Sunday May 29
As long as I can remember I have had an aversion to clocks which tick loudly.
Some people are transported on a journey through time and memory by a particular taste or smell. Proust had his crumb of Madeleine cake dipped in tea. For many of us a certain piece of music has the capacity to take us back to an exact time and place.
For me it’s the sound of a slow ticking clock.
It takes me back to a sun filled salon in my grandparents’ flat in Caen in Normandy. But it’s not a warm memory. It brings back a vivid recollection of an intense emotional state – a feeling of boredom and frustration. There is a sense of being stranded in an infinity of time – of waiting, waiting.
It is after lunch. It is Sunday. Somewhere in the spacious flat my grandparents are resting. Outside there is brilliant sunshine, but the town is dead in that uniquely moribund way of French provincial towns on a Sunday afternoon.
On a sideboard a massive black marble clock ticks relentlessly. I sit there willing it to tick faster for this dead time to pass, for the boredom to be over and for something to move, to happen.
As I write this on a still, grey Sunday morning in Paris, maybe 50 years later, I can hear another clock ticking softly but steadily. Today time does not seem infinite. Today the clock seems to be counting down.
It is counting down the seconds, minutes, days, weeks until the first blood test, the first possible sign that the advance of the cancer has been slowed or perhaps even stopped.
But then the clock will start ticking down to the next test, the next verdict. As a cancer survivor, you are never acquitted. The verdict is always the ambiguous “not proven”.
And still the clock ticks on, counting down, point by point, my diminishing potency. Each tick seems to mock my increasingly desperate hope that as the effects of the radiotherapy fade, the process of soggy decline may yet be reversed.
Of course the clock ticks for all of us – we are all counting down in one way or another. But most of us, most of the time, don’t hear it or don’t listen to it. For a cancer survivor it’s hard to ignore.
As I have explained before, I am not a religious person, but I find I am developing an increasing appreciation of faith – that is faith as the capacity to believe something true even when your feelings and the evidence, as you see it, constantly whisper in your ear that you are deluding yourself.
But evidence is evidence, right? Facts can be verified.
Sadly, in the Land of Uncertainty things are not so simple. Truth, like Beauty, is in the eye of the beholder – clouded and unreliable as it may be.
It’s a sublime paradox.
Faith, and its twin brother hope, would be welcome companions just now. If I could just believe a bit more, then I would have faith. If I were just a little more optimistic, then I would have hope.
It’s like the old joke prayer: “God give me patience – and I want it right now.”
I suspect the solution lies in learning to accept the sound of the ticking clock, but to interpret it in a different way. It’s not counting down, it’s counting up. Every tick is another tick on the calendar. Another day to be appreciated, to be relished.
The ticking of the clock simply marks the inescapable rhythm of the delicate dance of life. And everything goes better with a beat.