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Constipation. Once or twice.
Urinary. No problem.
‘Has your neuropathy changed?’
‘Much worse,’ you say. ‘Fingers and toes. Balls of my feet and heels, too.’ Your fingers feel like they’re covered in Band-Aids. When you reach for things, your hand is a claw machine in an arcade that always misses the wanted toy. And your feet are wooden clogs. When going on long walks, you use a cane that used to belong to your father.
She nods, ticks the list, attaches it to your file, and goes off to let your oncologist know you’re ready to see him.
Pat arrives moments later. ‘Last session, hey. Congrats. You’ve done well. Still looking good. The new hairstyle suits you.’
The hairdresser tried to save the ponytail, but it was too ratty. You settled on a Number Three shaver but miss your old look. You hope the hair grows back thicker.
‘Thanks, Pat. For all your help and support.’
‘That’s what friends are for. We’ve lost a mate to this, so it’s great when one of us dodges the bullet. Pretty soon, you’ll be making the best of each day. Like me. Got another 20 years, I reckon.’
He settles in the visitor chair and looks out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
You follow his gaze and notice a Norfolk Pine at the back of a block of flats. Taller than two telephone poles, branches flourishing with leaves.
