The Blind Truth

You might imagine that the demise of taste buds would rule out a craving for food. On the contrary, not even nausea can do that, and Lord knows I feel nauseous quite a lot of the time these days. However, nausea is no match for steroids. They have the ability to create feelings of hunger that are unrivalled. I have been, quite literally, shaking with hunger.

Round one of chemo, of this new and not so welcome experience resulted in industrial quantities of macaroni cheese being consumed. I would like to say that I never inhaled but it would be an un-truth. I inhaled macaroni cheese until smoke came out of my ears. The scales were brutal in their assessment of my brief addiction and I learnt my lesson.

Round two led me to roast a chicken in preparation for the affects of steroids. Protein would surely dampen my enthusiasm for carbs as I lay, quivering with nausea and shaking with hunger, in my sick bed. It did not, and I found myself standing at the fridge eating hot lime pickle out of the jar.

When I first went to Chemo, I was checked in by a nurse who made me stand on the scales and noted down my weight, in much the same way as check-in staff at Heathrow weigh baggage. Instead of wrapping ID round the handle of my suitcase, she wrapped in round me. If I’d been fatter than expected she’d have called for extra chemo rather than baggage handling re-enforcements. Weigh-ins have now led me to conclude I am on the cusp of a cry for “more drugs”. As she led me to my allotted spot she told me that “lots of ladies love a curry while they’re on chemo”. I snorted with incredulity. Now I know what real hunger is, I’d snort the curry.

This obsession with new ways to tickle the taste buds has led me to hunt the net for hot sauces and I’m not bad at making them. Thank goodness for the glut of hot chillies that languish in my freezer, along with the overflow of coriander seeds. Everything else I got in the supermarket.

Curry does not do justice to the range of hot and spicey food I currently live on. I eat it for breakfast. This very morning, I consumed a spicey aubergine dish slathered in lime pickle. There is an argument for not bothering with the food preparation and just going for the pickle, but I’m keen on my five a day.

All of this has spawned a lot of fart jokes. My chum the Big Cheese does a good line in fart jokes, and while most of his jokes are wincingly wide of the mark, his oh so human observations of excess wind, hit the spot. I confess that I have laughed so hard there was a risk of a slight breeze sweeping across my sofa.

The BF suggested that we go the whole hog and order an Indian takeaway. I ordered hot and it was delicious. It was so delicious that I was eyeing up the leftover sauce and thinking how good that would be for breakfast, when the BF stuffed newspaper into the leftovers and threw it in the bin. I thought I showed great restraint in not coming downstairs, in the night, to get it out of the bin and eat it.

Gearing up for the last chemo in this particular set of four “mother of all chemo’s”, as they were so sweetly described to me, made me wonder what cravings await me. Scotch Bonnet? I’m not thinking of a tartan head covering, but I am going for growth.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

“Oh Granny, What are you wearing?” said a horrified looking Grand as I showed off my beach attire. I said nothing when he elected to come to my Birthday lunch in a multicoloured tutu, rugby shirt and jeans. He might not approve of my sense of style but I admire his nerve in mixing his.

He’s a boy who knows his own mind and what he likes, well, he likes. We took a photo of ourselves before we sat down to eat. He had his arm around me in a loving embrace. In the picture, I looked adoringly at him. He had a bit of a smirk on his cherubic face. I’ve subsequently discovered that his little hand was not squeezing me in an act of unbridled affection, but he was busy pebble dashing my party clothes in giant cuscus and a really good set of oily smears that even the dry cleaner sucked in her breath at.

When the post party pictures circulated, I only had eyes for the Grand. He was on form and looking pretty pleased with himself. As I sat in bed drinking my fourth litre of water of the day and feeling post chemo sorry for myself, I tried opening my phone to have just one more look at the centre of my universe. My phone was having none of it.

Since my hair dropped out and my face got puffy, I am no longer a recognisable version of myself when it comes to the tech on which I have grown so dependent. Not only does it repeatedly tell me that my face is not recognised, it doesn’t think that popping in my passcode is enough anymore. After so many weeks of failing to see the person I am, it repeatedly demands that I check my texts and enter the one time only pin number I’m about to receive. It could be worse I suppose.

It got worse. Next it started asking me to enter the letters and numbers it sent me in response to my having entered the verification code. Since they come is a jumbled state and are impenetrable at the best of times, it didn’t like my responses, which were many and incorrect, so it referred me to help desk. A ticket was raised and there was nothing for it but to drink water and wait.

