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Jim McCrory

Thoughts on Cancer and the High Road to Loch Lomond

Friday, 10 Jan 2025, 10:58
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The High Road and the Low Road: A Journey to Loch Lomond

On Wednesday evening, my wife and I set out for Balmaha on the banks of Loch Lomond. Drawn by the dual promise of celestial splendour and dawn's first light breaking over the rugged highlands. Our trip was spurred by something more urgent than mere wanderlust—my recent diagnosis with terminal cancer, which has sharpened our focus on seizing the moments that remain.

Loch Lomond isn't just a place of natural beauty; it's a sanctuary where each vista and shifting cloud seems orchestrated to remind us of life's transient, precious nature. As the night sky surrendered to sunrise, I felt a profound connection to the Creator, an assurance that despite the uncertainties of my health, there remains a greater plan at work.

During our visit, the echoes of "Loch Lomond" filled my mind—the haunting lyrics about parting ways, taking different roads through life and beyond. "O you'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road, and I'll be in Scotland before you." The song, a poignant anthem of farewell, resonated deeply, reflecting our current crossroads. It was as if the high road was my impending journey beyond this life, while the low road was the here and now with my wife.

This melody, which has always stirred the soul, now underscored our experience with its profound symbolism. It wasn't just background music; it was a narrative woven into the fabric of our visit, a narrative about love, parting, and the passages we all must navigate.

Standing there, with the dawn light washing over the loch and mountains, I was struck by a mix of grief and gratitude. Grief, for the days that will be no more, and gratitude for the immeasurable beauty and joy that have filled my days. Each moment by the loch was a moment stolen back from fate, a declaration that even in the face of life's end, we can find reasons to cherish and celebrate.

Our journey back home was quiet, reflective. We spoke little, but our hands found each other often, a silent language of support and mutual strength. The road, both literal and metaphorical, stretched out before us, each mile a step towards whatever awaits.

As we navigate this chapter, the lesson of Loch Lomond remains with us: to embrace each day with vigour, to find solace in nature's embrace, and to love fiercely in the face of the unknown. Even as I consider the roads we take—the high ones and the low—the journey is as beautiful as it is heart-breaking, filled with the promise of love’s enduring presence.


When a man dies, will he live again?

All the days of my hard service I will wait,

until my renewal comes.

Job 14:14 (BSB)

 

 

 


Tags: Cancer, Loch Lomond, Parting loved ones
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Jim McCrory

The Value of Time: Navigating Relationships in the Face of Terminal Illness

Saturday, 21 Dec 2024, 13:31
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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 23 Dec 2024, 05:52


"Mortality is a reminder that time is both fleeting and precious, 

urging us to cherish the connections we choose to keep."



Image generated with the assistance of  Microsoft Copilot




The Value of Time: Navigating Relationships in the Face of Terminal Illness

When you are faced with the reality of a terminal illness, time suddenly becomes an entirely different, unfamiliar  currency—a fleeting, invaluable resource to be spent with care. I have found myself weighing each connection, each interaction, with a new kind of gravity. This recalibration of priorities has led me to limit my relationships, not out of selfishness but from a deep awareness of what little time I have left and how best to use it. Yet, this choice, though deeply personal, has not gone unnoticed or uncontested or the subject of hyper criticism. That disappoints me. 

What strikes me most is how the news of a terminal diagnosis can pull people out of the woodwork, individuals who had faded into the periphery of my life, now reappearing with sudden urgency. It’s easy to cast judgment on this phenomenon, to view it cynically as a reaction borne of guilt, fear, or social expectation. But beneath these surface motivations, I’ve found a tangle of emotions and intentions that reveal something profoundly human.

Guilt, undoubtedly, is a significant factor. I see it in the faces of those who reconnect after years of silence. It’s as though the knowledge of my illness has held a mirror to their lives, reflecting the gaps and absences in our relationship. Perhaps they remember a kindness I offered, a shared moment now tinged with the regret of neglect. These pangs of remorse compel them to reach out, to atone for the distance they allowed to grow. And while I understand this instinct, I’ve also come to realize that guilt-driven connections often serve more as balm for their conscience than solace for mine.

Fear, too, plays its role. There’s a certain urgency that illness imposes, an unspoken countdown that presses on both the diagnosed and their circle. For those who have drifted, my situation becomes a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the opportunities they’ve let slip by. They come, not wanting to carry the burden of unresolved words or unspoken feelings. They want closure, or perhaps a chance to leave on better terms than the ones we’d resigned ourselves to. It’s a fear I understand, but one that can feel oddly transactional when viewed from this side of the table.

Then there is the weight of societal expectations, the unspoken rules that dictate how we should behave when illness strikes. People feel a duty to express their concern, to offer support, even if their presence has been sporadic or absent in the past. These gestures, though often well-meaning, can carry an air of obligation. There’s a script to follow: the phone call, the flowers, the promise to visit soon. While I’ve appreciated these overtures, they sometimes feel less like genuine connection and more like a box being checked, a societal norm being fulfilled.

