When I was diagnosed with incurable cancer in July last year, I was surprised by my reaction.
Instead of the panic, despair and tears you might expect of someone given a terminal diagnosis, I was nothing but calm. Shocked, but calm.
The reason for that, as it turns out, is because of one simple fact: I’m not actually scared of death.
In fact, I don’t see it as something to fear so much as it is something to acknowledge. A quiet reminder that life is precious precisely because it ends.
I haven’t always felt this way, of course. Growing up, my relationship with death was fleeting and intermittent at best and my first real encounter with it was when my beloved tabby cat, Tiger Lily, died when I was 12.
I was just at the stage when I understood that death was permanent, and I remember really feeling her loss deeply. I was allowed a day off school, a rare occurrence, and I cried all day. I missed stroking her as she sat on my lap, a place she’d often be, but I was resigned to it. She had been ill, and so she died. It was the natural progression of things.
Then, when I was around 15, I suffered my first family bereavement – my grandmother, who I had lots of happy memories of baking with, died at the age of 83.
Her death was sudden so, of course, it was sad. However, as we were not overly emotional as a family, there was no dramatic weeping and wailing, just a quiet sadness for a life that was lost too soon.
And other than these occasions, death wasn’t a topic of conversation in my family.
It wasn’t that it was taboo, just that the subject rarely came up. We had elderly relatives and friends of the family who had died, and funerals were attended, but I don’t remember any time when normal life stopped because of it.
As I grew older though, I began to shape my own view of the subject, mainly that I didn’t believe in an afterlife.
It’s not that I’m not religious – when my children were young, I spent a short time attending church, as I lived in a small village and the church was the hub of the community – but I’ve just never been convinced that we go somewhere when we die.
Sure, sending butterflies and robins as a sign is all very comforting, but it’s also a bit random.
And if ghosts really were a thing, I’m sure we have more evidence than a few dodgy photos and the occasional unexplained cold breeze that ‘came from nowhere’.
This realisation reaffirmed my belief that death will be just like going to sleep. I won’t know it’s happened, and so I’ll be none the wiser. I won’t be going anywhere after I die, so there will be no regrets, no missing anyone, no wondering if I’ll see anyone again…
However, I’m not so held in my beliefs that I’d be cross if I was proven wrong.
I’d love to find out, when I finally die, that there is a fabulously peaceful place we all go to. And if I was able to return in the form of a Red Admiral or Cabbage White butterfly to give my loved ones a sign that all is well, I’d jump at the chance.
Of course, I never expected I might find out sooner than most.
On 2 July 2024, two months after finding a lump on my breast, and endless tests and scans, my oncologist told me my cancer was incurable.
‘The cancer has gone to your bones and I can’t cure it,’ he said calmly and carefully, giving me time to process.
My initial reaction was one of shock, not just for the diagnosis but that, actually, I wasn’t worried.
There was no drama, no panic, just calm acceptance. And, after a few days, I realised that all I could do was take the treatment offered, and just get on with making what’s left of my life count.
I’m not wasting any more time and instead I’m focusing on doing all the things I’ve always wanted to do: Travelling, going back onto the stage, and becoming a TV extra being just a few.
Want to learn more?
You can find out more about Annie’s charity, The Chronicles of Hope, here.
I’m also happy to talk about my diagnosis, and death, which has led to a number of unusual conversations of late.
Following my diagnosis, I had a conversation with one friend who is terrified of death – so much so, she’s had to have therapy – she told me that the thought of not being in the world, just not existing, is what frightens her the most.
I asked her: ‘But surely, if you’re dead, you won’t know?’ This, she said, was the problem. Not knowing. Not being conscious.
I understand her fear, but don’t align with it. How can we be worried about not knowing, if we are not conscious?
Then, last month, I attended my aunt’s funeral. The day was full of memories, sadness and laughs, but I did not at any stage during the service worry that ‘this will be me soon’.
In fact, I found myself picking up some ideas for my own funeral, like photo slide shows, handing out roses and the sharing of memories, which were the loveliest parts of the service.
I’ve also made no secret of the fact that I don’t like euphemisms – ‘no longer with us’, ‘gone to a better place’ and the worst one…‘passed’. I can’t bear the pussyfooting about and wish people would realise you can say the word ‘died’ with compassion. That it is possible to explain that someone is ‘dead’ with sympathy.
I’ve given death a lot of thought over the last 18 months, so perhaps I’m more laidback about the subject because of that. But I’m convinced that if we talked about death more as a society, discussed it with friends and family, even joked about it, we’d remove some of the fear.
Perhaps if we were more open about it, and understood what death really means to us, there would be many more purposeful people in the world wanting to make the time they have on earth really count.
Because death is the one certainty in life. It will happen to all of us and in learning to face that truth, we give ourselves permission to live more fully, love more deeply, and let go a little easier.
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