Recovery

The day after I left the hospital I was ready to tell more people. I sent a, in hindsight, silly text to a bunch of my closest friends: ‘Hi. I was admitted to hospital yesterday. I’m okay but can you give me a call at some point?’ Too vague. Too much potential to worry. But how do you broach that sort of news without going into it in something as flippant as a text? The flurry of concerned answer phone messages I got as I took equally concerned calls made me realise I probably could have phrased it a little better.

The different reactions of each close friend made me realise why I have each one of them in my life: Maz’s stern concern, Gary’s gentle consoling, Emma’s laidback look on the bright side, Julia’s dry humour – each one reassured me in a different way.

It took me a good two weeks to feel recovered from the operation. I spent a full week at home. People visited, each purveying their curiously different reactions to my predicament. Maz was all fussing and frowning, dropping work for the afternoon to come and sit with me. She wouldn’t let me do anything, which was sweet and frustrating at the same time. It was probably good not to be getting up and down, but at the same time I didn’t feel like an invalid. I didn’t feel sick or injured enough to be waited on. I still felt normal.

Four days after the op I was due to go to the nurse at my GP’s so she could check on my stitches. I got a taxi there with a driver whose initial concern at my easing myself into the car didn’t stretch to his driving carefully. Instead he shouted at people, drove around waiting cars, and seemed intent on getting me to the doctor’s as quickly as possible, which was fun going over the sleeping policemen.

My scar was fine. But the nurse’s supply of bandages was less healthy. She seemed reluctant to give me any, pleading poverty. I managed to squeeze one out of her. My pharmacist boyfriend would have to get me the rest. Welcome to down side of the NHS.

I got the bus back to Clapham Common and walked the rest, which was silly. I got home and passed out for a bit. I managed to get up and go and meet Em for lunch. Very little walking this time but it was still tiring. The next night I headed over to Gary and Maz’s, having been going a bit stir-crazy looking at the same walls and windows for so long.

It was a busy weekend really. Jen and her partner Paul took Mark and I for a drive out to some National Trust property. It was a pleasant distraction. I was due to attend my friend Sean’s birthday gathering at a pub that afternoon. He’d texted me the night before telling me he’d cut my balls off if I didn’t come. I texted back saying that was funnier than he realised.

An awkward moment at the pub followed with Sean asking me questions in front of one of his friends. It took him too long to realise my saying little meant it was a conversation for another time, but eventually he realised.

A week in and I’d forgotten how shocking the news is to unexpecting ears. As I went back to work I was greeted with a mixture of expressions when I talked about it. The sympathetic ones I could take, but the stunned and uncomfortable ones were hard to bear. It fell to me to make them feel better, which seems unfair. But when people asked I couldn’t be bothered to talk around it, and lying wasn’t really an option. So I fessed up, and watched curiously to see what reaction I got.

Going back to work wasn’t easy, but it was easier than doing nothing at home. I hobbled onto the Tube at a much slower pace than the crowds around me. It was nice to be one of the slow ones for a change, I felt a whole lot less stressed. I hobbled around at work as well, easing myself in and out of my chair. But slowly I began to walk more freely, and slowly I began to take less pain killers. I’d stopped the dihydrocodeine pretty quickly – they made me constipated. But the others I’d carried on, easing off at one point only to go back to my full regime as I started to feel the pain.

My first few days back at work were fairly uncomfortable. I couldn’t find the right position to sit on the office chair. Eventually I found slouching was good, broken up with periods sitting up straight. My boss asked me how I felt at one point. I explained my slouching and sitting up straight routine to her. She just emailed back with a picture of a blow-up ring. I like working there.

But my brush with cancer is far from over. The operation was just the beginning. The doctors of Guy’s have a little bit more treatment up their white sleeves for me.