Page 4 of While I’m Still Here

Not the cancer, or the impending surgery. Or the fact that in a matter of weeks I’m going to go into hospital with two breasts and leave with either one or none.

The fucking bin.

I press my lips together. “No.”

Absolutely not. I am not going to cry over the bins. I open the fridge door with more force than the situation warrants and open it. Milk, cheese, half a cucumber that has entered an advanced stage of decomposition, a bottle of prosecco someone brought to my birthday six months ago, three yoghurts, one lemon and precisely ZERO answers.

I close the fridge and open it again.

Nope… still have cancer.

I take out the milk. Tea, obviously.

There are moments in life when civilisation hangs by a thread, and I am fairly certain the British response to impending catastrophe is to put the kettle on and hope boiling some water restores order.

Kettle: on.

Mug: favourite.

Tea bag: Yorkshire, because I may have cancer, but I’m not a fucking animal.

Milk: slightly questionable, but I reckon I can get another day out of it.

Mental state: deteriorating rapidly.

I stand with both hands braced against the counter while the kettle begins its pre-boiling rumble.

Claire, the nurse, told me that sometimes it helps to say things aloud. She probably meant talking to another human being. Technicality.

“Surgery,” I tell the toaster.

The toaster seems to take it well.

“Chemotherapy…” Nothing. “Possibly radiotherapy.” Still nothing. Excellent listener. “And they’re going to cut my tit off.”

I stop because that one makes me pause… They’re going to cut my tit off. I look down to leftie, and my hand moves before I decide to do it, cupping the underside of my breast through my jumper. “Bit dramatic, aren’t you? You couldn’t just get a cyst?” The kettle clicks off. “You couldn’t even have the decency to be the smaller one?”

And then suddenly I’m laughing. A horrible little sound catches somewhere in my throat and turns into something else before I can stop it. “No.” I point at my own chest. “Don’t you fucking start.”

My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly to stop the tears from spilling,

Cancer: One tit… left tit… horrible sneaky little bastard.

Mental breakdowns: Still zero, but it’s close.

I make the tea, and I even manage to carry it into the living room without spilling it, which under the circumstances should earn me some sort of trophy.

Congratulations, you have cancer and still haven’t lost your shit.

Then I sit on the sofa and stare at the pink folder on the coffee table, tea beside it, phone beside that, and for several minutes I simply stare at all three.

The folder contains everything I’m supposed to know about what’s next… The tea is basically the only thing holding me together right now… and the phone contains everyone I’ll eventually have to tell.

The last one is the problem because saying it to a toaster is one thing… saying it to a person makes it so fucking real that I want to throw up. I pick up my phone, and then put it back down.

I repeat this three times.

Then I open WhatsApp… then close it.