glad to hand them over to Mark last night and leave! The responsibility was too much. I liked my own space and being able to do what I wanted, when I wanted. No, kids were definitely not for me. Fiona was welcome to my eggs.
I skidded to a halt outside the school just on time. The twins came sprinting out, impatient to see their mum. I was irrelevant now – a mere chauffeur – as they quizzed me on what time she’d got back and was she all better and would she be staying at home for ever…
When we arrived, Fiona was leaning against the front door. She smiled when she saw her sons and they ran into her arms. I saw her catch her breath with pain as they threw their arms round her, but she hugged them and gave an Oscar-winning performance of someone who was in full health. When she had the chance she told me that the hospital had called to confirm that the cancer hadn’t spread to her lymph nodes. I hugged her too, but gently, and told her it was the best news I’d ever heard. She laughed and said Dad had used the same words.
After an hour with the twins, she looked exhausted and I made her go up to bed for a nap. It was only when she didn’t protest and didn’t quiz me on what I was cooking for dinner that I realized how much pain she was in. The boys helped me tuck her in and then we left her to rest – I was tempted to lie down beside her, but I took the boys out to the park instead and played I Spy… I snapped after the forty-seventh word. I could take it no more. They should use it as a form of torture in wars: it works.
14
The next couple of weeks passed in a blur of driving the boys to school, picking them up, cleaning the house, making them lunch and dinner and pinning Fiona to the bed to rest. As each day passed she grew stronger, and by the time she was due to start her chemotherapy she was feeling much better, which was a pity in a way: just when she felt herself again she had to face intense treatment. Although she was trying to be positive, I could see she was dreading it. Every time I thought about it I felt sick for her.
Fiona had decided not to postpone the treatment and was just hoping it wouldn’t cause permanent infertility. When Dad had found out she was thinking about delaying it he had gone mental. I don’t ever remember seeing him so angry. He ranted and raged at her, telling her she was selfish for even thinking about it.
‘You’ve two fine boys here who need their mother. Get some sense, girl. You can’t put off getting better for some ridiculous egg collection – you’re not a bloody hen. Be grateful for the two children you have and start that chemotherapy as soon as possible. You’re to focus on one thing only, getting better, and if I have to drag you there by the scruff of your neck, you’ll be starting that treatment next week, and I don’t want to hear another bloody word about it. Do you understand ?’
Fiona was shocked. Dad never shouted at her. He’d never had reason to. He’d roared at me and Derek on a regular basis, but Fiona was always so good and kind and responsible that he’d never had to raise his voice to her. When he had stormed out of the house to go for a walk and calm down, Fiona had looked at me wide-eyed.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘He seems to think he’s Marlon Brando in The Godfather .’ I wanted to make light of it because it was obvious that Dad was terrified Fiona was going to die, and his outburst had made me nervous. He had first-hand experience of losing someone from this disease: did he think Fiona was going to end up like Mum?
‘What have you done to the old man?’ asked Derek, arriving in. ‘I asked him to lend me a few quid and he pinned me up against the wall and told me I was a waste of space and it was time I grew up. It’s practically child abuse.’
‘Derek, you’re twenty-six,’ I reminded him. ‘It’d be adult abuse.’
‘I might have to write a song about it – “My fatha shouted me out, and called me a useless
I skidded to a halt outside the school just on time. The twins came sprinting out, impatient to see their mum. I was irrelevant now – a mere chauffeur – as they quizzed me on what time she’d got back and was she all better and would she be staying at home for ever…
When we arrived, Fiona was leaning against the front door. She smiled when she saw her sons and they ran into her arms. I saw her catch her breath with pain as they threw their arms round her, but she hugged them and gave an Oscar-winning performance of someone who was in full health. When she had the chance she told me that the hospital had called to confirm that the cancer hadn’t spread to her lymph nodes. I hugged her too, but gently, and told her it was the best news I’d ever heard. She laughed and said Dad had used the same words.
After an hour with the twins, she looked exhausted and I made her go up to bed for a nap. It was only when she didn’t protest and didn’t quiz me on what I was cooking for dinner that I realized how much pain she was in. The boys helped me tuck her in and then we left her to rest – I was tempted to lie down beside her, but I took the boys out to the park instead and played I Spy… I snapped after the forty-seventh word. I could take it no more. They should use it as a form of torture in wars: it works.
14
The next couple of weeks passed in a blur of driving the boys to school, picking them up, cleaning the house, making them lunch and dinner and pinning Fiona to the bed to rest. As each day passed she grew stronger, and by the time she was due to start her chemotherapy she was feeling much better, which was a pity in a way: just when she felt herself again she had to face intense treatment. Although she was trying to be positive, I could see she was dreading it. Every time I thought about it I felt sick for her.
Fiona had decided not to postpone the treatment and was just hoping it wouldn’t cause permanent infertility. When Dad had found out she was thinking about delaying it he had gone mental. I don’t ever remember seeing him so angry. He ranted and raged at her, telling her she was selfish for even thinking about it.
‘You’ve two fine boys here who need their mother. Get some sense, girl. You can’t put off getting better for some ridiculous egg collection – you’re not a bloody hen. Be grateful for the two children you have and start that chemotherapy as soon as possible. You’re to focus on one thing only, getting better, and if I have to drag you there by the scruff of your neck, you’ll be starting that treatment next week, and I don’t want to hear another bloody word about it. Do you understand ?’
Fiona was shocked. Dad never shouted at her. He’d never had reason to. He’d roared at me and Derek on a regular basis, but Fiona was always so good and kind and responsible that he’d never had to raise his voice to her. When he had stormed out of the house to go for a walk and calm down, Fiona had looked at me wide-eyed.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘He seems to think he’s Marlon Brando in The Godfather .’ I wanted to make light of it because it was obvious that Dad was terrified Fiona was going to die, and his outburst had made me nervous. He had first-hand experience of losing someone from this disease: did he think Fiona was going to end up like Mum?
‘What have you done to the old man?’ asked Derek, arriving in. ‘I asked him to lend me a few quid and he pinned me up against the wall and told me I was a waste of space and it was time I grew up. It’s practically child abuse.’
‘Derek, you’re twenty-six,’ I reminded him. ‘It’d be adult abuse.’
‘I might have to write a song about it – “My fatha shouted me out, and called me a useless
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