8. Results

January 2016, Chorley, Thornton-Cleveleys

“I have this strange feeling none of this is really happening. Like I'm standing far away from myself. Like nothing is real. Have you ever had a feeling like that?” A. Manette Ansay, Sister

Back to Chorley to see the specialist nurse with the wide smile and sparkly eyes who has to deliver the so far bad news. The type of news that is so utterly life changing.

Usual pleasantries exchanged. I'm impatient for the results. No time for cocktail chatter.
Muji notebook and pen in hand. Alert, focused with fear running through me like a stick of Blackpool rock.
"So we can confirm the lump is sarcoma. The type you have is leiomyosarcoma, a soft tissue sarcoma." 
So I've gone from not even knowing what sarcoma is to not being able to pronounce or spell the sub-type.
"The CT scan also revealed that you have simple cysts on your liver and significant diverticulitis." 
That was like someone saying in the midst of carnage, you've run out of tea bags. Important but perhaps not right now.
"It's a high grade tumour. It's fast-growing so we need to act quickly to remove the tumour"
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I asked to see the scan results. She turned the screen so I could read.
I'm feeling hot. I can feel sweat forming on the back of my neck. My tongue is sticking to my teeth.
"So there's no cancer anywhere else?" I asked.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
"No. I thought you'd already been told that it hadn't metastasised" she said.
How would that have happened? Who could have told me if she hadn't?  My surgery were lying low since the referral.
Liverpool. Surgery. Aggressive. Appointment. They'll look after you.
The words drifted my way. The details weren't important. I had the headlines that's all I needed.  Eager to make a run for it and let my family and friends know that it wasn't so bad after all.
Suddenly I was very lucky. Yes I had cancer but it hadn't spread, it wasn't blocking the function of any organs in my body. Joyful. Celebratory in an absurd way.
The emotional seesaw tipped me over the edge. I started sobbing, the tears flowed, I swallowed it all. That's what I've been doing all my life, swallowing the tears. 
I blurted out, "I've got complete mind mash and feel like I need some psychotherapy" The appointment incidentally came through on 15th April - 3 months later.
The wide smile narrowed and compassionate eyes took centre stage. How often had she replayed this scene?
She referred me to Trinity Hospice.
Alarm!!
That's where people die.
Is there something they're not telling me?
Do you see what I mean? 
Complete mind mash.
When did it start this highly charged emotional response to the hint, to the sniff of, to the word, Cancer?
We fear it, we dread it. It strikes at the very primeval core of us.
Is it the Media? The high profile of the Cancer Research organisation? Everywhere you turn Cancer images and words are there. The marketing is prolific. 
Images of wastage. Images of my father. We all have at least one image of our own. Sending love to you all right now.