"Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life/Cuts off so many years of fear of death."
Cassius in Julius Caesar. Act 3 Sc.I.
Just read a paragraph I wrote in New York while I was lying on my giant bed in the Plaza Hotel, pillows piled up by my head like Mont Blanc:
“I felt a tiny stirring, a seed of something telling me that all might be well again, just as Lord Saatchi put in his letter. I might even live a normal life again go on with it for years to come. But I am too superstitious to say this out loud.”
Had my three months blood test yesterday and now I don’t feel that stirring at all. All those fragile seeds have fallen out of my bag.
I should have fixed it all up as soon as I got back to the UK, but I left it, so I would do an art course next week and get the results a week later than usual. Now I don’t feel good about that at all – I underestimated my own fear, which is mostly smothered but apparently still there. I won’t be able to sleep easy now until I have got the result on the 25th.
They are doing the clinic at Queen Charlotte’s where I first got the full diagnosis in May 2010 and the doctors seemed so brutal. It won’t be nice going back there – why can’t we just do it over the phone instead of all that ceremony?
My cancer count thingy, PS 125 was very low, down to five. The normal for everyone is between 0-30. It started out at 7 and that was very good, but if it has now gone up at all, even back to 7 I will be in deadly anxiety. I now realise that this reading could easily become an obsession.