remember that time i first told you i had a terminal illness? that was awkward, huh? are you interested in hearing a little bit more about it? alright then.
just over six years ago at a walk-in clinic in ottawa i had a sketchy mole removed from my back which turned out to be melanoma. between 2010 & 2016 i’ve had five surgeries, tried conventional medication, an intensive two-year natural therapy, yoga, hypnotherapy, meditation, excessive masturbation, scientology, the list goes on. i visited a rogue health clinic in tijuana, mexico with my mom, bathed with a camping shower for a year and a half, sat through thousands of coffee enemas and drank more pressed carrot juices than any one human should consume in their lifetime.
one year ago yesterday, while i was playing with finn in the backyard i had a seizure, and we discovered a handful of inoperable brain tumours in my head. fifteen wholebrain radiotherapy treatments followed by two targeted stereotactic sessions and we’re happy to announce that i am now 100% tumour free.
just kidding.
still kind of fucked.
but hey, it’s ok.
really.
Toronto-based reporter Dakshana Bascaramurty met Layton Reid when he photographed her wedding: their immediate connection was unusually strong, and although Reid eventually relocated to Halifax, the pair remained in friendly communication. It was a bombshell, therefore, when Reid emailed Bascaramurty to let her know that his cancer had returned and the prognosis wasn’t good — he had months to a few years to live and he worried what of himself would be left behind for his unborn child. While Reid began a series of legacy-related posts on Facebook, he and Bascaramurty decided to collaborate on a memoir as well, with This Is Not the End of Me being the result. There is much that is valuable and relatable in this book, but to be honest, I much preferred the excerpts of Reid’s own writings to Bascaramurty’s distanced journalistic tone. I will say that Bascaramurty successfully captured this end-of-life story — warts and all, the stresses acting on Reid and his entire family — and in a world where death is hidden away and caregivers are reluctant to complain, there is real value in sharing a story like this. I just expected to feel more. (Note: I read an ARC through NetGalley and passages quoted may not be in their final forms.)
It was a strange spot to be in. He shared so much with me — sometimes, he confessed, more than he did with Candace and his parents — that our friendship had evolved into something I hadn’t expected or prepared for. I recorded most of our conversations and took notes every time we talked, whether I was scrawling them in a notebook or typing them in my laptop. I was now emotionally invested in Layton in the way I was with any of my close friends. Though he had seven years on me, I thought of him as like a younger brother I adored and felt protective of. Still, I never lost sight of the fact that I was also writing about him and his family. Sometimes, I wondered if he routinely forgot that, despite constant reminders that I was planning to document his story. Or maybe there was some kind of logic that governed all of this: these were intimate confessions now, but months or years down the road, after conflicts were resolved and feelings couldn’t be hurt, it was okay for me to publish them. He often told me I was the closest thing he had to a shrink, and while I was flattered that he trusted me so much, hearing this also made me squirm.
Six years after “beating” melanoma, it was found that the cancer had spread to Layton Reid’s brain; and not wanting to risk unknowable side effects from traditional cancer treatments, Reid decided to commit to two years of Gerson Therapy. Thousands of freshly-prepared glasses of juice and thousands of self-administered coffee enemas later (all of which was hugely costly in terms of money, time, and effort), and eventually, the brain tumours came back and Reid and his family needed to face the fact that he was nearing the end of his life. Bascaramurty reports the facts more or less dispassionately, only occasionally inserting asides about how events were affecting her as well, but again, I was mostly taken by Reid’s own writing:
would you like to learn the secret to taking on life’s most brutal obstacles? here it is.
there is no secret. just keep moving, dummy. that’s it. physically, figuratively, whatever. my hundred year old grandfather taught me that by walking the circumference of the earth over the course of his lifetime. my father taught me that by running over thirty-seven thousand kilometres since he graduated from high school, and my son teaches me that by digging, sprinting and splashing his way through a seemingly infinite well of energy, and that kid’s only three years old.
run. walk. crawl. i don’t care. just keep moving forward and you’ll eventually get to where you need to go.
i promise.
I was taken by Reid’s struggle with what to include in a memory box he was filling for his son, Finn; I was impressed by the unflagging care and support he was shown (and especially by his wife and mother); and I was moved by circumstances after his death that led loved ones to believe that Reid was sending them signs. There is much to learn from in this book, and beyond the tragic story of one man and his family, it serves to bring the reality of a cancer diagnosis and death out into the public realm.