The Dry Cleaner said the stains have come out pretty well. Only a shadow of a handprint remains and the cuscus is history. She broke the good news the moment I presented myself at her counter. She has never known me with hair or a jawline or the ability to move faster than a sloth. She’s in for a surprise sometime next year. I only hope she doesn’t ask me for the secret dry cleaner password in a moment of doubt that I’m in fact there to launch a raid on dry cleaning fluid and paralyse her business for a ransom.

A man I know walked straight past me in the street a couple of weeks ago. I was relieved not to have to stop for a chat, but outraged that he didn’t see me. It’s bad enough to be ignored by people that I want to ignore, but no one wants to be invisible.

It may be that it a weird twist, those around me should get their eyes tested. They just don’t know it, or are having trouble reconciling how they used to see with what they see now. After a lifetime of living in a world which is largely invisible to me, maybe, just maybe I have the edge.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

I’ve been doing a bit of media lately. I’ve got the face for radio and I’m comfortable with it. What I can’t stand is listening to myself. I don’t mind the sound of my own voice when I hear it inside my head and I’m spouting about something I’ve got the wind in my sails about. Hearing it back as others hear it, is a different matter altogether. I might not be that easy on the ear, but it’s what I have to say that matters.

Lately I’ve been in the business of making other people famous and not for all the right reasons. It’s not wind that is in my sails, although wind is yet another unwelcome side effect of the you know what. What’s bothering me is that the NHS might be one of the easiest health systems in the world to access, but once you are in it, it can feel impenetrable.

Let us nip smartly over the plea for cash to support my local hospice that screams from the walls of the oncology waiting room. Let us circumnavigate the confusion between condescension and compassion. We will give a wide birth to invisible signage. All of these things are a bother but the hullaballoo I want to focus on is the absolute lunacy of not communicating with people in format that works.

It’s no good writing to a braille reader in standard font. That’s how people find themselves missing appointments, getting discharged and having to start the whole process all over again. Sending me a pdf that can only be read upside down just isn’t up to the task. That’s why the Accessible Information Standards have been in place since 2016. Them’s the rules. Yet, you would be hard pressed to know it. You can read all about those standards on the NHS’ own website . Sticking to the rules makes life easier for everyone, not just for people like me. They are widely flouted and that’s what I’ve been talking to the press about.

I wasn’t expecting that I’d have to supply photos of myself as part of the deal. My friend ‘P” said she thought she could take a few when we went out for a walk. She made me stand on top of a grassy knoll that I fell asleep on last summer. It was only when I woke up I noticed the wasps nest, so I was cautious. “Oh don’t be such a wuss”, she said.

The same photo got used as a head shot in my local paper. It was superimposed next to a picture of a disabled parking bay, just in case anyone should miss the point that this is a story about some poor old blinky. I notice that I’m a bit pinched looking. I was probably wondering about the merits of being described as a “chairman” or how I was going to park the car I do not have. You can see what I mean.

The one I enjoyed the most is the BBC Access All podcast. Emma and Nicky do a passable Jane and Fi. They were super encouraging and just a little bit naughty. I sound very earnest and a bit taken aback by the unreserved apology issued by my local NHS by way of right to reply. You can hear how uncharacteristically silent I was in response to the apology I didn’t see coming.

All of this will only matter if the principles of universal access to health services, at the point of need, are lived values. That means making sure that everyone can read the information we need in our hour of need.

END

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At the first sign of a swollen arm you should definitely head for help if you have had your lymph nodes removed. I did this just before chemo number one.

I phoned the breast nurse. On balance, she thought it best to avoid the hospital while I was on chemo. I said I’d like to come to see her immediately after chemo happened and that’s what I did. I dragged my dizzy, wobbly, walk like a drunk and feel like a drunk post chemo body round to her, to get my arm inspected.

“lymphedema” she said. Then she checked with a moisture gadget. If I didn’t know better I might have thought she had a second profession as a Quantity Surveyor and was about to knock me down on price because I’m old and damp.

“Not that bad. You caught it early,” she offered in reassurance. I was not reassured. I fear lymphedema. I fear it because I don’t want a waterlogged arm and now I’ve got one. We went through the exercises, and I asked for a physio referral. She told me it wouldn’t be possible because it had to be bad to get a physio appointment. I scratched my head, metaphorically speaking.

