Page 5 of While I’m Still Here

I open Instagram, because apparently my subconscious has decided now is an excellent time to see what a woman I went to school with has made her toddler for lunch—little cheese stars—lovely. Good for her.

I close Instagram and open WhatsApp again.

Mum.

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

Back.

I scroll.

There are people I could tell… people who would care. Friends. Family. People who would immediately offer lifts, casseroles, and inspirational quotes I would be forced not to hate. But who do you call first to say, “Hello, how’s your Thursday? Mine’s been rather eventful. One of my tits—the left tit, yes—has attempted murder and will consequently be receiving the death penalty.”

I lock my phone, take a sip of tea, immediately regret it, then unlock my phone again.

Maybe I should make a list.

Lists are how you get your shit together for approximately five minutes before you forget it even exists. I love a good list. I find a notebook underneath the coffee table and turn to a clean page, ignoring the graveyard of all the other lists.

At the top, I write:

THINGS TO DO NOW THAT I HAVE CANCER

I stare at it, then underneath:

1. Don’t die.

That seems reasonable.

2. Tell people.

Less appealing, but I guess I have to.

3. Buy milk.

I underline that one because it’s important.

4. Find out whether chemo makes your eyebrows fall out because I have spent literal YEARS getting these bastards even.

I tap the pen against the paper.

5. Buy a new bin calendar.

No. I cross that one out. Then add:

5. Stop thinking about the fucking bins.

Much better. I sit back.

Five things… manageable.

Oh!

6. HAVE LOTS AND LOTS OF HOT SEX JUST IN CASE YOU DIE

My eyes drift back to the pink folder again, and there’s one leaflet sticking farther out than the others.