Standing by the window, I watch the first streaks of orange burst through the grey sky, making grey-black silhouettes of the trees which line the edge of the car park and the world beyond.  A solitary man, head bent, runs across the empty space, rushing to get into the hospital before the wind grabs him. The birds are only now beginning to wake.  I look at the clock – an hour to go – and wonder at the hours I have already been standing, still, heart beating, head swirling, rise and fall breathing.

Last night Craig dropped me at hospital.  I ran inside – a bit like the chap in the car park – eager to move, to talk, to smile, to ‘be me’. Two hours later, after both consultants had left my room, I was in no doubt about the hours and days ahead and the associated risks.  They had taken great care to explain in detail the various elements of the procedure, the order in which things would be done and the quite substantial risks attached.  They had even used my whiteboard to draw this out.  No burning question had been left unanswered.  Many responses left me scared and uncertain.  There were still unknowns ahead and they could not give me definitive and accurate responses.  I signed the waiver sheets, refused the sleeping pills they had prescribed and sat down to explore.

At crux times, when I cannot control and I can only react, I have learned to watch my mind dance in the fear.  It dances like a demon, hard and fast, twirling, jumping, pointing.  Questions like “what if…”. Worries such as “what about…” Imaginings around catastrophe, disaster, disappointment are all there.  But I also know, through practice, that this is just the initial stage, and that if I listen beyond the cacophony of noise, my subconscious brings the true questions, and many of the answers.  Am I strong enough, mentally and physically, to go through this?  Yes, I am.  Can I do anything different to change the cancer and the treatment I have chosen?  No I can’t.  Do I have the right team around me?  Yes I do.

And I let my mind settle enough to practice some deep breathing.  It’s just a change, a moment in time, I am fine, I will be fine, I can do this, I can visualise my way though to the other side.  I feel the softness of the bed beneath me, the quiet ticking of the clock is soothingly repetitive.  I watch the hands go round, ticking every minute forward.  My books lie discarded.  I look at my bag, neatly packed as if ready for my flight.  I think of others, collectively and individually, and I reach for my phone.  Jill’s voice soothes me, and the meta blessings at the end of her meditation session pulls me way beyond my current situation.

“May they be safe, well, at ease, happy and content and live their lives in harmony”.  I send this out to everyone that comes to mind.

I am calm now.  I recognise I can influence no more. It is what it is, until it isn’t.  I am on the surgery train; no stopping, getting off or pulling the emergency cord.  So when the consultant surgeon pops in to say hello and to find out how I am, I respond, “I’m ready, let’s get going”.

And to prove that you can never be too clever, outside my door is a poster on how to put on the hospital gown.  I had studied it the night before and managed to follow all instructions completely.  So, after struggling with the compression socks and eventually managing to get them on, the theatre staff are more than amused to find me keen as mustard and as pleased as punch, all dressed up but wearing my hospital gown backwards.  Apparently the poster is for visitors who are visiting infected patients. Only it doesn’t say this.  So I get ribbed mercilessly all the way down to theatre and have to endure the anaesthetist insisting I put the thing on the right way before he knocks me out.  And, they take off my knickers.  There is no dignity left.