and dying of it (in the next few weeks).

I was very fortunate that somehow the second article went viral, and was shared with millions of people across the world. It was picked up by the Spectator, the Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail, and I read it out on BBC Radio 4’s Broadcasting House programme. I was inundated with beautiful, heartfelt messages; some just wishing me the best, and many others telling me that my words had helped them. Some were in a similar position to me, and found a measure of comfort in a perspective which suggested that it is possible to approach death with equanimity and acceptance. Others were living busy, healthy lives and were grateful for a reminder that life is truly an amazing, improbable gift, and by focusing on that one could worry less about the ultimately inconsequential things which tend to occupy most of our daily bandwidth. Several told me they’d been inspired to patch up or end certain relationships, or that they’d quit their job, or even that they’d decided to sell their house and go on an adventure.

I had hoped that I might have more time to develop my articles into something quite a bit longer, but unfortunately my cancer was more vigorous and motivated than I was. This is partly down to my Olympic-standard ability to procrastinate – in no way dimmed, I discovered, by the deadline being so demonstrably close and final – but mainly due to my preference for spending my last days in the sun, drinking white wine with my amazing wife. However, what I have managed to do is to expand on some of the themes I touched upon in my newspaper articles. In particular, I tried to consider and collate what are the things which have given me such a great sense of peace and contentment, and why dying at 46 really isn’t so bad.* It’s rather short and scrappy – Montaigne it ain’t – but I hope it gives a flavour of how I have approached my illness and death, and perhaps provides some explanation of how it is possible to ‘go gentle into that good night’, while still living and loving life to the fullest extent possible.

I’ve also included something I wrote to help people behave around the dying. The fact is that many people don’t know what to do, and sometimes therefore say or do something unhelpful or even insensitive. Worse, though, is that because they may worry about doing the wrong thing, some people don’t even make contact at all. I hope the little pointers I’ve provided can help them.

I have called all of this ‘A Beginner’s Guide to Dying’ because the intention was to show some of the things that, for me at least, made the road a bit smoother, and the destination a little less frightening. However, in some ways it may be a rather stupid title. Of the three main words, the only really accurate one is ‘Beginner’. However much we’ve seen or thought about death, we’re all beginners at it when it’s our turn. And I’m certainly a novice at this, which makes it a bit presumptuous to call it a ‘Guide’. These are a few random dispatches from the front line, from a curiously clear, intense and liminal period of my life.

And, for that reason, it’s also only partly about ‘Dying’. I hope you’ll find that it’s mostly about living and life. Because, in an almost paradoxical way, I’ve found that having a really positive view of existence has helped me to be completely accepting of non-existence. I don’t even really think of them as opposites now. And of course, it may well be that ‘we’ don’t cease to exist when our bodies do – I think that’s a very real possibility – but none of us will ever know that for sure. The ‘certainties’ provided by both science and religion all ultimately rest on us believing something unknowable and unprovable. And that’s how it should be.

I actually thought about calling this ‘Morphine and Muscadet’, as the two have been great companions on this final journey, especially since I took the decision to turn down the brutal last line of chemotherapy that was on offer. My theory that someone should run a clinical trial on their combined benefits for the terminally ill has not been enthusiastically received by my doctors, but after I decided I’d had enough of the more orthodox treatments I found that opiates and dry white wine helped keep me going far better than endless rounds of poisoning and burning.

I also liked the idea of trying to show that this book is pretty light-hearted. I love life. The humble-bragging about some of what I’ve spent it on in the second newspaper article is only a very partial – and fairly heavily censored – list of my passions and idiocies. (I’m still a serving volunteer policeman in Jersey, though my thrilling days of dealing with minor car accidents, loose horses and dangerous overhanging branches are now behind me.) I love my wife and my family, my friends and my job and my hobbies, and my scruffy French sheepdog. I love adventuring and carousing and laughing at my own jokes; I love melted cheese and crosswords and bonfires and poems and toilet humour and crafty cigarettes; I love the sweet smell of the sycamores in the water meadows in the autumn.

I’m sorry that at 46 I’m leaving all that, and the thousands of other things which bring me joy. But I’m not depressed about it. My overwhelming feeling is of gratitude, of how insanely lucky it was to have lived in the first place. Humans being humans and you being you relies on a series of almost unbelievably improbable coincidences. And I have also been fortunate enough to see – sometimes in the worst of circumstances, like the three years I spent in Gaza – just how loving and selfless and fundamentally good our fellow human beings really are. Everyone is simply doing their best, and everyone is exquisitely precious.

There are many reasons not to fear death, and I hope that these short articles and thoughts may enable you to let it into your life a bit more. I have found that talking about death, preparing for it and accepting it, have helped me enjoy life all the more, to prioritise the important things over the trivial, and to feel a little more compassion for other people, all of whom are also trying to find sense and meaning in this brief, wonderful journey. However, in recent weeks I have also been given enormous practical help in this final transition by a group of amazing people.

The palliative care team at Jersey Hospice have been outstanding in helping me go on for as long as possible without too much pain or physical suffering. They’ve kept me out of hospital when possible, and enabled me to carry on doing the things I love. The final decline is fast approaching, and I know that when it arrives I shall be surrounded by love and good humour (and my family and my dog). Having spent most of my life working in international development, I know that I am extremely fortunate to have had this opportunity, which is still available only to comparatively few of us. Therefore, a portion of the royalties from this book will go to palliative care charities, and particularly those which seek to advance this standard of care in places which do not currently benefit from it.

