"Long time, no see," said a homeless man as he trudged to a warming centre.

The first week of any new year has a despondently hungover vibe- whether you drink or not. It's an emotional fatigue from December's Christmas season that demanded cult-like expressions of joy and happiness. 

In the colourless and dingy days of January, it's a difficult slog forward towards what awaits us in the future. At least that is what I have found the Januarys of my life to resemble. This feeling is more extreme in 2025 because we are weeks away from the inauguration of Donald Trump as President again.

Photo by Samuel Regan-Asante on Unsplash

But in the harsh coldness of the first month of the year, I always seem to brush against my own endurance to survive or someone else's. It provides me if not a feeling of optimism, a sense that ordinary humanity will face their tomorrow with a sufficient measure of defiance to the coming fascist takeover of society.

Last night during my evening walk I saw a homeless person trudging to the warming shelter, near my apartment. He called out from the darkness.

"Long time, no see."

I recognised him and was taken aback to see him. I had not seen him since February past. I presumed he died from an overdose of fentanyl-laced heroin because he had been, for many months, absent scenery during my walks around the city. 

I asked him where he'd been for almost a year? The homeless man responded that he had been in jail for a petty crime.

I was pleased to see he had survived 2024 and when he extended his hand for me to shake and wish me a Happy New Year, I took it as if it were from a comrade.

Five years ago today, I wrote an email to a cancer surgeon, with the subject header: Re, I have cancer and need your expertise because I want to survive.

I reread it recently and the memory of writing that email stung like a paper cut. It made me remember the terror I felt when I was told I had rectal cancer in January 2020.

News that I had cancer came after Britain’s December 2019 General Election. I was scheduled for a colonoscopy in the small city I reside in. It was to determine if my rectal bleeding was more serious than haemorrhoids.

The colonoscopy was performed by a general surgeon who informed me after I awoke from the procedure that he had discovered “worrisome” lesions in my rectum.

His tone suggested worrisome was a euphemism for the Big C. I am no fool, nor can I buy into false optimism. I knew it was cancer the moment this doctor ordered blood work, a CT scan and an MRI during Christmas break.

The general surgeon seemed to me a proficient sort, like an auto mechanic that can fix all sorts of problems with your car’s engine to keep it running- just not at its peak performance.

The notion that if I did have cancer a general surgeon would cut into me was terrifying. I saw more that could go wrong with a surgeon who did appendectomies on Tuesdays, neck surgeries on Wednesdays and operations on rectal cancer on Thursdays.

So, I found an oncological surgeon far from my home through a search on Google. I thought he might give me the best possible chance to save my life and give me a better quality of life after my surgery. I wrote this letter to him, hoping he would see me for a consult.

January 3, 2020

My name is John Max Smith. I am 56 years old and waiting for confirmation from a biopsy, blood work, MRI and CAT scan that the "fairly" small lesion found in my lower rectum is cancer. Naturally, I am afraid- not so much of death- although the notion of me ending makes me feel sad.

I am more afraid of the mutilation from the surgery and how it will change my life. I have known ill health before- as I had a heart attack 13 years ago- and that transformed me. I think it made me a better person. This cancer, however, I fear won't do that to me.

I am drained of all my reserve strength because I gave it all to keep my dad alive for the last 8 years of his life after my brother died.

Let me explain a little about myself. I am the son of a man called Harry Leslie Smith, who died in Nov 2018 at 95. The media dubbed him the World's Oldest Rebel because he travelled the world and implored people to fight for public healthcare. He also fought to preserve the Welfare State his generation built after the Second World War. I was his partner in that endeavour. 

During that time- we were like oarsmen plying a small craft across a dangerous sea. My mother died in 1999, and my brother succumbed to IPF in 2009 at 50 after enduring schizophrenia throughout his adult life. Our work after my brother died was a means to relieve ourselves of the grief we experienced by losing a son and brother. During that time, I helped create, with my father five books. They were about his working-class past and how 21st-century politics needed the return to an FDR “ New Deal.” style of politics.

In his books, speeches and interviews, my dad advocated for refugees, the vulnerable and the right of every human being to public healthcare where treatment is determined by need rather than wealth. We travelled rough and ready across Britain, Europe and Canada so my dad could speak to people. He talked to them about his experiences during the Great Depression and why a Welfare State is needed now more than ever. Since his death, I have continued his Last Stand project while writing a book about our life together. I have much to do to preserve my dad's legacy. I also want to scratch some joy and simple happiness from the hard ground of my life while I am alive.

Best regards,

John Max Smith

After reading my email, the surgeon agreed to take me as his patient. He operated on me at the end of March 2020 during the first onslaught of Covid.

The terror of trying to be treated for lethal cancer during a pandemic was profound. I still need follow-ups to see if the cancer has spread, and the last CT showed a disturbing mark on my liver that needs to be further explored during my next CT.

As long-time subscribers to my substack will know, 2 years ago, pulmonary fibrosis was found in my lungs. So the odds are I will die of lung disease sooner rather than later.

It is what it is. What matters is, for now, I am alive- although I will never return to my normal before cancer. But then again, who will ever see a return to, their normal world?

My Substack helps preserve the legacy of my dad Harry Leslie Smith who was known as the World's Oldest Rebel until his death on Nov 28, 2018 because of his advocacy for refugees, public healthcare and the Welfare State.  This Substack is a chronicle of today’s politics and living on the edge during a cost-of-living crisis not seen in decades. Our times are the direst since the 1930s, and I aim to document them, through publishing my Dad’s works including his Green and Pleasant Land, for as long as possible. So you can join with a paid subscription, which is just 3.50 a month or a yearly subscription or a gift subscription. Tip are also welcome. I promise the content is good, relevant and thoughtful. But if you can’t it's all good too because I appreciate we are in the same boat. Take Care, John