Over the past few weeks, while I’ve been having endless scans, tissue and bone biopsies and waiting for results and opinions, I’ve been reminded of a poem I used to look forward to reading on the underground:
Sometimes things don’t go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don’t fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.
This is not because there has been a sudden, unexpected, advance in the treatment and cure of giant cell tumours or a great leap forward in limb cloning or that I’ve become a glass practically over-flowing kind of person. It’s because my oncologist has taken the trouble to phone me himself to keep me abreast of the latest news, even if that news is no news; because the surgeon to whom he referred me clearly knew about me and my case – and was interested in both; because the Macmillan Nurse offered to coordinate results and appointments. It doesn’t sound much but it has made a huge difference to the quality of the long wait.
Incidentally, the author of that poem no longer wishes to be associated with it, but for access to her other poems and prose see http://sheenagh.webs.com/