I lie in the bath. A thought, not yet formed, tries to surface. Gently but firmly, I suppress it. I am not ready for this thought. Not yet. I am too busy.
I have a major national event to run. So many months in the planning, it has to be perfect.
Soon the big day is upon us. It couldn’t have run smoother. I am singled out for praise. I get flowers and champagne.
Later, I sink back in the bath.
Now. The thought can surface.
My hand strays to my right breast; tentative, exploratory.
Hard bit.
Normal? The lumpiness of age and hormones?
No. This is different.
‘How long has that been there?’ my husband asks.
‘I don’t know.’
A week? A month? A year? I don’t know. Has it always been there, waiting for someone to speak its name?
They process you quickly when you mention a lump; mammogram, ultrasound and biopsy within the hour.
‘Come back next week. Bring a friend.’
When four specialists walk into the results clinic, we know.
What can possibly be good about having cancer?
You feel the strength of people’s love. You see the NHS at its best. You wander slowly. You notice and appreciate.
You realise that all we have is now. And now is wonderful.
