LITMIR.BIZ

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and late by the lake, but none of us wanted to forsake the moment so my big sister wrapped her cardigan around my shoulders and gave me a hug. We sang, my sisters and I, ‘Over the sea to Skye’. I hum it under my breath. I feel a desolate sadness.

      ‘Over the sea to anywhere,’ I whisper, ‘but not here, please, not here.’

      Hellie shakes me awake in the morning. She is already in her school uniform. Blackness hits me immediately. Christie’s beckons.

      ‘I’ll see you Friday. Be brave for me.’

      I am unable to speak, fighting back tears. She wipes my eyes.

      ‘You’ll be okay.’

      ‘Oh, Hellie,’ I sob loudly and she holds me and rocks me. The cancer, the pain, the disability, the fear and confusion, I want it all to end.

      ‘Shh. I’ll always be there for you. Even if I’m not physically there. I’ll be with you in spirit. And Franny too. Okay? Just think of us holding your hands.’

      I wipe my eyes and whisper: ‘Yes, that’s what I’ll think of.’

      ‘Think of our special times together. All the wonderful things we have done together. Think of those things when you feel alone. We’ll do those things again, I promise.’

      Mid-morning, two jolly ambulancemen lift me onto a stretcher and tuck a blanket around me.

      ‘Try to sleep,’ one of them advises. Mum and Dad follow in their car.

      Soon we arrive at Christie’s. I am instantly disappointed. I imagined a small friendly place. This is a huge tower block with rows of impersonal windows. I am taken to a busy clinic area where Mum and Dad meet me. There are no friendly faces or people who stop and say hello to my dad. I feel small and insignificant. We are called in to see Dr Pearson after a long wait during which I fall asleep. She examines me and then talks to my mum and dad, but not to me. She is brusque and businesslike and barks out her questions. I feel completely ignored. There are no smiles or small talk here.

      ‘You are going to Ward Two,’ my parents tell me after a separate consultation with the doctor. ‘It’s an adult ward. Dr Pearson couldn’t decide whether to put you on the children’s or the adults’ ward, but we thought you might prefer to be quieter if you wanted to study or something.’

      The corridors are long with signs and notices for ‘Radiotherapy’ and ‘Isotope Room’ and one that I recognize for a CT scanner. At Ward Two a nurse in a dark blue sister’s uniform comes out to meet us.

      ‘Hello, Mary!’ she greets me with a broad smile. ‘I’m Sister Anna. We have been looking forward to meeting you. We’ve heard a lot about you.’

      She is tiny and very thin and has long blonde hair. She has a lovely smile and I feel more at ease.

      ‘This is Vera. She’ll show you round the ward.’

      A very fat nurse bustles over to me with a wheelchair. She helps me into it and turns to my mum and dad. ‘Do you want to go now? I’ll help Mary unpack.’

      My parents haven’t said much since the interview with Dr Pearson and they seem upset again.

      They give me hugs and leave me with Vera who helps me take in my new surroundings. This place will be my temporary home for several months. I spot some strange yellow signs posted round several of the beds. ‘Danger! Radiation hazard!’ There is a black symbol on the sign, too, which I recognize from an experiment we did in physics. It means that something is radioactive.

      ‘What’s the sign for?’ I ask Vera.

      ‘The yellow sign indicates that the patient has a radioactive implant inside their body. It would be dangerous to go too near. Whenever you see those signs, you must keep away from the bed.’

      I have a distant memory. I am sure I have seen the sign a long time ago, even before my physics lessons. I rack my brain and try to think when it was. I remember I was very small, maybe only five or six … Martin was with me. We were playing – somewhere dark and dangerous but I’m not sure where.

      Although Ward Two is different from Ward Eight at the Victoria, it isn’t too bad. The beds are all lined up on either side of the long narrow ward and all have names. Vera stops at an empty one. It is called the Edith Cavell bed.

      ‘Here you are, this is Edith!’ she jokes. She lifts me out of the chair onto the bed and starts unpacking. All the women on the ward are old, apart from one other girl and me. She seems about my age and I notice she walks with a limp.

      ‘Who’s that?’ I ask curiously.

      ‘That’s Debbie. She’s had a bone tumour. She has an artificial leg.’

      ‘What? I couldn’t even tell. When did she get hers?’

      ‘Ages ago. Two years, I think.’

      ‘Oh. I don’t understand. Why is she here, then?’

      Vera doesn’t answer at first. Then, ‘She has come back for some check-ups and things.’

      ‘Maybe I could ask her about legs and that kind of stuff?’

      ‘Yes, but I’ll warn you, she doesn’t like talking about it much.’

      Vera unpacks my Bible and some prayer books. ‘You believe in God, then?’

      ‘Oh yes, definitely. He is going to heal me, you know. I might not need the chemotherapy.’

      ‘Listen to this girl,’ Vera says loudly, to the ward in general. ‘Isn’t she brave?’

      ‘What is wrong with you, then?’ asks one of the ladies. ‘What have you got?’

      ‘I haven’t got anything now. I’m better. I’m just here to have chemotherapy. God has healed me, you see.’

      The lady looks puzzled and Vera is silent. I can see I’ll have my work cut out to teach them about miracles.

      After a couple of hours I am bored. Nothing happens here. There is no Ward Six to visit and no Dr Jimmy to make a fuss of me. Lots of the ladies have bits of their bodies missing. One lady has a breast missing and looks all lopsided. She covers her top half with shawls. I think it must be really awful and wonder if they give you an artificial breast and what she will do about wearing a bra. Every time I look at her she looks away from me. Maybe she is embarrassed about me seeing her. It doesn’t dawn on me until later that maybe she thinks I am lopsided too. Another lady talks about cancer all the time. She has had a bowel tumour and has a bag on her tummy. It must be horribly messy and smelly. I tell her I want to be a doctor which is a big mistake because she tells me horror stories about all the operations she and her friends have undergone. She points to the lady in the next bed and tells me she only has half a tongue. She tells the lady to show me and the lady sticks her tongue out. It looks so ugly and strange.

      Another lady is bald. In fact, lots of the ladies are bald and, from time to time, they take off their wigs to brush them or scratch their heads. I wondered what it would look like and now I know. I sort of thought that everybody would be wearing long blonde wigs and that kind of thing but, no, she is sitting there with her head as bald as an egg. She looks weird. I don’t want to look weird. I am scared of my hair falling out. It might sound stupid but in some ways it is more scary than cancer. I spend a lot of time making my hair look nice. It is one of my better points – that and my eyes. I don’t really feel confident about my appearance. I think I’m too skinny and my boobs are too small. I can’t stand my freckles either. But my hair is lovely, wavy and soft. I had nice legs too but now I can’t have nice legs. I can only have a nice leg and that’s weird, too. So now I will be even weirder with no hair. It is so freaky, this place. People walking around with strange bodies – bits missing and lopsided and things like that. It’s like seeing aliens off Star Trek and now I’m one of them. And I don’t want to be.

      I wheel into the day room and sit on my own for a while. I feel a rising panic. I can’t stay here; it is awful. I am surrounded by sickness

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