The thing that always struck me about Dr Comfort was how unfazed he was
at my disease. I guess you have to be easy-going in that line of work, you’d
have a lot of people dying on you and you couldn’t take that home every night.
But it meant I was always trying to read his face. Did he really think I had
any hope at all? He never gave it away.
Driving home I looked in the
mirror and saw myself as a bald cancer patient. I was going to re-read the
pamphlet on autologous transplants that I had shelved after last month’s
doctor’s appointment. I wanted to be prepared for what lay ahead as much as I could.
When I got home Alex called.
“Sniff. Transplant. Sniff.”
Dr Comfort never made me cry but as soon as I heard Alex’s voice I crumbled. It
was so unfair but I couldn’t help it.
“What?”
“It’s back on again. I’m
having the transplant in a few months.” (sniff, sniff)
“I’m sorry I wasn’t at the
appointment.” He said. I felt guilty. I didn’t actually need him at the
appointment but now I was acting like a baby. I had to pull it together for
both of us. I took a deep breath.
“No. I was really fine. That
doctor never makes me cry.”
“I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay, see you later, love
you.” (Brave smile on my face)
Then I fully broke down. In
the comfort of my own home, all by myself, I sobbed. I hadn’t had a good cry in
a while and I really needed one. Crying is like a colonic irrigation for the
soul. The first burst of crying cleans out the most recent misfortunes. Then,
the more you cry, the more you release sadness you haven’t tapped into in
years.
When Alex came home in the
evening he said he meant to bring a bottle of champagne home.
“What are we celebrating?”
(My yin)
“Good blood results.” (yang)
I was too consumed with
having to go to the hospital to want to celebrate anything. I drank the
champagne and smiled but my head was swimming. The transplant would be in a
couple of months. I wondered how many eggs I would drop before then.
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