As I’ve reflected on these reappearances, I’ve come to see that their motivations—guilt, fear, obligation—are not inherently negative. They are simply human. We are flawed creatures, stumbling through relationships with a mix of selfishness and sincerity. What matters most, I’ve found, is not why someone reconnects but what they bring to the table when they do. Are they present, willing to engage honestly, or merely passing through to ease their own discomfort?

For my part, I’ve chosen to focus on the relationships that feel reciprocal, where time spent together is a shared gift rather than a one-sided act of absolution. This doesn’t mean I’ve shut the door on others; I’ve simply chosen to prioritize the connections that align with the values I hold closest: authenticity, mutual respect, and the ability to be fully present in the moment.

The Gift of Time

If there is one lesson I’d share from this experience, it is the profound importance of treasuring time and being intentional with it. For those who find themselves on the receiving end of these sudden reconnections, it is okay to set boundaries, to choose where and with whom to spend your precious hours. And for those reaching out, I would urge sincerity—not out of guilt, not out of obligation, but out of a genuine desire to be part of a moment that truly matters rather than causing added frustration by firing surface judgements. 

In the end, relationships, like life itself, are finite. They are imperfect, complicated, and sometimes messy. But within their imperfection lies their beauty: the chance to connect, to forgive, and to find meaning even in the shadow of mortality.


Tags: The value of time, Terminal Illness, Cancer
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Jim McCrory

You Have a Year to Live, What Will you Do With It?

Monday, 12 Aug 2024, 11:24
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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 14 Aug 2024, 08:29


"Life is a journey where the destination is predetermined." 

Jim McCrory


Image kindly provided by Jack at https://unsplash.com/@jack_anstey


“There’s a young man inside me.

 He has followed me around all his life.

 His age, I do not know, but 

he is always there

 He comforts me

 and his presence 

convinces me

 God has eternity in view for me” 

 

Last Autumn I went through some medical examinations. It came the day to see the consultant for the results.

My wife and I read a scripture that morning as we do every morning. It was Psalm 91: 1,2:

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

Will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.’

I will say to the Lord, “You are my refuge and my fortress,

My God, in whom I trust.”

I said to my wife, “we are going to get bad news today.” She agreed with a pensive look on her face. God had often given us messages through the scriptures that were specific. God continues to speak as he has always spoken, but at times, the right verse miraculously lands in our lap when needed.

And sure enough, cells in the prostate that served me faithfully, turned hostile and have created a rebellion in the pancreas and liver and who knows where else.

The consultant, a kind Asian man, who seemed worried that I never received the full impact of the diagnoses said, “You are very bravado about this?”

“There’s a young man inside me. He has followed me around all his life. His age, I do not know, but he is always there. He comforts me and his presence convinces me God has eternity in view for me,” I replied.

We came home that day and read the whole of Psalm 91 and felt a great sense of comfort. I have no sensation of what the Germans call torschlusspanik, that awareness that the doors are closing in on me. No, I wake with a miraculous feeling of peace that only comes from God and Christ.

Contentment and Gratitude

The first thing was the need to create space. When it gets around that you have a terminal illness, many you have known from the past want to speak to you. As a solitary person who needs space to reflect and organise life, that came first. There are matters to consider. Passing on family photos and other documentation. Arranging a cremation. Sorting out the will and countless other matters that other’s need to respect. I recall when my first wife was dying with cancer that dealing with those who wanted some space with her became exhausting to the point that she needed protection whilst convalescing. It is a reminder to all that whilst in favourable season, that is the time for goodness,

Don’t withhold good from those to whom it is due,

when it is in the power of your hand to do it.

Proverbs 3:27 (WEB)

The year will be up next month. Who knows what the following year will bring. Sure, the side effects of hormone injections hamper life somewhat with the tiredness, intrusive thoughts, dry eye and other discomforts,  but there is one thing for sure, my wife and I have not lost our joy. We are grateful for what we have accomplished in the past year. We have had a rich summer staying in Scotland’s fine places and camping and meeting interesting people whom we have shared our faith with.

Exercise and nature have restorative powers. This is important as cancer and stress are not harmonious bedfellows. Therefore, I carefully guard my peace and cherish it.

I still enjoy my book group and reading. I also start the day writing something positive. I don’t like the current way the world is changing. I like to create my own world by writing what is good and upbuilding.

And like the ancient cave painters who embedded their handprints, writing leaves a legacy as to who I am and that I was here. Life is a journey, but we can determine the destination.

When a man dies, will he live again?

All the days of my hard service I will wait,

until my renewal comes.

Job 14:14 (BSB).

"Renewal", a wonderful concept.


Tags: Cancer, Psalm 91, Proverbs 3:27, Job 14:14, Happiness, Joy, Contentment. What will you do with your last year.
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