Cancer is boring, it’s like the neighbour who pops in and eats all the biscuits and then asks if you’ve got any cake? It charges in and takes over. You need a secretary when you’ve got cancer,
‘She’s not in, she’ll be back later.’
It’s all people talk about. You’ve joined a gang, you’ve got a new job description. CANCER.
Tedious, time-consuming and strangely club-like. You exchange glances with strangers, all attired in robes that open at the front. The TV in the waiting room blares out Simpsons or that sit-com with the nice terrier and the old bloke with his favourite chair. You wonder why some are here alone, others with fumbling partners. You wish you were anywhere else but glad you’re at Barts: where St Johns is just down the road. You smell fear, you taste acid. You try not to look at your phone.
You try to meditate, you want a drink. They draw a cross on your tit and pin point the bastard. The nasty little number who has put the fear of God into your daughter in Greece and your boys in London. You wish you had a dog but you are glad you aren’t in Syria. You know you are lucky but wonder why, when you mention you have cancer, people gulp and know not what to say?
‘Are you having a lumpectomy?’ says I.
‘No, a mastectomy,’ says she.
I’m lucky, I’ve just got calcium crystals and won’t have a drain. I go to Oxford Street and look for bras without wires that don’t look like hammocks. Dream on.
Enjoy not having it – one in three of us will.