Robert Fisk reveals why he feels guilty while waiting for his news (Image: Daily Express/Jonathan Buckmaster)
Picking up the phone, I heard a young woman crying and struggling to get her words out in Farsi and English. My half-Iranian girlfriend quickly took over the call and listened to what her cousin had to say. She was in Tehran and wanted to leave her home, but could only do so if accompanied by a male family member. She hated her husband and wanted to divorce him, but couldn’t do so without the permission of his family.
She wanted to take off her hijab but risked a public punishment if she did so. The year was 2002, and my then-girlfriend’s cousin was from the branch of her family that had stayed in Iran. The rest had sent their sons overseas in 1979, some to the USA and some to England, in search of a better life away from the Islamic Revolution.
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My relationship with the half-Iranian, half-American woman ended years ago. But with recent events in the Middle East, I’ve been thinking a lot about her cousin.
She dreamed of making it to America, and I wonder if she ever did. Did she manage to get divorced from her husband, or has she been miserable for more than 20 years?
And what does she think of the USA and Israel bombing her homeland? Does she think it will lead to regime change or just a destroyed nation?
And does she wonder why, if Donald Trump is so keen to overthrow the Iranian regime, why didn’t he do it in the same way that President Obama took out Osama bin Laden – with US Navy Seals on the ground instead of missiles raining down from the air?
Is she now on the streets of her capital, celebrating what must soon be the end of a brutal regime, or is she questioning the motives of Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu?
All these unanswered questions make me feel guilty that while people in the Middle East sit in fear waiting for the sound of an air raid siren, I’m just waiting for a message from my cancer hospital about my appointment times for next week.
While I hope I won’t have to get up too early for blood tests on Tuesday, they are hoping their nearest hospital won’t be bombed on Monday night, so they can still get treated on Tuesday.
And while I sit and struggle to get comfy while having chemotherapy, I read stories about Brits crammed into basements and bomb shelters in Dubai trying to survive.
It does put everything into perspective. While I know my incurable bowel cancer will eventually kill me, it will come at a slow pace, with scans and tests showing when my demise will be. I’ll get a chance to plan my funeral and will be able to say goodbye to loved ones.
It won’t be snuffed out like a candle’s flame, with no warning and no chance to say my farewells. And, with everything going on, is it still okay to be nervous about the scans that I’ve got coming up in the middle of this month?
They will show whether the tumour that was growing a little bit three months ago has grown a bit more. And if that’s the case, then they may reveal whether I’ll die this year rather than next.
Obviously, I don’t expect my medical team to have any solutions to the war in the Middle East. But it would be nice if everyone treating cancer patients acknowledged that scan time is the most nerve-wracking part of battling the disease.
They can help patients feel better by asking how they are feeling and referring them to support services if needed.
And they should start doing this today, instead of waiting until the Government’s pledge for a Personal Cancer Plan for all cancer patients, including mental health support, becomes a thing in the not-too-distant future.
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