Wednesday and Thursday saw a break in my tiredness. And a return to my office.
Time to confront my desk. A desk buckling under the strain of almost three weeks of abandoned work.
Sleeves rolled up. Coffee on tap. And away I go.
Many people have to stop working during treatment. But that’s something I was desperate to avoid. Work wasn’t just a distraction. It was me time. Work made me forget everything else that was going on. It made me feel normal. And I wasn’t giving that up without a fight.
But then it was back to reality, and another MRI scan that evening. And so we headed back to Oxford – and to a hospital eerily quiet so late at night – to see if the cancer had spread.
I’m called in after a short wait and … before I know it, I’m sat in the waiting room in a hospital gown I can’t quite do up. Trying very hard to keep my bum covered.
The radiographer pops out to run through a health questionnaire and tells me it’ll be another twelve minutes before I go in.
I think my face must speak a thousand words because he very promptly says, “Erm – there’s a pile of magazines there, if you need to distract yourself.”
I respond by leaping out of the chair and grabbing the first magazine I can reach, while telling him I’m really not very good with my own company. Followed by an embarrassed grin.
… then silence …
Because … I think I flashed my arse at him …
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