Yin and Yang

. For the next four days I would take steroids in the form of dexamethasone. In a week I would start the chemotherapy drug cyclophosphamide. Every Wednesday I was to get a further blood test at the local blood lab.  I would see him in six days’ time when he would share the results of the bone marrow test and the x-rays I would have today. In six days he would know if there was any point to further treatment. He made no promises for my future. I felt like I was in the middle of a hurricane trying to hold on to a concrete pole with my little finger.

      This began the yin and yang of how Alex and I saw my disease. Alex saw me starting treatment immediately as a positive thing, in other words, that my disease was actually treatable. I saw the other side. My disease was so bad there wasn’t another day to lose. Alex said something about us running Round the Bays in 2012. I was certain I would be lucky to live another year. He thought the whole meeting with the doctor was rather hopeful. I was sure I would be dead by Christmas.

      Alex took the list of prescriptions down to the hospital pharmacy and got them filled. There was going to be a bag full of them and I thought how unbelievable it was that I had never been on any serious medication my whole life and now I was going to have a shopping bag full.

      When Alex left the room I was completely alone. I had another bout of crying.  A nurse who must have heard the pathetic whimpering from outside my open door, came to my bedside. She was in her late fifties and stood only about five feet tall. She had died black permed hair with just a hint of grey roots showing. She pushed her black glasses further up her nose, opened her arms wide and gave me a conciliatory hug.

      “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely.

My new identity as a cancer patient had begun.

      “You look like you’ve been crying all day. Go home and have a glass of wine,” she added.

I nodded. I planned to have a bottle.

      She stood back and looked at me seriously.

      “Stay off the internet because things can look a lot worse than they are. Everyone is an individual and not going to cope in the same way.”

      “Okay. I will read the pamphlets and stay off the internet.” I agreed.

It was a complete lie. I knew I would be hungry for more information. She took my blood pressure one more time. It was 170 over 110.

      When Alex returned he said he had rung Charlotte with the news. She was at a friend’s house. I wished he hadn’t told her over the phone. I would rather have told her in person. It’s the sort of news that should come with a hug.

      We left the haematology ward with our brown paper bag full of medicine whose names I couldn’t yet pronounce, and found our way through the halls to x-ray. I was glad I didn’t have to find it on my own. Through my teary confusion I would have wandered aimlessly but Alex, who had turned back into my rock, guided our way. A young man who looked more like a rugby player than a radiographer instructed me to lie on a bed. He was extremely efficient. He quickly took full body, head and neck, and hip /pelvic bone x-rays. With all the twisting and turning to capture images, I realised his physique probably came in handy when obese patients needed moving.

      After the x-rays we headed home. We stopped off and bought two bottles of wine at Foodtown. When we got to the house I rushed inside. Charlotte was home alone and I wanted to see how she was coping. She knew what the diagnosis was so I could only add:

      “It was a terrible day”. (My yin)

      “It’s bad news but it’s not disastrous”. (Alex’s yang)

      She was very strong. She listened and asked questions. She nodded but didn’t cry. She hugged me again. She would be my concrete pole in the hurricane. She would keep me from disappearing in the storm. I drank a lot of wine and went to bed in a stupor.