. . in case you have an accident and land up in hospital.
Did your mother drum this into you? Well it is good advice – believe me, I know.
Thinking about returning to the chemo chair for Herceptin has reawakened some bad memories I had chosen to bury.
It was BC’s birthday, a week after my first dose of level two chemotherapy. We were meant to be on holiday, but had to cancel when I experienced more and more side effects day by day.
As a token gesture we decided to venture to the nearby National Trust property. We could walk as much as I felt able, or we could sit and have tea.
Before we set off I called my consultant to ask for an appointment – I needed to talk to him about the side effects. I left a message with his specialist nurse.
And we prepared to go out.
Although it was midday I was still in my pyjamas, feeling fragile and shivery. Applying my limited linear thinking I zipped a fleece jumper over my pyjama top, pulled on a pair of jeans and wrapped myself in my windproof jacket. With a tug of comfort I pulled a baseball cap low over my eyes and pushed on sunglasses.
No one would see me or recognise me.
But half way round the gardens I ran out of steam. Maybe lunch would be a better idea – we stopped at the garden kiosk for a rest and a sandwich.
And there the day fell apart.
My sandwich was dry and hard, it must have been days old.
I was incensed.
It was only a sandwich but it represented our fragile attempt to acknowledge to each other that this day was in some way different from all the other chemo-hazed days. I had so little to give to BC and he was giving me so much. I had no card and no gift for him.
I am told I barked at the woman as I returned the sandwich. Recalling the look on her face I can believe that was true.
As I bit into the new sandwich my mobile phone rang. Could I come and see the consultant straight away?
Time stopped.
The image of me pulling the fleece over my pyjamas filled my head. In my mind I raced through the journey home to change my clothes and realised I did not have time.
Too bad.
“Yes, thank you,” I bleated, “I will come straight away.”
As we set off towards the car the wounded woman stepped to the back of her kiosk – a child cowering from an angry parent.
For sure, I felt humbled.
. . And I got to show my pyjamas to several important people – pretty and pink and yes, they were clean enough!