There was nothing for it but to face up to the new look me.  “I’ll measure you for a sleeve” she said, “and a glove.” The last time I bought gloves was on a mini break to Venice when I came home with a pair of brown leather spotty gloves I didn’t need. That’s unless you count the fingerless woollies bought in a car boot sale. I have not one jot of interest in orange sticking plaster coloured sleeve and glove. All was not lost, there was a navy-blue option and so I went for one of each, in an effort to lean into my worst fears of the waterlogged arm and a fashion car crash all in one go. I came home with what the nurse had in her store and wore it.

Lead in time is about two week but three weeks later the chemist told me they forgot to put the order through. They gave me a temporary fix to get me through chemo two. The GP said she’d re-order using another chemist but two weeks later, when the much awaited sleeves arrived they were the wrong ones. The chemist says it’s the GP’s mistake. The GP says it was the chemist.

The temporary sleeves started rolling down to form a nice little bottle neck around my elbow and with chemo three approaching I took drastic action and decided to see a lymphedema specialist in double quick time. This necessitated a long car journey, a fat old fee, then a good talking to about the deficiencies of my current sleeve and glove arrangement. “No, no, no. This will not do at all,” Said Sylvia as she looked with horror at my crumpled surgical supports. “This is the wrong weave, the wrong size and the wrong compression.” She wrote a prescription and sent it to my GP who sent it to the online pharmacy.  And here is where it starts to get tricky.

I accidentally deleted my order because the accessibility features were a bit on the challenging side. The GP hasn’t quite understood my mistake and just keeps confirming the order I deleted was sent and there is nothing more to be done. I’ve ordered through the hospital now, but heard nothing so no idea if it’s in hand. Chemo four is looming and I still don’t have a sleeve. I’m seriously considering publishing my prescription in the hope that anyone who no longer needs their surgical garb could donate it.  I might have chemo brain.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

The blonde bob has long since departed. Jackie, “hairdresser to the stars and your humble servant”, cut it short in an Audrey Hepburn homage. She is deluded.

My friend Ranni, bought me three meters of navy blue lining cotton which I wound into a turban and practiced wearing about the house. There is a You Tube video for everything and when it comes to head coverings, I’ve done my fair share. I’ve covered a lot of ground from ultra conservative religious practices to cultural heritage and a modern twist on just about everything in between. I might be more Enna Sharples, in the resulting headgear, than “Queen” but I feel alright with that.

I had a funeral to go to, so I practiced wearing my turban around the house. I jumped about a bit, shook my head a bit, read, cooked and even managed a walk in it. It stayed on and not a safety pin in sight. Then I sent a photo of myself in my turban, to those who know more about these things than me, and got the thumbs up. Thank goodness for girlfriends. Thank goodness for boyfriends. Big BUT here, because when it comes to matters like this, it’s your girlfriends that count.

My girlfriends have all risen to the challenge and have provided me with a trip to a scarf emporium, where I left my dark glasses on a shelf long enough to go to eat lunch in a real restaurant, and try on clothes somewhere down an escalator and round a corner, before noticing that I was no longer in possession of said dark glasses. When I retraced my steps, there they were, two hours later, just where I had left them. This says something about the honesty of shoppers or the desirability of my glasses. My friend did proffer an opinion, but I’m not convinced.

Now all of this has raised a question. Even if you are wearing the most rudimentary of scarves you have to account for the slide factor. What do you do with your dark glasses if you are wearing a head covering and your normal practice is to pop your dark glasses on your head? How can your headgear accommodate your glasses?

You have to opt for a head covering that offers up somewhere to tuck the arms of your glasses. I’ve gone for twist and tuck. I find it’s perfectly possible to accommodate both readers and tints, at the same time, should I want to. The downside of this new way of doing things is that I can’t feel I have my glasses on my head and I’m a bit prone to accidentally launching my specs, off my head, without clocking where they have landed. It’s what you might call the crunch moment. The crunch comes once you have started to look for them.

No one told me that losing my hair would feel like the discomfort of brushing your hair the wrong way. It hurts. Jackie returned with her scissors and cut what was left in an evenen close crop. They say you should “brave the shave” but I haven’t. My humble servant popped round again and did her best work. I have a sort of cropped mullet. She refuses to put a razor to my scalp.

The way I like to think of it, is that it provides a little grip to whatever I chose to wrap around my head and that keeps my specs safe. It’s a bit like the old poem; “I eat my peas with honey. I’ve done it all my life. It makes the peas taste funny, but it keeps them on the knife.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

I am not in Kansas anymore. Actually, it’s fair to say that I’ve never been to Kansas, nor have I ever had much of an urge to go there. It’s isn’t covered by my railcard and getting there would definitely involve wearing compression stockings, which don’t come in 15 denier.

