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The treatment lasts half an hour, not the three to four hours during the first six cycles. After Andrea attaches the chemo bottle to the port in your chest and covers it with a non-allergic dressing, the third type used over the last few months, Pat and you head down to the second floor to make the appointments. When you leave the hospital, you realise the exit was the one where you first felt that cold fire in your fingertips.
‘Any plans for the afternoon?’ Pat says.
You put on your gloves. Your fingers and toes are numb.
‘I’m going through my photos for a book I’m planning. I’m thinking of calling it Falling Light. If I can’t take any, I can at least publish the ones I’m happiest with.’
‘Good on you. See, you’re already making the best of your day.’
You smile. Even with the side effects, you feel stronger, more certain of your future.
Eager for a celebratory coffee on the way home, you walk steadily to his car, which is parked on a side street. You pass doctors, nurses, patients. A few return your nods.
A currawong gives out its cheeo-cheeo, gywiree call.
That jacaranda tree on the corner block is bursting with stored light.
