As someone who was diagnosed with an incurable cancer around the same time as Deborah James, I have watched her public response to living with cancer with both awe and detachment (“In her gracious acceptance of death, Deborah James has given us lessons in how to live”, Comment). Awe, in the way she can TikTok dance with a cannula in her arm and in the way she navigates the bathos of cancer as a public discourse, deftly side-stepping self-pity and blame.
Detachment, in that I have responded neutrally to cancer. I avoid talking about it beyond medical professionals. I know when someone has heard I have cancer. It is in their eyes: a look that says I am no longer an equitable member of the human race. I resent the existential pressure to live a “better” life now that I am in a sprint finish between liver and heart failure. There is to be no bucket list existence. No sponsored runs up mountains for palliative care that I will undoubtedly need if my liver starts to fail. I am determined to continue with my ordinary life that is fitfully productive and apathetic.
