Alive But Not Living
One thing our response to Covid has made clear is that as a society, we value life above all else. I think this is wrong. In our pursuit of “saving” (prolonging is a better word) lives we have forgotten what is most important: living. A year on from a slew of restrictions limiting our lives it is time to reflect on what is most valuable about our existence. It is not how much time we have, but how we choose to spend each passing day. Experiences in my own life have led me to feel this more acutely than most people.
Suited up and ready to climb the career ladder before my cancer diagnosis.
Three years ago, at the age of 24, I was diagnosed with very rare and aggressive stage IV cancer. I didn’t think I would see my 25th birthday and I had to try to come to terms with the terror of imminent death. What I came to realise was that how I spent each minute was more important than the number of minutes I had. Growing up, my goals were clear: to climb the career ladder, buy a house, have kids, and then fulfil my dream of cycling round the world. But being diagnosed with cancer made me realise what was most important. I couldn’t afford to wait. On 1st January 2020, I set off from Bristol for Beijing on a tandem bike – this was my way of living: exposing myself to different countries, cultures and circumstances.
It wasn’t exactly the best year to cycle round the world and at the end of March I had to return to the UK from Germany and enter lockdown with everyone else. As the first lockdown ended, I needed to decide whether to try and continue my cycle ride. I live from scan to scan and I simply don’t know if the next scan result will send me back to hospital. So despite the uncertainties and risks of restarting I felt I couldn’t put my life on hold because of Covid.
In August 2020 I continued cycling across Eurasia. One thing that struck me as I travelled further east was how social people were prepared to be. In Croatia, Moldova and Georgia I found entire communities were not social distancing or wearing masks. One evening I found myself stranded in a small Croatian village after several tire punctures. Seeing a hapless traveller, Marian invited me in to his house. His small kitchen quickly filled with people as beer and boar salami were brought in. Initially I was surprised at how casually people interacted, which was so different to the cautiousness of the UK, but I came to understand why.
Marian and his many friends in Croatia
It was clear these were people that valued interactions with friends and family most of all – in essence, the connections which makes us human. It wasn’t that they weren’t aware of Covid. It’s They had personally decided to that having these interactions were worth the increased risk.
Seeing how different groups have responded to the pandemic led me to reflect on the UK response. What does it say about our society that we would rather limit interaction to keep the elderly alive, only for them to live an isolated existence and for many of them to die alone? I certainly know my grandparents would much rather see me, even with the increased risk of Covid that brings. We now live in a society that has lost its human element – that would rather focus on numbers rather than the lived experience behind those numbers.
During my travels I also noticed the way I interacted with people had changed. In the mountains of Georgia I met Tina, warm and maternal, who confided in me that eight years ago she had breast cancer. She said she had read my story and pulled me into a tight hug. The first thing that crossed my mind was “I shouldn’t be doing this”, before realising how utterly sad this was: I had become so hypersensitive to Covid I had become guilty about human touch, which is vital for our existence. This is not a natural state of being. I thought back to my conversation with Ben in Portsmouth who had barely left the house for weeks and hadn’t met up with friends since before Christmas. Despite putting on a brave face, he sounded pretty downcast. It’s not just the big things we’ve missed out on in the UK – birthdays, weddings and graduations, but the daily interactions and human touch which are the glue and energy that keep us happy and healthy. I looked out my window, watching people chat in the streets in Tbilisi and wondered which approach was more caring of life.
Tina, who welcomed me with open arms
As I have cycled east, the people I have met on my journey have better understood that life comes with risks, and without guarantees. In the UK, we live in a society where we often feel – and are told – that life is a right and that we will live to a ripe old age. This simply isn’t true. We are enormously lucky to have any moment of life at all, and we simply don’t know how long we have. This is something I have learnt the hard way. Twice. Whilst I was in hospital for my first round of chemotherapy, I received a call. My brother, John, had been running in the Lake District. I was told he had slipped, fallen, and died. He was 25. We live in a world without guarantees. We live in a world with risks. Even if you take every anti-Covid precaution you could be run down by a car. Ultimately, we will all die from something. Which means that the most important question is what do we do in the time we have?
What I have learned is that you can’t start living “tomorrow”. Each passing day should be rich and fulfilling – if this doesn’t happen today, it never will. Living like this is in part mindset, and in part creating opportunities. It can even be done in lockdown. Yet, exactly a year on from the first lockdown, how do we want to move forward? Each of us has that choice. Do we prioritise preserving life, or do we recognise that living is the real gold? And living is full of handshakes, hugs, clinking glasses, whispered conversations and joyous commotion. The things that make us human.
For me, what’s more important than living a long life is living a rich and full one. Therefore I’m going to carry on cycling round the world.
Some names have been changed to preserve privacy.