It's so long ago, I can't remember what the hell happened. Patients in the morning, shopping, ah now it's coming back to me. Shopping, single handedly trying to keep the credit crunch at bay. Black sequinned leggings, size extra small ('Wahattt???' I hear you ask), a dark green cashmere cape, and wicked green Luella Wayfarers, so now I nearly have a pair to match every outfit. Patients in the afternoon, quite a few regulars, which is always fun.
To Manny's in the evening, for moules and steak tartare. Still no internet access.
Friday, 12th September
Still no internet access. To Lester's for supper, cottage pie, which you could have cut into an ellipse, and licked like Jonny Wilkinson, and trifle. Lester then bizarrely left his own dinner party, leaving the guests behind.
Saturday, 13th September
To the Harbour Club, for a massage. As usual, left behind the dry cleaning, and didn't leave enough time for a sunbed. I dropped a fortune in the shop, on new kit, a Nike sports band, and new MBTs. I was all beautifully togged out for my Survivors lap of honour at the Relay for Life. 3 miles walking in MBTs and you soon know about it, I will be suffering tomorrow. Home, and a trip to the King's Road, where we found serving cutlery to match our dinner service. Woohoo! What a rock and roll life I truly lead.
Back to Battersea Park for the Candle of Hope ceremony. This was started by Leanne, a bone cancer survivor, whom I coincidentally remember as a patient at the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital. On her remaining leg, she was wearing an extraordinary black satin platform. 'I love your heels.' I said, not thinking. 'Heel.' She pointed out. Fortunately we both saw the funny side.
Here's what I read.
I wrote the following piece about four months after I finished chemotherapy.
The Peacock Feather
If Saint ever had a first name, he mislaid it long ago. Despite the intense
summer heat, he wore a baseball cap and a navy fleece top. Every exposed
piece of skin bore crude, amateur tattoos - stars and crosses on his hands
and wrists. His turquoise eyes wept permanent tears. The walls of the shop
were plastered with designs, photographs, and newspaper cuttings praising
his exceptional skill. He left her alone, at the front of the shop, as he
went to make a template from her design. She scoured the walls to find a
similar design, but there was nothing. She had wanted a tattoo for years,
but was frightened of the pain, and frightened of making a commitment to the
design.
The peacock feather is imbued with mystical layers. On the face of it a
symbol of male vanity, and sexual prowess, it has come to symbolize beauty
and fidelity. In alchemy it represents a period of transition,
self-knowledge and harmony. Most importantly, it is a sign of protection, a
shield for the psychic self.
Saint returned, and took her through to the small back room, with an
alarming array of needles and inks. It was close, and humid. There was
paperwork, and a consent form to be signed. She sat, hunched over, on an
unforgiving stool. He positioned the template centrally over her upper
spine, and, like the surgeon before him, marked her with a surgical pen.
Silently, he started his art. The pain was exquisite, especially as the
needle passed over jutting bone. With the presicion and pain of a scalpel,
he traced the outline. She felt a trickle down her back, sweat? Blood?
It started with a buzzing in her ears, then the falling veil of grey that
accompanies a faint. She asked him to stop, accepted a paper cone of water,
and sat for a while on the scarred lino. She concentrated on the pain, to make the faint go away.
The Peacock Feather
If Saint ever had a first name, he mislaid it long ago. Despite the intense
summer heat, he wore a baseball cap and a navy fleece top. Every exposed
piece of skin bore crude, amateur tattoos - stars and crosses on his hands
and wrists. His turquoise eyes wept permanent tears. The walls of the shop
were plastered with designs, photographs, and newspaper cuttings praising
his exceptional skill. He left her alone, at the front of the shop, as he
went to make a template from her design. She scoured the walls to find a
similar design, but there was nothing. She had wanted a tattoo for years,
but was frightened of the pain, and frightened of making a commitment to the
design.
The peacock feather is imbued with mystical layers. On the face of it a
symbol of male vanity, and sexual prowess, it has come to symbolize beauty
and fidelity. In alchemy it represents a period of transition,
self-knowledge and harmony. Most importantly, it is a sign of protection, a
shield for the psychic self.
Saint returned, and took her through to the small back room, with an
alarming array of needles and inks. It was close, and humid. There was
paperwork, and a consent form to be signed. She sat, hunched over, on an
unforgiving stool. He positioned the template centrally over her upper
spine, and, like the surgeon before him, marked her with a surgical pen.
Silently, he started his art. The pain was exquisite, especially as the
needle passed over jutting bone. With the presicion and pain of a scalpel,
he traced the outline. She felt a trickle down her back, sweat? Blood?
It started with a buzzing in her ears, then the falling veil of grey that
accompanies a faint. She asked him to stop, accepted a paper cone of water,
and sat for a while on the scarred lino. She concentrated on the pain, to make the faint go away.
After 40 minutes it was over. He took her money with his painted hand.
The chemotherapy had taken away every hair on her body. Each day she would step from the shower, examine her reflection, and sorrow at her utter nakedness. However, it could not take away her pride, or her dignity, all it could take was her fear.
Now, thanks to Saint, she would never feel truly naked again.
It's not all true, in fact the chemotherapy fairies came in the night and stole my hair to knit mittens from. I used to get out of the shower and think, 'Who stuck that fat, bald woman between me and the mirror.
With cancer as a teacher, you learn things prettty fast, and one of those lessons is that life is too short to be scared of making choices, and taking decisions. When I go, not that I'm planning it in the near future, I don't want to regret the experiences I missed out on.
Don't run away from the difficult questions, as the answers will seek you out in the end. And in the words of one pop princess, 'While you're here, wear the diamonds, and have another glass of champagne.'
Sunday, 14th September
11-4 to Sparta Park. Nuff said Mrs Moore.
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