Making me cry

I’m reading Merlin Mann’s article about the clackity noise and the content is so good that it compels me to start writing straight away. Literally. I haven’t even finished the article and i’m starting to type.


Because he’s so good at pulling at your heartstrings when he talks about his memories of when his dad let him steer the car when he was a child, that just reading it starts to make me cry. Not cry at the story, and not really start crying right here (I’m in a hotel bar and the place is empty: even that well deserved outpouring of emotions would look strange here) but deep down in my heart, where memories reside and make the rest of me work and just do things, a little part of me is in tears.

I guess the point I’m trying (poorly) to make is that I have memories too and they make me want to cry, and laugh, and sit back and shake my head and wonder what happened. My most recurring memory of recent times is the sheer, unparalleled joy I’d get from eating a bowl of bran flakes at 7.30 in the morning.

Yes, there’s a meaning to the last sentence above. Deep, deep, meaning. The bowl of bran flakes was what I asked for every morning when I was in hospital. I’d perch on the end of my bed, wheel the tray so it was over my lap, carefully adjust my IV line and the pump so they were within reach and didn’t snag on anything, then savour every last goddamned spoonful of that little bowl. Then I’d have my single piece of toast, lightly spread with some sort of butter substitute, and sit back in bed, satisfied. Those moments of breakfast bliss were treasured, looking back, because every day I had them was another day I was alive.

There. Now I’m crying. really. just a little bit.

You’ll read countless other stories about how cancer is this thing, this disease that takes people away from us and ruins peoples’ lives and causes many others to throw off the shackles of life and just get on with that one thing they’d always wanted to do before they can’t do anything at all any more, but for me, cancer has a metric ton of connotations and memories. That’s one.