17 minute read
Learning to See Adversity as a Teacher
from Edition 5: Journey
by Mind Cafe
An article about Adrian Drew's personal experiences with loss and the lessons learned along the way.
Death is a peculiar phenomenon. Many of us accept it as a fact of life, but we never really expect it. We see it happen in movies and hear of it in the news, always occurring in other peoples’ universes, naively assuming that it’ll never happen to us or those we love. Or at least, not anytime soon.
Advertisement
That’s how I used to think a couple of years ago, anyway.
Charlotte and I had been together for six and a half years at the time. She became my girlfriend when I was just thirteen, back before I was far too young to understand lofty concepts like love and loss. People have little faith in those childhood relationships, and rightly so. Most end quickly—short-lived romances that burn brightly but fleetingly, like a light switch flickering on and then off again.
Often, thirteen-year-olds are too immature to withstand the pressures of a serious relationship. I’m sure we weren’t any different, but somehow, it worked. And it didn’t just work, it blossomed. No relationship is perfect, granted. But ours was close. Those six-and-ahalf years were magical—filled with laughter, passion and memories I’ll hold close to my heart for as long as I live. One of these memories still sticks with me today.
Charlotte and I were watching Me Before You, a beautifully heartbreaking story that follows the lives of two unlikely lovers until one of them eventually decides to take his own life. It hit us hard, forcing us to contemplate how it would feel to lose one another.
After the film, I remember turning to Charlotte, tears in my eyes, and saying to her:
It was a silly thing to say, really. But I couldn’t comprehend ever losing her. And yet, within two years of uttering those words, there I was, carrying her coffin into the crematorium.
Glioblastoma
I’d never even heard of it before. Glioblastoma. It sounded bad. In reality, it was as awful as it could get. We’d been together for around five years at this point, and Charlotte hadn’t seemed herself for a while. Going to bed at 10 pm on her nineteenth birthday with a raging headache wasn’t normal for the fun-loving party girl we all knew and loved. Within weeks of that, she quickly lost her ability to read, write and understand basic sentences.
Imagery by Mathilde Langevin
It was all so bizarre. None of us had a clue what was happening or why. Despite our deepest fears, we were riding on the false idea that it was just a minor and temporary abnormality. Training to become a nurse at university, her stress levels were through the roof. We all leant on the hope her symptoms were a product of the enormous pressure thrust upon her. And in some ways, they were. But the pressure wasn’t coming from her university lecturers. It was coming from behind her eyes. After an optician discovered an inflamed optic nerve due to swelling in Charlotte’s brain, she was taken to hospital. Hours were spent waiting. Hoping. I’ve never felt anxiety like it—sweaty palms, incessant shaking, and this overwhelming sense of dread. After an agonising evening of endless scans, tests and procedures, our worst fears were confirmed.
It was brain cancer. Terminal. She had eighteen months to live.
False Hope
Not one of Charlotte’s friends, her family or I ever expected such a diagnosis to befall someone as young and healthy as she. But, as I said in the beginning, you never really expect these things, do you? Despite her grim prognosis, we clung to so many different false hopes throughout those eighteen months. At first, in a state of utter denial, I convinced myself that I, a nineteen-year-old boy with no medical experience, could fix it. That is, cure a cancer that all of the world’s doctors and oncologists united haven’t been able to cure in millennia.
And I really believed I could do it. I spent countless nights in my office at home, sipping coffees and red wine whilst digesting the molecular chemistry of brain tumours in the £70 university book I’d purchased—Robert Weinberg’s The Biology of Cancer. I remember the shoulder sores I had for months from carrying an enormous black holdall bag into the hospital every single day, filled with smoothies I’d concocted for Charlotte, healthy snacks for her to eat and no less than six different biology books for my own personal research. The ‘cures’, as I saw them. It’s like I’d gone crazy. And I guess I had. Of course, my whacky methods didn’t do anything to shrink the sprawling mass of cancerous cells in Charlotte’s head. But through my efforts, I believe I at least inspired some hope in her loved ones. They, too, began to trust that we could do something to save her life.
Whilst I continued with my mad scientist regime, our entire town rallied together to help raise money in an effort to provide Charlotte with alternative treatments. Over £100,000 was collected in total—a figure that we couldn’t even begin to fathom. From black-tie balls to nationwide bucket collections and tons of independent fundraisers, everyone that knew and loved Charlotte joined forces to save her life. It was truly astounding.
I did my bit, too. I promised Charlotte that I’d shave my head as soon as she started to lose her hair during chemotherapy. And so I did. It wasn’t a great look, but I didn’t really care at the time. I went bald right at the start of her treatment in order to help the fundraising. Ironically, by the time her hair actually started falling out, mine had grown back. But everyone loves a trier, right?