I wish you all every joy in your own paths, long or short. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.

Simon

Trinity, Jersey

June 2024

_________

*  I actually managed to reach 47 thanks to the opiates and dry white wine

Jersey Evening Post Articles

Reprinted with their kind permission

‘CANCER PENGUINS’

First published on 11 September 2023

I have recently been informed that, like it or not, I have to go to the South Pole. Or at least, that’s the best way I can think of describing what’s happened to me in the last few weeks. About halfway through this soggy summer, a surprised doctor confirmed that the weird lumps in my neck were metastasised squamous cell carcinoma, and the reason I’d had trouble swallowing for a year was a tumour in my throat. (I told you I was ill, as Spike Milligan wrote on his tombstone.)

This all requires six weeks of pretty exacting chemo- and radiotherapy in Southampton, which is due to start in mid-September. And the best analogy I’ve found to explain it is that someone has told me: ‘Right, Simon, you have to go to the South Pole.’ I have no great desire to go to the South Pole, and it’s not something one does lightly. But most people these days go to the South Pole and come back fine, although it’s perilous and you probably lose some weight (and maybe even some toes). However, I’ll also get to see some interesting things on the way (Cancer Penguins!) and know myself better when I get back.

So, I’m currently preparing for my unplanned expedition. I’m passing on my work as Director of Jersey Overseas Aid to my amazing team there, and my responsibilities as Chair of Jersey Heritage to my fellow trustees. I plan to keep in close contact with both by radio, but need to recognise there will be times when I’m in a crevasse and the signal is weak.

I am going to lose weight on my trek south, so I’m feeding myself up as much as possible. Bruno’s Bakery and the Parade Kitchen are playing their delicious part, and yesterday evening I ate over a kilo of cheese fondue, a personal best. Less enjoyably, I ought to start the journey as physically fit as possible, so the other day I did a press-up. I’ll probably do another one fairly soon.

When all is said and done, this trip to the South Pole is a solo expedition. However, there are many people helping me. Cancer.Je has offered me equipment (a phone for cheaper roaming) and even cash if I need it. Meanwhile, MacMillan has been stunningly, humblingly amazing. A sort of Polar Outfitters, if I can flog this metaphor for a couple more paragraphs. They have supplied so much in the way of mental and physical support. They have also given me all the information I’ve been craving, and had experts in all aspects of this journey tell me exactly what to expect. I cannot sing their praises highly enough.

I have also had so much support from so many people on this wonderful island. Cancer’s a funny one, in that it’s a scary thing and a lot of people don’t know how to react. But I’ve shed many more tears of happiness recently, at the affection I’m surrounded by, than of self-pity.

Thanks to my day job at Jersey Overseas Aid, I’ve long known what a compassionate and generous place Jersey is. I’m so grateful to everyone who’s got in touch, and have resisted responding to the many offers of practical help with a request that my sheepdog’s anal glands need expressing (not true, actually, though you’d do it too, you lovelies!). If it’s not too depressing, I shall keep you posted from time to time as I pick my way through the snow and ice.

I fully intend to follow in the footsteps of Amundsen rather than Scott, and a cure is definitely possible. Nevertheless, with the cancer fairly advanced, I have to accept that there is a decent chance I’ll be taking the Room Temperature Challenge rather sooner than I would have liked. I don’t know the exact figures and don’t really want to at the minute. But they’re easily two-bullets-in-the-revolver type odds. Perhaps a couple more.

In one sense this is all fantastically unlucky and unfair. I’m 46, unbelievably luckily married, doing a job I love, and suddenly facing the possibility of my own extinction. I won’t pretend a note of self-pity hasn’t occasionally found its way into the songs I sing myself at 4 a.m. And I must also admit to hearing a few bars of anger at that hour too: at taking more than a year to be diagnosed, at cancelled scans, bureaucratic errors, information droughts, etc.

However, that way madness lies, and during daylight hours, at least, I’m pretty good at tuning those emotions out. I’ve also managed – not quite sure how – not to blame myself too much. Three decades of smoking and a few periods of fairly Churchillian boozing can’t have helped (though of course some get away with it for much longer). And it’s possible also that my sporadic inability to calibrate how worried I should be about my health meant doctors were slow to take new aches and pains seriously enough. But just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you (as the T-shirt says), and just because you’re a bit of a hypochondriac doesn’t mean you don’t have squamous cell carcinoma.

So, I’ve managed to avoid some of the obvious pitfalls – self-pity, anger, blame – but how does it actually feel to get such a clear view of the scythe? Well, this may sound bonkers, but it’s not actually that bad. The one thing which makes my eyes leak is the thought of its impact on my loved ones, particularly my beloved wife Aurélie and my parents. The word ‘widow’ now chokes me up, and it’s even worse if I use it as a transitive verb. However, I’m not really sad for myself, or even fearful, and in fact I’d say the feculent prognosis has fertilised some green personal growth.

So, with apologies for inflicting them on you, stand by for some clichés. You’ve probably heard them before, and the oldest and truest part of you knows all this anyway, but our busy lives and brains are good at obscuring these thoughts. Cancer has clarified them for me.