When I say that I’m not in Kansas anymore, I mean that nothing is normal, in it’s place or playing out as I had expected life to play out during the course of this year.  Life has become reduced and intense, although cancer is not the first thing I think of when I wake up, or the last thing I think of before I go to sleep.  I’m always on the hunt for humour and what better way than to amuse myself than to turn the drama, which already runs like a second-rate soap opera, into a black comedy.

It’s not that I’m summoning the spirit of James Robinson-Justice. I’ve never felt the need for another encounter. “Here’s sixpence, now bugger off,” he said to the six year me. I went home to ask my Mother what a bugger was. “James,” she said.  No, my capers in health are not as slapstick as Carry on Doctor, but my goodness, it’s a bit of a jape.

I’ve braved the rainbow seats in the waiting area, that nestle like teeth, on a plate that’s attached to the floor, or the wall, and are just the right height to bite you in that tender spot under the knee. They herald the way to oncology which has a sound scape all of it’s own, unlike the rest of the hospital that I’ve explored thus far. It has a sound all of it’s own because it’s a temporary metal building that sits on top of another temporary metal building, in order to boost capacity in the system that is creaking under the strain.

I went to oncology to have a chat all about chemotherapy. I asked, “What is chemotherapy and how does it work?”

“Chemotherapy is made up of two liquids. One is red and one is clear. It works by being injected into your veins.”

I can’t tell you my relief in getting a fuller picture. It’s always good to have complete understanding of what is about to happen, even if the main event turns out to be a bit more that a colour chart.

It was hot in oncology, not just under my collar, but everywhere, because it was the middle of a heatwave and nothing good can come of hanging out in a tin can during a heatwave.  It wasn’t just me that was looking like poached salmon.

I sat down on the rainbow seats to draw breath and that’s when I noticed the large sign telling me that my local hospice needs my support because “every pound counts and every moment matters”.  I don’t need a sign to remind me of this. Nor do I need a reminder that if the colour choices made on my behalf don’t turn out to be a match for the cancer, it will not end well. In the meantime, I resent being asked to part with my money in order to secure a good end.

Granny used to carry a pair of secreters in her handbag, just in case she spotted a flower she liked the look of, even it belonged to someone else. I considered a screwdriver but can’t get close enough to the fittings without drawing unwelcome attention to myself, to work out which fitting I’d need. I’m considering spray paint but wondering if the consequences of vandalism could be worse than death.

END

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I’m secretly curious about what it would be like to be bald.

Baldness is not necessarily the preserve of old men. I’ve been on line, investigating head coverings, for fear that my own imminent baldness should cause others to run for the hills. My sleuthing has revealed a world, of wigs and turbans and scarf tying lessons, that I’m now watching on repeat. I don’t yet care too much about losing my hair, but I imagine that there are just some settings when covering up is the right thing to do and I might care when it happens.

“You want a wig?” the woman on the other end of the phone said in a tone which was rather more of a statement that a question.
“ehhh,”
“What’s your postcode?”
“Who is this?” I asked, because no one has ever said that as a form of introduction when I answer the phone.
“I’m sending you a catalogue.”
“But who are you?”
“You got a referral for a wig.”
“But who are you?”
“Well who are you?” she said.
“This is Anna speaking. You called me, but I don’t know who you are.”
“It’s me Marjorie, the wig lady. I’m sending you the catalogue. What’s your address?”
I asked for the link and she explained that the company don’t have a website but send out catalogues. “I’m looking at their website now,” I said, after a bit of swift manoeuvring. She sent me a catalogue anyway.

Wigs are affordable and modelled by people in poses and styles that look as if we are going through a 1970’s revival. The wigs themselves look as if they are made of nylon and might spark if you move too quickly or pull a synthetic sweater over your head. After all this bother of surgery and chemo it would be a pity to accidentally set fire to myself. They are all in colours that I have never seen, not even in Bulgaria where I have seen some terrible home hair dye jobs. I put the catalogue in the pile of cancer gubbins and went back on line to look for something a bit more stylish.

There are no end of shopping opportunities if you have cancer. There is everything from moisturisers to cooling spritzers for the face. There is at least one person, I can think of, who would happily perform the same service for free and chuck a bucket of water over me. In the end I settled for a squidgy thing to wrap around seatbelts. You never know. Someone might be prepared to drive me to a layby for a sandwich now that we are back in the 1970s.

