lout, I’m damaged from the shout…”’
‘You’ve used “shout” twice in three lines,’ said Fiona, and we dissolved with laughter.
‘It’s all just a joke to you. Well, when I’m living in a far-out crib, we’ll see who’s laughing then,’ said the sensitive artist with high expectations.
‘Come on, Derek, we’re only joking,’ said Fiona the peacemaker, as he flounced out of the room to finish his bestselling rap-song about how his father had abused him by supporting him financially for twenty-six years.
At last the day of Fiona’s first chemotherapy session came round. She had organized it to take place when the boys were at school. As usual, Mark couldn’t be there because of work. This time I didn’t bite my tongue. Two days before we had had a huge argument when he told me he wouldn’t be going with Fiona.
‘What do you mean you can’t go? Do you not understand what’s going on here? Your wife is about to undergo a horrific bout of treatment. What the hell could be more important than being at her side?’
‘Of course I’d like to be there, but I only have a few weeks left to produce this paper and Fiona is one hundred per cent behind me. I will be here to look after her every evening, as I always am. I should be able to take her to the next session. I just can’t be with her at this one. You came home to help, so can you please just help and stop nagging me?’
‘Nagging you? Oh, Mark, I haven’t even got warmed up.’
‘Fiona is the one whose opinion matters and she’s fully supportive. I’ll have more time to be with her after this competition, when she really needs me.’
‘In the mean time, good old Kate will pick up the pieces. Don’t worry, I’ll hold your wife’s hand. You go off and do your sums.’
Fiona and I drove to the hospital in silence. She was too terrified to speak and I couldn’t think of anything comforting to say. She was now facing six months of chemotherapy – eight sessions, one every three to four weeks, followed by radiotherapy five days a week for five weeks. The oncologist had said her chances of full recovery were very good and it would all be over in seven and a half months’ time. Fiona was a fighter, I reminded myself. She’d survive this. It was February so, all going well, she’d be completely finished her treatment by September or October and then she could put it behind her. We all could.
When we arrived at the treatment centre, a friendly nurse called June showed us into a large, sunny room with six big comfortable chairs and several smaller ones for visitors. This was where the chemotherapy would be administered. But, first of all, Fiona had to go for a series of blood tests.
A couple of hours later she was given the go-ahead to start the chemotherapy. She lay back in one of the chairs in the treatment room and waited for her drugs to be made up. I had bought stacks of magazines to distract her, which I placed on her lap.
There were four other patients in the room: two men, one in his fifties, who was completely bald, and a young guy, who looked about twenty-five and had a full head of hair. Two women sat on Fiona’s side of the room. One looked to be in her mid-sixties, had thinning hair and a very grey pallor; the other was younger – mid-forties, I reckoned – and completely bald. She was wearing bright red lipstick and a funky, multicoloured hat lay at her side.
The older man was working, his briefcase perched on his lap. The young guy was lying back, eyes closed, listening to music. The older woman was knitting and the other lady, who was sitting closest to us, was reading a book and laughing out loud every now and then. Fiona caught her eye and smiled.
She winked. ‘First time?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘You have that look of terror. It’s not so bad, honestly. I’m Anne.’
‘I’m Fiona. So, uhm, how long does it take before your hair falls out?’
I winced and hoped that Anne would say something
‘You’ve used “shout” twice in three lines,’ said Fiona, and we dissolved with laughter.
‘It’s all just a joke to you. Well, when I’m living in a far-out crib, we’ll see who’s laughing then,’ said the sensitive artist with high expectations.
‘Come on, Derek, we’re only joking,’ said Fiona the peacemaker, as he flounced out of the room to finish his bestselling rap-song about how his father had abused him by supporting him financially for twenty-six years.
At last the day of Fiona’s first chemotherapy session came round. She had organized it to take place when the boys were at school. As usual, Mark couldn’t be there because of work. This time I didn’t bite my tongue. Two days before we had had a huge argument when he told me he wouldn’t be going with Fiona.
‘What do you mean you can’t go? Do you not understand what’s going on here? Your wife is about to undergo a horrific bout of treatment. What the hell could be more important than being at her side?’
‘Of course I’d like to be there, but I only have a few weeks left to produce this paper and Fiona is one hundred per cent behind me. I will be here to look after her every evening, as I always am. I should be able to take her to the next session. I just can’t be with her at this one. You came home to help, so can you please just help and stop nagging me?’
‘Nagging you? Oh, Mark, I haven’t even got warmed up.’
‘Fiona is the one whose opinion matters and she’s fully supportive. I’ll have more time to be with her after this competition, when she really needs me.’
‘In the mean time, good old Kate will pick up the pieces. Don’t worry, I’ll hold your wife’s hand. You go off and do your sums.’
Fiona and I drove to the hospital in silence. She was too terrified to speak and I couldn’t think of anything comforting to say. She was now facing six months of chemotherapy – eight sessions, one every three to four weeks, followed by radiotherapy five days a week for five weeks. The oncologist had said her chances of full recovery were very good and it would all be over in seven and a half months’ time. Fiona was a fighter, I reminded myself. She’d survive this. It was February so, all going well, she’d be completely finished her treatment by September or October and then she could put it behind her. We all could.
When we arrived at the treatment centre, a friendly nurse called June showed us into a large, sunny room with six big comfortable chairs and several smaller ones for visitors. This was where the chemotherapy would be administered. But, first of all, Fiona had to go for a series of blood tests.
A couple of hours later she was given the go-ahead to start the chemotherapy. She lay back in one of the chairs in the treatment room and waited for her drugs to be made up. I had bought stacks of magazines to distract her, which I placed on her lap.
There were four other patients in the room: two men, one in his fifties, who was completely bald, and a young guy, who looked about twenty-five and had a full head of hair. Two women sat on Fiona’s side of the room. One looked to be in her mid-sixties, had thinning hair and a very grey pallor; the other was younger – mid-forties, I reckoned – and completely bald. She was wearing bright red lipstick and a funky, multicoloured hat lay at her side.
The older man was working, his briefcase perched on his lap. The young guy was lying back, eyes closed, listening to music. The older woman was knitting and the other lady, who was sitting closest to us, was reading a book and laughing out loud every now and then. Fiona caught her eye and smiled.
She winked. ‘First time?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘You have that look of terror. It’s not so bad, honestly. I’m Anne.’
‘I’m Fiona. So, uhm, how long does it take before your hair falls out?’
I winced and hoped that Anne would say something
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