The day I shaved my head, I went out with two of my best friends, Callum and Jodie, to find an engagement ring for Charlotte. Proposing at nineteen felt crazy, but I’d always wanted to do it. Although Charlotte was optimistic about her future, I knew we’d never be able to truly get married. But the engagement wasn’t only for me. I wanted to give Charlotte the hope that she needed to push forward. That was a truly bittersweet experience. The girl I love more than anything saying yes to marry me—something I’d only ever dreamed of. And yet knowing that the cancer would take her life before I’d ever see her pretty face in a white dress.
These are just a few examples that show how those eighteen months were a whirlwind of hopefulness. Many people demonise false optimism. They say that it only makes the unfortunate truth harder to digest when it eventually comes to fruition. And perhaps those people are right. But sometimes, that truth can be so devastatingly unbearable that you simply can’t swallow it all in one sitting—you need the soft cushion of promise, even if it’s not real, to make things a little easier.
In many ways, it’s the false hope that death will never befall us or those we love that keeps us all going, isn’t it? It’s a bitter pill that we don’t have to ingest right now, so we ignore it until the time comes. And I think that’s okay. I think false hope is, in many ways, a blessing. It keeps us sane. It gives us the strength to carry on. That’s one of the things I learned during that nightmare of a journey—that a little false hope here and there is sometimes exactly what we need.
A lot of wisdom was gained throughout Charlotte’s prognosis. It was a tough price to pay to gain some insight into what it means to be happy, but I’ll carry those lessons with me forever. Let’s run through a few more.
If it Feels Right, it Probably is
At around the age of eleven, I was in a huge car accident with my family. A van hit us from behind at no fewer than eighty miles per hour whilst we were stationary on the motorway. The impact was so huge that six other cars were involved—our car hitting the car in front, and that pattern repeating over a further five cars.
After years of physiotherapy, X-rays and appointments, my legal case was eventually closed and I was offered £5,500 in compensation. I was seventeen. The courtroom decided that, although I shouldn’t technically have received the money until I was eighteen, I seemed sensible enough to spend it wisely and therefore could be paid immediately.
The moment I left the courtroom, I called Charlotte.
“Charl, I have five and a half grand. Where do you want to go first?”
We started with Paris. Disneyland, the Eiffel Tower, fancy restaurants and expensive drinks. We did it all. Then it was a beach holiday to Cyprus, basking in the sun for a few weeks and enjoying each other’s company. Next, it was Belgium at Christmas—the most magical holiday I’ve ever been on. Ice skating, mugs of hot chocolate and warm hugs by the fire with my best friend on the planet. And lastly, a summer holiday in Ibiza to celebrate Charlotte starting university. Despite the lawyer’s best judgements, I spent all of that money within a matter of months. At the time, there were two voices in my head—one telling me I should save the money and use it for my education in the future, and one telling me to go ahead and make some great memories.
Today, I’m eternally grateful that I ignored that first voice. I spent every penny building the most magical memories with the girl I loved, memories I’ll never again have the chance to create. And within that experience, I learned another vital lesson. Sometimes, objectively ‘bad’ decisions might just feel right. It might be totally nonsensical and go against everyone’s best judgements, but when your gut tells you to do something, don’t ignore it. You never know what’s around the corner. You might never again have the same opportunities that you do today.
It’s okay to ignore logic every now and then, shrug your shoulders and make that ‘bad’ decision. Granted, it’s not always going to be the right thing to do. But it may just be the best choice you ever make.
Act With Love and You’ll Never Regret it
Caring for a terminally ill person is one of the most difficult things an individual can experience. It’s exhausting, heartbreaking, and will test you to your absolute limit. I found myself on the brink of a meltdown so many times during Charlotte’s illness. Thankfully, I never crossed that border. But I was close. Living with Charlotte and her family, I’d return home to my mum and brother from time to time, expressing that I simply couldn’t handle this situation anymore. It was going to kill me.
There was so much pressure, and my heart never stopped racing. I’d wake up with the heaviest sense of dread every morning when I realised it wasn’t all just some horrific nightmare. To add to that, I was constantly on alert, fearful that Charlotte might have a seizure or fall and hurt herself in the night. I couldn’t relax, no matter how much I meditated, drank camomile tea, or read books. There were times where I couldn’t envisage carrying on any longer. But I did. I persevered. And Charlotte’s last words to me made it all worth it.
Just a few weeks before her death, she was moved into hospice care. Since the doctors had exhausted all of their options at prolonging her life, it was time to make her comfortable, pain-free and allow her to exit this world as peacefully as possible.
Some nights before Charlotte was moved, her mum asked if I’d like to stay with Charlotte in the hospital for an evening. It’s not easy sleeping in those hospital beds—especially when there are lights everywhere, nurses running up and down the corridor, and constant beeping sounds. Charlotte managed, of course. She was exhausted, and falling asleep on command was a gift of hers that I always envied. That night, just when I thought she was falling asleep, she called my name. At this point, she was on a lot of morphine. She must’ve called me over to say goodnight a dozen times. I’d laugh, say it back, give her a kiss on the forehead, and repeat that cycle over and over. But then she said something else.
