My Piece of String

My first monthly doctor’s appointment was scheduled for Monday, January 16th. That was when the doctor would dangle a piece of string in front of me which represented the rest of my life. I didn’t know how long that piece of string would be.

      I almost didn’t need to go because I spent the previous four weeks practically worrying myself to death. I predicted that I wouldn’t sleep at all that Sunday night. But I fell asleep easily and surprised myself by sleeping straight through until 7.45am. I wondered if it was possible to have reached the “acceptance” stage of dying in such a short time.

      Alex went to work at his normal time that morning and I planned to meet him at the hospital at noon. I did everything slowly. Instead of my normal five minute shower I lingered under the hot water. I had two cups of tea instead of one. I stayed in my bathrobe until 10am. But as the time to leave drew near I stood rigidly in front of my wardrobe wondering what to wear. Instead of just grabbing any blouse and a pair of jeans I tapped my fingers indecisively on the sliding wooden door. What should I choose? First I didn’t know what bits of me the doctor would examine. That cut out tops with intricate fasteners and pants I had difficulty raising the zipper on. Then I wondered which outfit would be the most comfortable to take bad news in. What top could I sweat in and cry in and be comfortable in all at the same time? It was weird to be looking in my wardrobe and thinking what’s the perfect outfit for this occasion? I have a feeling it isn’t written up in any fashion magazine. If I survive I shall put together a catalogue of Clothes for the Distressed and Dying. I settled on a good old cotton button down top. It was practical and stylish. Better yet, it would absorb both tears and sweat stains.

      At about 10.30am Charlotte gave me a big hug and wished me good luck before she went to meet friends. I was so calm prozac couldn’t have made me more placid. I actually said:

      “I’m okay. I know there’s nothing I can do about it.”

      Then, with another boost of confidence I said:

      “I don’t think the doctor’s going to say much, there have been no tests to come back except the MRI. I got that done more than two weeks ago so I assume if it was bad, they would have contacted me sooner.”

      It sounded reasonable and sane, and I waved Charlotte goodbye with a smile and blew her a kiss. But by 11.15am all the courage, calm and acceptance displayed in the morning’s bravado was gone. I was sweating and nervous. The cotton top was only barely holding its own. In about half an hour I would be talking to the doctor. It was round one in the fight of my life. I wanted to live and I was so scared that he was going to deliver a knockout blow. I got in the car at 11.40 and instead of going the quickest way on the motorway I headed down the slower back streets. I didn’t care if I was a little late. I was happy to delay the news I was dreading to hear. Alex was already at the hospital when I arrived. He met me at my car carrying his motorcycle helmet and jacket. Outwardly he was smiling and didn’t show any nerves but after putting his motorcycle gear in the boot of my car he suddenly couldn’t find his wallet. The two of us searched the ground, the boot and his jacket. Our tension and anxiety over the loss of his wallet was indicative of how our world was falling apart. We gave up and shut the boot and decided to look later. I couldn’t think about the consequences of a lost wallet now, I just wanted to get this over with.