Marjorie called back to give me driving directions to the appointment I never made tomorrow at 1pm. “I’m sure I don’t have an appointment,” I said. She thought the stress of cancer had made me forget and carried on with directions.
“I’m blind,” I interrupted. It seemed the best way to put the brakes on things.
“Then turn left,” she persisted.
“I can’t drive,” I said firmly.
“But you’ve made this appointment. How are you going to get there?”
“Honestly,” I said. “I can’t remember making an appointment.”
“Are you Heather?” she said.
“No. I’m Anna.”
“I’ve got the wrong person,” she muttered, and put the phone down.

Giving up on wigs, I went to buy fabric to weave myself magnificent headgear but came home with a lampshade. I suppose I could always put that over my head.

The BF, knowing my love of all things garden, sent me a link to a well-known cancer charity, from whose on-line shop you can buy a gnome.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

I’m still living season 1 of my live streaming dark comedy “my left breast”.  It’s a cracking little mini-series that has now been running for three months and promises to keep on running for at least another eight. I really hope that there is never a season 2.

In the drama so far, I have given up a big old chunk of me that I thought I could never live without. It turns out that having a lumpectomy is a bit like having a bite out of the peach, or so I was told at the big reveal, that happened accidentally while I was getting out of the shower.

Having your lymph nodes out is a bit more of a challenge. Every time I pick up a knife to chop carrots, I am met by cries of “Noooo” as my nearest and dearest lunge at me for fear I should cut myself, get an infection and die, or worse, that my arm cannot take it and swells to epic proportions that will cause me to moan.  I have given up my lifelong approach to checking the state of the blade, by running my thumb along it. The Son, even took my knife and fork out of my hands and cut up my food and removed the knife.

Infection is the risk that is drummed into me at every turn. I even got given a card that says I’m a chemo patient and that should I become ill, “do not wait for blood results before administering antibiotics.” I feel like a drug Lord. I’m supposed to carry this with me at all times. It’s also got an emergency help line number that I couldn’t read, so a helpful nurse said she’d send it as a pdf. She was as good as her word. There was just one tiny little problem. Neither of us could rotate the document to an upright position. All of this was fine if you are skilled at reading upside down.

The biggest laugh of this episode came with the arrival of the preparing for chemo video, in which three earnest nurses read the list of doom from an autocue. I particularly enjoyed the joke about remembering to use a condom. I can’t remember if it came before or after the warnings about hair loss, weight gain and a nasty case of the runs. Given the likelihood of the these side effects, I’m not rushing out for prophylactics. On the upside, the video did include a flashed up copy of the emergency hot line number so I froze the screen and popped the number in my phone. The only problem was, that the number that appears on screen has an extra digit. It was the wrong number so let’s hope no other bright spark had the same idea as me because they might die trying if they ever needed to call it.

The nice nurse tried another approach and managed to print it out on a piece of paper that I have sitting next to me now, less I should cut myself with my own finger nail or possibly the edge of my tongue or probably the keyboard.

As this particular episode of series 1 draws to its conclusion, I am not playing it for laughs any more. This is a dark comedy that has taken a turn for the worse. I only hope it’s not too late to put matters right and get the script back on track.

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to hide the bodies of those who make it difficult.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

The Halloween wig I have bought myself at a bargain price is destined for the Grand’s dressing up box. Too scratchy!

Yesterday I woke up to find that the short back and sides that I had a few weeks ago, were attached to my face and not to my head. This wasn’t a migration of rootstock during the night, but a jettisoning of my locks, to reveal a pinker scalp than I imagined. I text Jackie, “hairdresser to the stars and your humble servant.”

“Don’t worry. I’m going to give you a close cut, in fact it will be so close that you are going to look like Audrey Hepburn in her younger days.”

“More like Matt Lucus,” I burbled. An image of myself as a giant bonneted baby came into my mind. I had to shake myself out of it. In shaking myself out of it a bit more hair fell out.

Turning myself into a second rate tribute to Audrey Hepburn in her younger days, took a good hour and then I had to get the hoover out to clean up what was now lying on the floor. On the up side, I won’t need another haircut in six weeks, or even six months, so as things go, that wasn’t bad value for money. “You look amazing,” said Jackie as she waxed what was left of my barnet.

“I look like a man,” I said glibly.

“Are you bloody blind or what?” she said wagging her hairbrush under my nose. “You do not look like a man. You look like Audrey Hepburn in her younger days.”

