Being practical throughout this time was difficult. It was hard to “keep your head in the game” when your head was swimming with anxiety and fear.
But
I had to live my life each day in spite of what I was feeling. I had to get up,
shower, exchange pleasantries with my family, go shopping and answer the phone.
It all seemed so mundane.
I
couldn’t even bring myself to use my disease as a way to elevate my priority
status in society. There were occasions, especially waiting in line at the
supermarket that I really thought I should get special treatment as the
soon-to-be-departed. I really wanted to push forward and instruct my fellow
shoppers to get out of my way.
“Excuse
me. Excuse me, dying of cancer, going to the head of the line.” I would dare
even the mums with crying infants to challenge me with a more urgent request.
Instead
I waited my turn, smiled and said hello to the cashier, talked about what a
bargain broccoli was that week and never let on that I was screaming on the
inside.
But
it certainly changed my attitude to how I shopped. I was happy to buy new jeans
and cleverly worded cotton tops for my children. (I always pictured someone sitting
at a desk at midnight drinking beer and making themselves giggle over each new
witty T-shirt saying they came up with like: I gave up drinking, smoking and
sex, the worst 15 minutes of my life, or: I am a bomb technician, if you see me
running, try and keep up) But although I made sure my children were attired
well, I took a “what the hell for?” attitude towards myself. What did I need a
new top for? To be buried in? This led to a sudden worry that I would be buried
in a really crap outfit. I had a flash that I was lying dead in the coffin in
the emerald green and black two piece suit I got at a second-hand store which I
bought to wear as an extra to a wedding in the soap opera Shortland Street. It
was still hanging in the back of my closet although I hadn’t tried it on for
ten years. I saw the angst on the face of the funeral director as he tried to
tug the slim skirt over my middle-aged stomach. I saw him panicking after the
zipper broke in his hand. He reaches for the stapler and punches in a few tacks
to keep the skirt together. Then he turns the skirt around, leaving a slit in
the cloth over my ass for eternity. It was too much. I immediately had to
filter out of my wardrobe anything that I literally wouldn’t be caught dead in.
The 1980s pink Nike tracksuit, the full-length army green polyester vest, the
T-shirt with a picture of Heath Ledger on it, they all had to go. Then I had an
inspiration. All my life I had always wanted to wear a gown. I never went to a
ball, an awards dinner, or anything I had to formally dress up for. I never
even wore a wedding gown. I got married in a registry office and wore a suit.
It was pretty and practical but every girl wants to be a princess sometime.
This was my chance. Instead of going into the ground in a two-piece emerald and
black suit, I would go shopping for a new gown. It made me smile. I may never
have worn a gown in my lifetime but I would wear one for eternity.
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