After Cleo by Helen Brown Page B

carpet to match the pale, elegant life I had yet to begin.
    I’ve no idea what men do when they’re preparing to go into hospital. A woman – well this one anyway – clears out her kitchen cupboards. Into the bin went sachets of satay sauce circa 2001, plastic barbecue knives (who bought them ?), muesli bars nobody liked. Maybe seagulls at the local landfill would appreciate them. Surgical mishaps aside, I’d be coming home to pristine cupboards, more or less.
    In the back of the fridge I checked out some stewed apples destined to fester. I examined them closely and reckoned they had only a day to go, even by my standards. I spooned the apples into tiny bowls, tossed in some dried fruit and sprinkled them with crumble topping. Delicious, they said that night, scraping the bowls so clean they hardly needed to go in the dishwasher. The fools.
    A brochure encouraged me to spend the days leading up to surgery constructively, filling the freezer so the family would survive while I was in hospital and I wouldn’t have to start slaving the minute I returned (when my arms would be too weak to lift pots and plates).
    No wonder women get cancer in their breasts, the great symbols of nurture. Heading home from the supermarket with three months’ worth of washing powder and toilet paper, my style behind the wheel was less aggressive than usual. Life, for all its imperfections, felt so very finite and precious. Immersed in thought, I missed a turn and found myself meandering through an unfamiliar neighbourhood.
    Managing the reactions of others was sometimes harder than dealing with my own. The word ‘cancer’ had such an extraordinary effect I wondered if a name change couldn’t be considered. ‘Tulip’ perhaps (somebody kindly left a bunch on the doorstep). ‘I have Tulip and you needn’t worry.’ Because some friends reacted as though I’d told them they were dying. Once the news settled in, they arranged their faces in a slightly different expression that implied that they thought I was dying.
    â€˜Is there anything I can do?’ has to be the most commonly heard question by anyone diagnosed with serious illness. It’s a safe ask, as the patient can be relied on not to say, ‘Well, yes, actually the upstairs loo is blocked and a wild animal’s scrabbling in our attic. Bring poison and a plunger.’
    No, the air fills with a balloon of silence. The sufferer says, ‘Not just now thanks; you’re so kind. I’ll let you know.’ Irritated by the weakness of that response, I invented a new one: ‘Pray for me.’ I didn’t say it solely to make people feel awkward, as it sometimes clearly did. I was hardly in the gold medal department for praying myself, but I was open to the idea that prayers of the practised and sincere can pack a punch.
    â€˜My life’s a mess, too,’ said an acquaintance, who by all accounts lived like a princess. ‘Our basement flooded and we’re having a hell of a time with the insurance company.’
    â€˜You’ve just reminded me,’ said another. ‘I’m way overdue for a mammogram.’
    Others were more upbeat, even though life wasn’t treating them kindly. Jodie the hairdresser had a tattoo for every failed love affair. There wasn’t much blank space left on her body. She planted a kiss on my cheek and wished me luck. She said, like me, her aunt had also had a vasectomy.
    â€˜You not sick!’ shouted Sophie the wonderful cleaner who did her best to tidy our house up every two weeks. ‘My uncle is very important doctor in China for woman’s breast. He say stop drinking coffee. Drink more tea. And don’t think you are sick ! When you think sick you get sick. After you get out of hospital I find you good Chinese doctor. Help you get strong. He will make your face red again.’
    The house was much tidier and smelt faintly of lemons after she left. I