Notes From the Cancer Waiting Room

Yesterday I went shopping for net curtains (rock ‘n’ roll, baby!). I hadn’t planned to go shopping for net curtains (I told you it was rock ‘n’ roll). I was in my local shopping centre and walking past a branch of Linens Direct and the urge to buy some new net curtains suddenly overcame me.

So I went in, chose some nets with a very natty design and asked to buy some. Then the shop assistant asked me what size I would like.

Now I don’t know about you, but I’m not the kind of person who keeps the measurements of all of my windows engraved upon my heart, so I took a wild stab in the dark and told her that Iwanted net curtains with a 36 inch drop.

When I got home I discovered that in actual fact my windows have a 48 inch drop.

I now have half-mast net surtains for every room in the house.

I briefly pondered putting them up in the hope that my neighbours would think it was some kind of new trend for ‘barely there’ window dressing, but came to the conclusion that they would probably just declare me insane and so my new, made-to-measure-and-therefore-non-refundable net curtains remain languishing in their bag.

Initially I’m afraid I didn’t see the funny side at all and spent a good hour huffing and puffing about the house wondering if I could somehow stretch the net or shrink the windows.

Then, flicking through a notepad, I found the following, written one rainy day in April while I was waiting for my boyfriend in the radiotherapy waiting room at our local hospital. I had completely forgotten I had written it so it was like reading it anew and, as soon as I’d finished, it made me laugh my head off at my stressing over net curtains. If there is something silly that you’ve been stressing about today I hope it has the same effect on you…

Notes From the Cancer Waiting Room

I’m sitting in the radiotherapy waiting room and despite the sheets of rain sliding down the window, I wish I were outside. Death’s calling cards are all around me – in the sunken cheeks, translucent skin, bald heads and hacking coughs.

The silence expands. Everyone waiting, waiting for what?

But then a wheelchair breaks and laughter dazzles the room like sunlight. We are all in this together after all.

The silence filters back but this time it is accompanied by gentle, knowing smiles and nods. I resolve that when I leave this room I will Live and I will Love.

Cancer: Death’s calling card or Life’s wake-up call?