Last week something surreal, crazy and magical happened that has warmed my heart and left me smiling.
A few weeks ago I casually responded to a friend's post on Facebook, saying that I love the cello and would one day like to learn to play it.
And so it seems a seed was sown. A dear friend of ours spotted the post and decided to take action (as is her wont).
And so it was that last Friday night, as I started to emerge from the side effects from my final chemotherapy, Rob called me downstairs. He told me that a group of my incredible friends had clubbed together to provide some 'cello magic' for me in celebration of getting through chemo.
Perplexed, I opened the front door to reveal a semi circle of chairs arranged infront of our house. As I tentatively took my seat, a small group of close friends, old and new, appeared from behind the fence, followed by a stranger...carrying a cello. And that was it - I was all undone. Caught between tears, laughter and comic disbelief, I was about to have my very own cello recital outside my very own front door. This sort of thing does not normally happen in my life (nor I guess in most people's lives).
The first notes of Bach's cello suite in G major threatened to sweep me away. As if someone had turned a heavy key in my chest, I felt the instant unlocking of a tidal wave of emotion - pure, raw grief - an emotion that has so far not revealed itself these past months (or at least, I have not given it space to show its face). Gathering myself, I acknowledged its pressing presence, but did not allow it to take hold. Now I know it is there, I will return to it and carefully tend to it, but this surreal musical moment was one I wanted to celebrate, not howl my way through.
As the sun shone down on us and passers-by craned their necks, I sat in shocked laughing-crying-snotty disbelief as Pavlos played on - filling our hearts with his incredible music.
And then my precious project-mastermind mate appeared, beaming, around the corner, dwarfed by a large cello-shaped parcel wrapped in decorated newspaper. It took a moment for my chemo brain to catch up. To piece things together. The arrival of my very own cello.
It's very hard for me to put into words how much this all meant to me. All the small and not so small thoughts, words and actions from so many loved ones (the group at my house on Friday was just a small representation of the wider group) that it took to make this happen. From hatching the original plan, to the many individual and generous contributions of ideas and money (not only did I get a cello recital, my very own cello and an initial lesson - but also a lesson fund), to the sourcing and collecting the cello, the arranging of the cellist, the recording of personal video messages and the compilation of a video of good wishes (oh, and the baking of scones!). The numerous expressions of love and support wrapped up in these multiple acts are legion. I feel immensely humbled and grateful for each and every one of them. It is this love that has carried me through so far.
My cello has a story of its own to tell. Annabel, plotter in chief, actively wanted to find a second hand cello with a tale to tell, rather than buy a brash, shiny new one. After some searching, she found one that spoke to her. It was being sold by a woman in Bethnal Green. Not only did it have my name in its origins (well, with a bit of rejigging) but it heralds from my beloved East London. Deal done - it was meant for me. On arriving to collect it, she heard the story of the cello's previous owner, a young man named James. James loved his cello and had been enjoying learning to play her for a few years before he tragically died, aged 25, of sudden death syndrome. Heart broken, his family had not felt able to sort through and get rid of his belongings - and for 8 years the cello had not been touched or played.
But the time now felt right for them to let his stuff go, and I am honoured to say that James's cello is now my cello. I feel deeply touched by his story, and holding my cello can feel a tangible connection with a young man I never met but with whom I share something intensely personal, as if the very wood of the instrument is somehow imbued with his spirit. I hope that I can honour him with my playing.
I know nothing about classical music, but have always loved the deep emotional energy of the cello. It has always moved me with its underlying sorrowful resonance. It can reach into places that other instruments can't, and now more than ever, cello music allows me to access my most deeply held emotions. I am not naturally musical, and have no idea if I am up to the challenge of being able to master the cello. But honestly, I don't really care. I am learning that it is the journey that matters - not the destination.
And I already have a sense that my cello is going to become an important companion in my travels with cancer. My first few exploratory sessions, simply familiarising myself with her form, have brought me real pleasure. The challenge of learning something new and the gilded thrill of being able to create even one simple note has lifted me above the mundanity that has been my treatment schedule these past few months, sparking joy.
But there is something else, something unexpected. As I lean her body up against mine, the back on the cello rests on the place where my left breast used to be. It sits directly on my scar. And as I draw the bow across the strings, the vibrations of the whole instrument resonate into my chest - as if reaching right into me - intense, deep and healing. It is an extraordinarily powerful sensation, stroking and soothing the very locus of my trauma.
And so I know that this cello is going to be an important part of my healing process and my life - indeed it already is. I am immensely grateful to all of those who have helped bring her to me, and who have lifted me up with their love. You have filled me with hope. Thank you.
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