SECONDS, minutes, hours, days … weeks even. Who’s counting?

Counting things is what solitary confinement prisoners John McCarthy and Terry Waite did … covertly scratching a line on the bed post or wall to mark each passing day.

It’s a way of keeping a hold on things – an anchor, a reality, a sanity hook.

And if so, then I have no worries.

As I write “Between These Four Walls” I wonder how many walls I am actually between.

L-shape living room – so start with six then. Bedrooms and “wee rooms”, tiny wee front hall walls but they still count.

Stair hall – right-hand side wall has three corners so is that one wall with bends or is that three? I opt for three. I am taking this seriously.

I have 41 walls. If I truly only had four, I’d be in serious trouble and scratching lines into the side of my laptop.

Counting on a lot

After all, tomorrow is day 50 between these 41 walls (apart from three half-day trips to hospital for chemotherapy and immunotherapy) … the most recent of which was on Tuesday and nearly didn’t take place because my white blood cell count was getting towards dangerously low levels.

The white cells measure my immunity to infection and have dropped from 5.5 to 2.2 and now 1.7 – with 1.5 being the lowest safe limit for continuing my chemotherapy treatment.

I recently counted my daily steps taken – not a lot.

The Herald on Sunday subeditors want me to count the words of this column before sending it up the line for their expert attention and polishing.

Trivia apart, I truly do count on the love of my wife Laura so incredibly much and for so much.

I count on her devotion and patience and attention, and for her ability to count the dozens of pills I have to take at specific times of the day.

I count on her phoning the pharmacy when things start to run out – such as the blood-thinning injections into my stomach every night or the mouthwash for the chemo-inspired ulcers or pills and cream for spots and skin rashes.

I’ve counted on her countenance for years but none count as much as right now.

I often think of the poor souls who are going through all this when much older and more confused than me – and without the help of a trained nurse as a wife and companion by their side.

I’ve said it before … I have a lot to be thankful for.

Counting the benefits

Not too long ago I counted up how much I’d save by not driving my car to town and using my new free bus pass. This hill of beans remained small but the joy it brought me to travel free was worth its weight in gold.

For now, the buses are out for me – I don’t go out!

My health condition – not so good at breathing after lung surgery and ongoing cancer treatment – does, however, qualify me for a blue badge to park closer to the supermarket door or ground floor of the shopping centre multi-storey … problem is they’re no use to me either.

Even the normally sardine-tin packed hospital car parks that are more akin to a packet of Walkers crisps (two-thirds empty) when I go for treatment nowadays.

No-one counted to 60

There are always exceptions and on Tuesday the chemo ward of Crosshouse Hospital fell silent as staff and patients remembered and respected their NHS colleagues who lost their lives trying to save others.

It was Tuesday, April 28, at 11am and 60 seconds had been allotted for this poignant moment of remembrance and respect.

It probably lasted for nearly three minutes.

Such was the intensity of the moment created by the huddle of nursing staff in the centre of the room and the tangible emotional silence.

There was a tear falling from the face of the nurse who just moments before had put an intravenous line into the back of my hand and given me a reassuring smile.

I was privileged to be part of this. We are all in this together. We are all counting on each other.

Counting on each other to care, to cry, to do the right thing. To empathise, to sympathise, to be strong.

That one minute was not 60 seconds – it was a huge moment in time that I will never forget.

One that really counted.