I’m scared. My kids are scared.
What if I wake up on the evening of the 30th of July and they’ve sliced both my tits off? I’ve signed a form, they might.
I’m sorry, this is not the time for rational thought. This is the time for stopping my daily aspirin so I don’t bleed to death. The aftermath of my breast cancer biop looked like a still from Reservoir Dogs; the nurse had to lend me a clean t-shirt to wear home. It was red luckily but the V-neck so wasn’t me.
This is the time to start measuring my blood pressure twice a day to make sure I don’t explode on the operating table. It was so high at the pre-assessment that they suggested cancelling surgery. So my blood pressure shot higher, ‘Go and have a walk around outside and get some fresh air,’ said the sister.
Sarah Maxwell took me Carluccios, bought me a large glass of red and a risotto and I returned in triumph. Blood pressure down, surgery back on. She cried, I cried, the sister hugged us both. Result.
Friends and wine, who needs more?