LITMIR.BIZ

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him makes you feel like you’re the most special patient in the world and that he’s there just for you. However, when you’ve been waiting for three hours, because each appointment is five minutes long but he takes half an hour with each, it is difficult to keep your nerves in check.

      ‘I’m just popping to the loo, won’t be a sec.’

      Weeze nodded sagely at me and got back to her Cosmo.

      Now, the toilets at Guy’s are somewhat less than pleasant and as I pulled down my trousers to evacuate my bowels – by the way, skip forward a bit if you’re of a nervous disposition, this does little to further our story, it just made me and Weeze laugh. Well, Weeze laugh really. Anyway, I looked down at the toilet seat and somehow couldn’t bring myself to sit on it. I’m a hypochondriac on a minor level, and looking down at that seat and knowing all the potentially disease-ridden people that had sat on it, I just couldn’t bring myself to. But I knew that I only had seconds to go before I exploded. So I decided to perch somewhat precariously above the seat. What I hadn’t expected was the force with which my nerves would project my bowel movement. I swear there was a bang as it left me. I turned round and there it was, all over the seat, the cistern, the back wall of the toilet. As if I wasn’t feeling bad enough, this had to happen. I spent twenty minutes in there cleaning it all up. I nearly threw up a couple of times. The only good thing was it took my mind off the meeting, but that was small recompense. When I eventually emerged, I was weak and pale, and Weeze asked me what had happened. When I told her in my best pathetic voice, expecting a hug and some sympathy, she howled with laughter, and the more I tried to explain the horror of it to her, the more she laughed. So when we eventually went in, both of us were giggling like kids and Prof Gleeson said, ‘Nice to see you two in such fine form.’

      That was a bit of a pattern in our relationship. I’d make a fool of myself, she’d laugh, then I’d laugh, then we’d keep laughing until we’d forgotten what we were laughing about. Damn, I miss that.

       6 February

      I’m floundering somewhat. It’s like: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your world is about to end. In the meantime do not panic as normal service will continue. Kindly go about your daily grind and restrict your “freaking out” to designated times and places. Do not request more information, as none is currently available. We thank you for your attention and have a nice day.’

      I was cooking dinner this evening and desperately wanted to just leave and walk away from everything. As though if I don’t see another doctor ever again I can’t die, or as though if I don’t have to die in front of Tim and Caitlin it won’t hurt us.

      For days I’ve been wanting a rest from the constant stream of visitors and going out to dinner, but tonight it felt so strange to be in. I kept hearing clocks ticking. All I could think of was that I really ought to do some ironing, but it just seemed so ridiculous to even consider spending one of my precious evenings ironing that I … watched nothing in particular on TV, too tired to get up and go to bed. But here I am now, in bed 11.16 p.m., feeling as though writing this is the most constructive thing I’ve done today. At least here I’m attempting to unravel my feelings and make sense of – well, at least some part of it all.

      Maybe Glen Hoddle and his ilk are right and I did something ghastly in my last life or my soul chose to have cancer in this life to learn some vital lesson that will help me grow as a whole, or maybe there is no reason and it’s just how it is. Or even if there is a reason, we don’t/can’t know it, so it doesn’t matter. Probably I should just learn to be with whatever this throws up and enjoy the rollercoaster (man).

      Well, that’s worked off some of today’s angst. Over and out.

      When Louise got ill first time someone told us about Deepak Chopra, a New Age guru who believes that we can heal ourselves. No sooner had we been told about him than we found out he was speaking in Kensington. This we thought was obviously fate, it was too much of a coincidence – maybe this man would show us the way forward. We sat there and listened to him talking for two hours. He sure is some speaker – no notes, charisma coming out of him like a steam train, washing over the audience of devotees – and every single word he said drove Weeze and me crazy. It is entirely possible that we were what our New Age friends would call ‘unreceptive’ and possibly we were ‘blocking’, but the message that came over loud and clear made us furious. If you love yourself and those around you enough, you will live. And you cause your own illness. Now, let’s get this straight right up front. This is rubbish, shit, and it’s evil. Louise didn’t hate herself, didn’t have any deep-seated self-loathing, wasn’t abused as a child. She just got ill, her body just did it itself. All this kind of thinking does is set up a pattern of guilt and accusation. People have got to realize that people die, sometimes they die young, and sometimes no matter how sorted and spiritually in tune they are with the universe they still die. We all die. Frightening, isn’t it? More of this as we go on, but I thought I’d just put in my first firing shot across the bows of this kind of stupidity.

       7 February

      Today was a far, far better day. Possibly because it was sunny. When I stare into a blue sky I can feel myself lifting – it’s the best drug – especially after it’s been dark and gloomy for a while. Also a nice walk with Tim and Caitlin and then some photography work – press pictures for The Cherry Orchard – where I felt in control and comfortable. Got offered three more jobs – one of which I turned down – but great – people really seem to think I’m a good photographer now. Typical. I finally discover something I adore doing and am good at and then I have to go and die. If I really want it enough, will that keep me alive?

       9 February

      Yesterday Prof Gleeson called to say that ‘The Doctor’ in Sheffield had looked at my scans and decided that he couldn’t do anything. It felt really odd. This guy had told Gleeson that he would definitely talk to me and was really sure he could help. Then he looked at the pictures of the tumour and realized he couldn’t. I feel like it is definite now, confirmed. There is nothing that can be done. And I just don’t believe in alternative medicine. I am taking the vitamins recommended by the Bristol centre to keep me as healthy as possible and to help me deal with the extra stress, but I don’t expect them to cure me. I shall live or die as fate decrees.

      Yesterday Tim bought me a book of love poetry and I cried a little whilst reading it. We haven’t had enough time together yet – seeing old couples makes me sad.

      I spoke to the hospice today for the first time in two and a half years. A counsellor is coming over to talk to me and Tim on Thursday – mainly to talk about Caitlin. He was very nice on the phone and said I was being a really good mother by thinking about it now – apparently a lot of people can’t bear to think about dying until the last minute when they then blurt it out to their family and it is more traumatic than it could have been.

      Last night I was convinced I could feel it, growing inside my head. I’m sure I can’t really – I don’t think there are many nerves there. I think I was just imagining it.

      This morning I woke up and it was snowing. I got to see Caitlin’s face when she looked out of the window and then dragged me out of the house to play in it. Each day of my life is worth a year of a life with no one to love. It is 5.30 now and I’m looking out of the window and it’s so quiet. I think the sky is the most beautiful thing; it’s the thing that can always lift me out of myself, no matter where or what. When I die I want to be looking out of the window.

      Snow is a beautiful thing, which wraps the world up and makes everything look new and fresh and different. We both loved it. Before Caitlin came along, when we could still just leave the house in the middle of the night and go for long walks, one of our favourite things was walking late night in the snow. I remember taking Weeze out for a Valentine’s meal the year after we got married and while we were in the restaurant a really heavy snow hit Tunbridge Wells. We were lucky to get the car home. We sat on our balcony, all wrapped up with hot chocolate in our hands, and watched it silently cover the town. It was perfect.

      At about two o’clock in the morning we decided to walk round the town. The whole place was deserted,

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