Wednesday, 28 April 2010

It's All Temporary Ma'am

Last night, the cricket Angels all met up for training, and we had the best session ever. Our bowling has improved beyond belief, some of the batting was awesome, and for the first time, we all seemed to gel as a team. It was really uplifting, and I felt so happy out there with the girls.

But then, after I bundled the kids in the car, something odd happened. The mists of impending chemo doom started to descend, and I started yelling and bawling at them.

The 9 year old hates unfairness, and knew that I had no reason to be yelling, so he took a risk, did a 'mini-me' and fought back - 'What the hell's the matter with you for God's sake. We haven't even done anything and you're shouting at us!'

Good for him. He was right. I shut up.

Later, when I was getting ready for bed, I looked in the mirror, and the person looking back wasn't me - With a bit of a 'gurn' I could make myself look a bit like Steptoe. Worst of all, without any effort at all, I looked like the lady at the Cancer hospital - the one who caught my eye that day and scared the life out of me. I didn't have a tab hanging out of my mouth, and I wasn't attached to a drip, but I was her double.

I've had enough now - I want my messy hair back. I want my bottom eyelashes back, I want my eyebrows back, I don't want my nose to drip anymore, I liked having the little downy hairs on my fingers, and I even want my hairy legs back. I don't want to look like that lady. Chemo is a sod.

'It's all temporary, Ma'am, you must remember that - all temporary,' the Indian doctor had said that day at the nasty hospital. He smelt of spices, fluttered his eyelashes and waggled his head. I wanted to ask him which part of India he was from, if he thought Tendulkar was the greatest cricketer ever, and what he'd had for breakfast that made him smell so delicious. But we had to talk about sodding cancer instead.

He's right of course, and in 3 weeks and one day, I will be getting the last few syringes of crap that make me look like an advert for Cancer World. After that, I can look forward to being me again.

I can't wait to get out of that dark little world. I'm going to thank everyone very politely for their help, but I'm going to slam that door so bloody hard when I leave.

This is, of course, 'the girl on the day before chemo no.5' talking. Its not really me. The real me was out on the cricket pitch last night. Yes, I had an Auschwitz hat, a dripping nose and was puffing like an old train for each run, but it was me alright, and it felt good.

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