I know it’s early in my rounds of treatment, and I know it could get worse, but really I am feeling a bit of a fraud.
The doctors and nurses warn you of a zillion possible side effects, and you wake up next morning looking for them.
I do feel slightly woolly-headed and I do find myself looking forward to my next sit-down. By 8 o’clock I am ready for a relaxing bath and bedtime to catch up on the Archers and my latest read.
But otherwise I am functioning as normal. Today I went to a book club meeting (first checking no-one had a cold); we discussed Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine (recommended read, by the way), I finished off the draft of a translation, did some administrative work and prepared enough food to feed us for the day.
I have received many phone calls asking how I am; yesterday my choir sent me a selection of goodies from Marks and Spencer’s, I have a glorious bouquet of flowers from my husband, enjoyed a relaxing foot massage from my niece, and generally languished in a tide of love and warm feelings from everyone. It makes having cancer almost good, because certainly good things are coming out of it: closeness to my family, my friends, my neighbours. And an appreciation of life.