“Come with me,” she said. Then she frogmarched me to the mantlepiece and told me to take a good look in the big mirror. Jackie, me and one of the A Team, lined up and had a serious go at convincing ourselves. Definitely, Audrey Hepburn in her younger days. Who were we kidding?

I’ve tried it every which way: I’ve taken a selfie. I’ve put on my readers and had a good gaze. The truth of the matter is that I have no real idea of what I look like. I was explaining this to the sister who opened the fridge door and while having a good rummage said, “well you’ve got the same shaped head as Favourite Uncle.”

Thank goodness for girlfriends with cars and twenty-twenty vision, although not necessarily their children. I was once in the car with a girlfriend when her phone rang. She answered the call on speaker. It was her son, who was calling to say he’d just seen her drive past him and wanted to know, “Who was that really really old woman in the car with you?”

“It’s me, Anna,” I bellowed back. The phone went down.  I never miss the opportunity to embarrass him whenever I can. His Mother went on an emergency run to the fabric shop in Turnpike Lane yesterday to buy yards of the head gear. Guilt is a wonderful thing.

Whether Audrey Hepburn in her younger days or Matt Lucas, I’ve come to the conclusion its not that important, to know how others see me, or even how I physically see myself. It’s better to know how it feels to be me without hair. I’m alright with it. What’s more there are online instructions for everything and that includes variations on a turban through to how Grace Kelly wore her scarves.

I’m well on my way with the turban theme and optimistic my inner Grace Kelly, is somewhere. Audrey Hepburn may be a push but I bet if I look hard enough Grace is somewhere, but possibly not in the fridge.

END

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Setting aside the demise of the blown fuse, and the kettle, before 6am. I’ve been to have my surgically induced fluid bubbles drained. I’ve been waiting for this moment since the last time I went out of the house in a state of heightened emotion and came home minus a vat of “lovely and clear” lymphatic fluid.

This morning’s trip out also served as yet another training opportunity for someone who needs to get their numbers up. I am happy to oblige. Today’s student offered up an abundance of “bless you” and brief felicitations on the quality of my output.

The electrician text me to say that he was an hour away. There was time enough for a trot to that well known emporium where end of lines can be precured at bargain prices. Kettles were not amongst them. This didn’t stop me from joining the till queue with a small tin of Spanish sweet chili. When it was my turn, I put my cane down on the counter next to me and pushed the chili under the Perspex screen where it was carefully examined, it’s contents read, it’s barcode scanned, before being picked up for closer examination. Then something unexpected happened.

Having located what remains of the curly label with it’s barcode, that I never bothered to peel off and now looks like something I stepped in, the cashier tried scanning my cane. “It’s a mobility aid” I said limply.
“Yeah, I’m scanning it now,” she said.
“It’s mine.”
“Yeah, I’m doing it now.” She persisted with small jabs at the cane.
“It’s my mobility aid. I’m not paying for it. It’s already mine.”
“But what is it?” she asked as she slid it back across the counter.
“I can’t see very much. I use it to help me get about.” As a leap of imagination goes, I don’t think she found it easy to make the leap between my bundled-up cane and how this translated into anything practical. I would have to dig deep. I dug so deep I found myself in bargain basement beating a retreat.

I headed to the hardware shop in the drive to boil water. Since the day I left a well-ordered stand of kitchen products on the floor, I have not returned. My reappearance went unnoticed and I settled on a blue kettle that was on clearance. At the till I slid the kettle over the counter and under the Perspex screen. I put my cane down on the counter in front of me and reached into my bag for my debit card. The cashier reached across for my cane and zapped it.
“That’s mine,” I said. “I’m not buying it.”
“I’ll clear it,” he said and carried on zapping.
“No, it belongs to me. I already own it.”
“Oh,” he said and looked as if he might be gearing up to ask what it was but thought better of it.
“It’s a cane,” I said. “I can’t see. I use it to help get around. It’s mine. It’s my long white cane.” I know this doesn’t really cover it but I wasn’t in the mood for evangelism.

All that zapping and cane action sparked something in my imagination. I can claim the changes that cancer keeps delivering, just like I’ve claimed visual impairment, as part of the patchwork that makes me, well me.

In her misery at getting breast cancer, cookery writer Julia Childs offered her husband a divorce. “I didn’t marry you for your breasts. I married you for your legs,” he reputedly said. Somehow, we all have to find ways to be the heroin of our lives. Not the victims.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.