“AJ,” she whispered. (That's my nickname.)
That was it. That’s what made it all worth it. The pain, the sorrow, the anxiety—all of it. Pushing past those moments of being on the brink of a mental breakdown. I’d done it all for Charlotte. I was there for her when she needed me, just as she’d always supported me. And that’s all I needed to hear. In that, I learned something else. Acts of love aren’t about us. They’re not self-serving. We execute them simply because we care so deeply about the person receiving them. We do them not for ourselves, or anybody else, but simply because we love that person so much. Because we want to see that beautiful smile on their face and the glimmer in their eyes. And, above everything else, it’s those acts of love that can provide us the deepest sense of joy and satisfaction in life. It’s as Esther Hicks once said: The greatest gift you can ever give another person is your own happiness.
I’ll hold Charlotte’s words with me until the day I die. They remind me that I did it all to see her happy, despite my own sadness. And at that moment, I realized I’d succeeded.
Coming Back to Earth
Charlotte passed away in August of 2019. Despite the heartbreak and tragedy of the whole experience, she was blessed with as peaceful a passage as possible—largely pain-free and unaware of what was happening. Losing a loved one at such a young age is a mind-bending experience. Entering a relationship when your adolescent brain isn’t fully formed yet leads you to develop a certain sense of codependency. I don’t think that can be avoided, either. When there’s little else going on in life, a romantic relationship can become your entire universe. Charlotte’s death forced me into a period of deep introspection. I had no choice but to figure out who I was without her. And so I turned to books. I began reading every self-improvement book I could find, from psychology to philosophy and everything in-between. I learned a lot, on reflection, and made it my new purpose to teach myself how to be happy.
In that pursuit, another voice crept into my head. It asked me: “If you’re learning this much about happiness and it’s genuinely helping you, why not share it with others?”
And so I did. I launched a publication online, called it Mind Cafe, and started writing about what I was experiencing. At the same time, I invited others to join me and share their stories too, and Mind Cafe became this fast-growing community of self-improvers, all seeking to become better versions of themselves.
Bizarrely, almost within weeks of Charlotte’s departure from this earth, Mind Cafe’s growth was taken to a level that not even I could fathom. The timing was perfect, since I now had something new to distract me from the grief and trauma that lingered in the back of my mind. Through my reading of Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search For Meaning, I knew that the only way through the grief would be to find a sense of purpose. And there it was, serendipitously placed into my lap at just the right time.
Continuing to run the publication with the support of my team, a few thousand monthly readers quickly turned into a few hundred thousand. And then five hundred thousand. Before long, we were consistently reaching over two and a half million people every single month—a figure I’d never anticipated when launching this tiny publication in a hospital ward with zero expectations.
When first confronted with the epitome of my worst nightmare at the young age of nineteen, I surrendered almost immediately. I contemplated giving up every single night. I’d dread waking up each and every morning, often wishing I wouldn’t.
To be able to sit here today and write these words with a smile on my face, knowing how far I’ve come in this crazy journey called life, is a true miracle.
And therein lies a final lesson.
Even when giving up seems like the only option, hold on one more day. Take life one step at a time, as my mum always says. Soon, you’ll look back on your stay in Rock Bottom Hotel as this crucial period of growth that led you to where you needed to be. But only because you kept moving forward.
Learning From Adversity
It would be wonderful if we could learn the lessons that adversity teaches without going through the pain of it all. But I don’t think that’s possible.
Despite our losses, what we gain through grief is profound wisdom. I don’t say that in an egotistical sense. I don’t consider myself some all-knowing oracle that’s been gifted with knowledge that others lack. Rather, I know that I learned a lot of important lessons through my experiences with grief. Wherever you are in life at this point, whether in a similar position that I was in or not, know this. It gets easier. You’ve heard that before, but it does. People are right.
Time heals, and it heals well. The cuts that sting to touch today will become scars that protect you from the pain in the future. Adversity is a teacher. A cruel, masochistic teacher, but the best you’ll ever have. So let it teach you. Take whatever you can from it in exchange for the sorrow, anxiety, and grief that it inflicts.
You won’t be the same once the storm passes. But perhaps that’s a good thing. Maybe the changes you endure will be for the better in some ways. Indeed, you may feel like you’re lost at sea at times. But someday, like a piece of driftwood, you’ll float back to the shore. And once you get there, you’ll reflect on the tumult and the sorrow with a bittersweet smile on your face, thankful for the memories, and proud of yourself for making it out to the other side.
That’s what I’m doing as I write these words. And I know that Charlotte is smiling right back at me.
