the room, thanks to my unexpected kick-ass outburst.
‘Would you like me to explain everything again?’ she asked my folks, who nodded calmly in agreement like two toddlers on the naughty step. This was for their benefit more than mine, although the nurse purposefully turned to me during the part about chemotherapy; the part that finished ‘… and you
will
lose your hair’.
I looked at Mum, crestfallen. She knew what I was thinking.
‘I won’t be able to go to Jamie’s wedding,’ I said. Jamie and Leanne’s big day was four months away – slap-bang in the middle of my likely chemotherapy schedule.
‘Of course you will,’ said the nurse. ‘You’ll be able to wear a lovely long wig or a pretty headscarf and you’ll look amazing.’
I ignored her assurances. I couldn’t possibly turn up to such an important occasion in a wig. Wigs are for fancy dress, not weddings. And a headscarf? Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. Who did she think I was, a fortune-teller? As she continued her recap of my diagnosis, my mind took a mental snapshot of the four of us beside the beautiful bride and the proud groom – Mum, Dad and P in their finery and then, standing awkwardly beside them, a balding, bloated George Dawes lookalike in a cocktail dress, ruining the photographs of my brother’s happiest day for ever more.
CHAPTER 3
Let me get this off my chest
People keep telling me that I needn’t keep ‘being brave’ and that I ‘don’t have to feel positive all the time’ (get ‘brave’ and ‘positive’ on my Most Hated list IMMEDIATELY). They say that whenever I want to let it all out or get really angry or have a good cry, I can talk to them. And it’s good of them to say so.
But let me say this for the record: I am not consciously
being
anything. I will never
want
to have a good cry or rant or whinge. Those things happen spontaneously: trying on pyjamas in Marks & Spencer, watering the garden, stirring my tea, blowing out a candle before I go to bed. At the moment,
every
reaction is spontaneous (hence a poor teenage shop assistant getting both barrels in Dixons recently).
In fact, this is the first fucking time in my whole life when I’ve stopped giving a shit about how I’m being, the way I’m acting or how I’m coming across to other people. Again: I am not trying to
be
anything, I’m just getting on with it.
None of these words, today or any other day, are for your benefit. I’m not ‘being brave’ to make you feel better. Repeat: I. Am. Not. Being. Brave. You needn’t be concerned about how I’m coping. There is no ‘how’ here. I’m just coping. There’s no good or bad way to do it. You’d cope too.
*
‘LET’S GET SOMETHING to eat before we go home,’ I said to P and my folks as we left the hospital, still the reluctant flag-waving leader on our guided tour of cancer. After my chair-kicking outburst, they knew better than to suggest otherwise, and followed me in dazed single-file to the nearest restaurant, like unsteady newborn ducks being led to water by their plucky mother. We each pulled up a stool in The World’s Worst Tapas Restaurant, throwing our bags and a rainforest’s worth of breast cancer information leaflets onto the table. I hoped their presence would go some way to explaining our stunned, miserable, red-eyed faces to our concerned-looking waiter.
We’re an annoyingly polite family at the best of times – only ordering starters once it’s been ascertained that everybody wants one, filling DVD rental trips with the kind of no-you-choose routine that makes the process of selecting a movie longer than the film itself – but that day more than ever it was impossible to ascertain what anyone wanted to eat, so floored were we by the further details of my diagnosis. I took the reins again, hurriedly ordering nondescript plates of bravas, croquettas and tortilla, in an attempt both to get everyone sufficiently fed and to quickly shoo away our increasingly confused
‘Would you like me to explain everything again?’ she asked my folks, who nodded calmly in agreement like two toddlers on the naughty step. This was for their benefit more than mine, although the nurse purposefully turned to me during the part about chemotherapy; the part that finished ‘… and you
will
lose your hair’.
I looked at Mum, crestfallen. She knew what I was thinking.
‘I won’t be able to go to Jamie’s wedding,’ I said. Jamie and Leanne’s big day was four months away – slap-bang in the middle of my likely chemotherapy schedule.
‘Of course you will,’ said the nurse. ‘You’ll be able to wear a lovely long wig or a pretty headscarf and you’ll look amazing.’
I ignored her assurances. I couldn’t possibly turn up to such an important occasion in a wig. Wigs are for fancy dress, not weddings. And a headscarf? Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. Who did she think I was, a fortune-teller? As she continued her recap of my diagnosis, my mind took a mental snapshot of the four of us beside the beautiful bride and the proud groom – Mum, Dad and P in their finery and then, standing awkwardly beside them, a balding, bloated George Dawes lookalike in a cocktail dress, ruining the photographs of my brother’s happiest day for ever more.
CHAPTER 3
Let me get this off my chest
People keep telling me that I needn’t keep ‘being brave’ and that I ‘don’t have to feel positive all the time’ (get ‘brave’ and ‘positive’ on my Most Hated list IMMEDIATELY). They say that whenever I want to let it all out or get really angry or have a good cry, I can talk to them. And it’s good of them to say so.
But let me say this for the record: I am not consciously
being
anything. I will never
want
to have a good cry or rant or whinge. Those things happen spontaneously: trying on pyjamas in Marks & Spencer, watering the garden, stirring my tea, blowing out a candle before I go to bed. At the moment,
every
reaction is spontaneous (hence a poor teenage shop assistant getting both barrels in Dixons recently).
In fact, this is the first fucking time in my whole life when I’ve stopped giving a shit about how I’m being, the way I’m acting or how I’m coming across to other people. Again: I am not trying to
be
anything, I’m just getting on with it.
None of these words, today or any other day, are for your benefit. I’m not ‘being brave’ to make you feel better. Repeat: I. Am. Not. Being. Brave. You needn’t be concerned about how I’m coping. There is no ‘how’ here. I’m just coping. There’s no good or bad way to do it. You’d cope too.
*
‘LET’S GET SOMETHING to eat before we go home,’ I said to P and my folks as we left the hospital, still the reluctant flag-waving leader on our guided tour of cancer. After my chair-kicking outburst, they knew better than to suggest otherwise, and followed me in dazed single-file to the nearest restaurant, like unsteady newborn ducks being led to water by their plucky mother. We each pulled up a stool in The World’s Worst Tapas Restaurant, throwing our bags and a rainforest’s worth of breast cancer information leaflets onto the table. I hoped their presence would go some way to explaining our stunned, miserable, red-eyed faces to our concerned-looking waiter.
We’re an annoyingly polite family at the best of times – only ordering starters once it’s been ascertained that everybody wants one, filling DVD rental trips with the kind of no-you-choose routine that makes the process of selecting a movie longer than the film itself – but that day more than ever it was impossible to ascertain what anyone wanted to eat, so floored were we by the further details of my diagnosis. I took the reins again, hurriedly ordering nondescript plates of bravas, croquettas and tortilla, in an attempt both to get everyone sufficiently fed and to quickly shoo away our increasingly confused
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