An audio recording of this piece (by me! boo!) is available below:
Did the operation work? Did they get all of the cancer? What if…? No. Don’t think about it. Do something else. Anything else. Look – a phone notification! Someone has liked my Instagram photo. How lovely. Checking that took at least two minutes, right? Nope, two seconds. Now I’ll scroll through Twitter (“X” my arse). That’ll wind me up for at least half an hour. Ah, but now I feel worse. So, now what?
Now what? Now what?
Waiting for results. Waiting for news. Waiting for relief. Waiting for peace. Waiting for the worst so at least I’ll know. The tension punctured, the air expelled.
And yet, I do feel alive. I feel present. Aware of every movement, breath, noise, tick of the clock. It’s all so loud, intrusive, agonising, infuriating. But then moments can also be soft, gentle, tentative, beautiful. It makes my heart thud, my blood rush, my lips tremble. That’s something, isn’t it? To feel alive during this limbo, this dead time between before and after. To feel everything, the plaster ripped off, air touching the wound.
I think the worst and then tell myself off because what if that dictates the results? I know that is magical thinking and not how life works. I’ve written books about how our minds trick us like this, for fuck’s sake. And yet… what if it does happen this time?
Distraction. That’s the ticket. I’ll play with my baby. I’ll watch another episode of The Walking Dead. I’ll wonder if I’m not a literal representation of the walking dead. I’ll tell myself off again. I’ll pace back and forth. I’ll buy more shit. So much shit! I’ve bought a pair of sequin shoulder pads. I’m not even kidding. I don’t know what they do or how to wear them. But they’re cool. Vinted is my happy place right now. That and Funda, the Dutch equivalent of Rightmove. Looking at rich people’s houses thinking, “I’ll buy that when I win the lottery,” because I’m still convinced I’m going to win even though I might have run out of time to play. Oh wow, have I?
Stop.
‘Why aren’t we given lessons in waiting at school?’ I think as I stare in the mirror holding a pair of tweezers aloft, ready to pluck myself into oblivion. Waiting is such an inevitable part of life that there are rooms dedicated to it. Rooms with dusty magazines, uncomfortable plastic chairs and unnervingly upbeat leaflets. And yet most of us enter those rooms utterly unprepared for what may happen when our names are called and inevitably mispronounced.
Queuing as a form of waiting is entirely different. When in a queue, you know what you’re going to get when you reach the front. You know the result before it’s your turn. No one’s queueing for a surprise. SURPRISE! You’ve won some out-of-date haggis that you didn’t order! Sod joining that queue. And yet I’m in that queue! I’m either going to get a main dish of cancer with a side of additional chemo OR I’m going to get the dish of the day: the all clear. It’s cake or death.
Ah look, a man has come out onto the balcony opposite to enjoy a cigarette. I wish I could enjoy a cigarette. Instead I’ll continue to sit here, side-eyeing him like a creep while biting the skin around my nails. I’m avoiding answering the kind messages on my phone asking how I am because I don’t know how I am, either physically or mentally. The meeting will determine that. For now I live in a kind of void, existing in an eerie calm. At times I tiptoe around the edges of terror, but then swallow it. It tastes like rust.
Shouldn’t I be making more of this time? Aren’t I wishing my life away by waiting? Now, that would be ironic. At least I think it would. I’m still not sure of the exact definition. ‘What is irony?’ is an open tab on my computer next to, ‘affect or effect?’.
And yes, sometimes joy can be found in the waiting. Waiting for a holiday, waiting for a gig, waiting for a football match – sometimes that’s where the pleasure lives, the event a footnote to the exquisite thrumming of nerves beforehand, the anticipation of a sharp inhale before a dive.
But not here. Not now. Not for us.
For us, it’s the storm before the calm. We want to know and yet we don’t. Desperately blocking the ‘what ifs’ before they can truly sharpen their claws.
For us, we wait.
Just One More Thing…
I wrote this piece before I received my post-operation cancer results on 6 August, which, I’m delighted to confirm, were ALL CLEAR. I am cancer free! I AM CANCER FREE! I am still recovering from the operation two weeks ago to remove my tumour and reverse my stoma, but things are going well. My emotions from receiving the news are all over the shop, but mainly right now I feel an overwhelming relief. That and shock. What the hell just happened? Where do I put all of these feelings – the fear, the sadness, the gratitude, the love? And what now? What next? But, for the first time in a very long time, we’re not waiting. And that’s enough for now.
*Exceedingly modest reminder that I have written eight bestselling mental-health books which have been translated into at least 10 languages. I’ve also written a book about the TV show Friends which would make a delightful gift for any Friends obsessives. All are available to buy online or at your local bookshop.
*If you enjoyed this article,
wrote a beautiful piece about waiting rooms earlier this year that is well worth a read.
I haven't watched cake or death in years, so thank you for that.
Brilliant piece of writing and truly excellent news, so happy for you and your family.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to browse Funda...
What fantastic news - congratulations! (A brilliant piece of writing, too.)