Cancer is a scary thing. I, for one, am terrified of such. There seems to be a societal taboo around discussing ‘the c-word’, if you will, instead this discussion is crowded with hushed whispers, shooting glances, discreet exclamations, making up the bulk of the conversation. It's a quiet one as such, the classically British way of dealing with anything remotely difficult or troublesome. The word itself carries so much weight, so much unknown, so much pity, or so many tepid, unsure responses, citing ‘you’re a fighter’, ‘you will beat it’ in an attempt to deflect the awkwardness of the situation. Anything to avoid confronting the inconvenience of the opposite, which seems an acceptable way for many people to offload that heavy, cumbersome burden of guilt associated with discoursing with victims. The mention of such a word seems to generate a certain ice which frosts any room or any conversation in which it is mentioned. In that respect, it is like Jack Frost. Or Death.
The forces of the universe, or a higher being, of which we know equally little about, seemed to conspire against John Diamond in the cruellest, most ruthless fashion. A man known for, nay lauded for, a quick wit and a sharp tongue would soon lose the rights to both, since he was smitten with the worst, most debilitating and depressing cancer for a man of radio and television, or a man with a desire for self-expression - mouth and throat.
So, when the phone rang in 1997, of course he would be doing a normal activity that any normal person would be normally doing: watching television, notably EastEnders. When John Diamond received his cancer diagnosis, I’m sure he would tell you that his life was perfect: married to the woman of his dreams (Nigella Lawson, by the way), two children, and a humbly un-modest house in West London. Professionally, he was a successful and critically lauded journalist writing a culture column in The Times. Therefore, he endeavoured to treat such diagnosis as one of the mundane discussions, or more correctly, moans, which made up his weekly piece, not as this shadowy figure, constantly watching, constantly reminding. No, that was too sombre, even for a column in The Times. Instead, he likened such an inconvenience to the triviality of middle-class life: parking, child-rearing, modern art, dinner parties, socialising. By negating its importance, he thought, shrinking it down and stuffing it at the back of his brain, filed next to writers’ block, or politics, or the weather, the cancer would seem to follow suit, physically and painlessly. Yet we very rarely get what we ask for, and never what we manifest.
Letters poured in; supportive, critical, helpful in a well-meaning way that really wasn’t, but most movingly, from those in similar circumstances. Saying how he so vividly and accurately described their situations, their preoccupations, their emotions, Diamond stated that it moved him to tears. John Diamond was gifted, the kind of writer who could move you, make you laugh, but more importantly: make you feel. It was indeed key to his success, but it was more important to his humanity.
He fought the disease not out of bravery but out of necessity. He had too much on the line for him not to, after all. Bravery, he said, was not a contributing factor to fighting cancer, nor was it a pre-requisite for beating it. In fact, bravery does not exist in the medicinal, sterilised, white-coated-doctors-who-sit-at-fancy-desks-and-uhm-and-ah-at-you, world of cancer, or of medicine for that matter. The suggestion that those who face an uncertain, painful, and unknown disease with bravery and stoicism and courage and who come out on top, ringing the bell of success, only deserved to do so because they were brave should be revised or disbanded. Because if that is the case, then the antithesis of such a statement is that those who do not, deserve the contrary.
It is impossible to confront such a disease, a cocktail of unknowns, with a brave face or grit or determination because we are all human. John Diamond showed that. And he showed that it is ok to be terrified, or angry, or downright miserable because we are all human, with an inalienable right to spend every waking moment doing whatever makes us happy or fulfilled or helps us get through the day. Especially if you have cancer. And especially if you lack the courage to face that fact.