It is six months and twelve days since Sue, the Macmillan nurse, rang to tell me about the verdict on the Pet-scan I had on the 8th day of June last year.
Stage 4 cancer.
It has spread to both lungs now. The only treatment they could offer is chemotherapy. I have refused it, as I did last year, not being brave enough to face all the dreadful side-effects.
               I asked how long it would be before it killed me, but of course she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer that. “It won’t be days or weeks,” she said, by which we assumed she meant it could be months. But as I have just said – six months and twelve days have gone by and I’m feeling fine. No symptoms, no pain. The affect on me so far is mental more than physical. I get out of breath more quickly than I used to and I fall asleep during the day quite often, but I am convinced that is my age. Old people get out of breath and sleep a lot, don't they?
               Of course, things have got worse this year with the Loss of Heather on top of everything else. If only she were here. I know facing up to this would be so much easier. She wouldn’t let me get depressed the way I sometimes do. I have been offered “therapy” and “counselling” several times, but I don’t think so. I mean no amount of psychoanalysis can bring Heather back or ease this dreadful ache and the feeling of emptiness I have. It’s with me all my waking hours. I think Cyril is the same. It doesn’t seem to be growing less and the anniversary of her death is rushing toward us. A day that, I know, is not going to be one we will easily get through.
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