Monday 13 September 2021

Radiotherapy Day 13

Today Daughter took me down. She is on her Easter break from Uni. We zoomed down in Middle Son's car, because Daughter and Middle Son have swapped cars for the week. Daughter is now driving ancient Yaris, inherited from my mother.
We fly into Brighton, the seafront calm, mist still hovering.
The men in reception are cheery as ever.
You want ANOTHER parking permit? they twinkle. We've run out.
No! I say, horrified.
Only joking, they laugh. And write out yet another one for me.
I introduce them to Daughter. We are all smiles. I love this place!
We go to the waiting room. Sit opposite the knitting today. Someone is knitting.
You're knitting! I say, impressed.
The woman pauses and smiles.
I've just learned how to knit sitting here, she says. My mum has taught me. See! Good things have come out of this!
We chortle together. I show her the Very Small Square that I knitted on Monday. Someone has carried it on. It now resembles a Very Small Scarf for a Very Small Rodent. Purple.
The woman giggles.
We wondered what that was all about, she says.
Out comes a man, looking very cheery. He's with his grandson. The woman offers to take him home when her mum comes out. He refuses very politely, and says that the bus is fine. And he's off, in a flurry of goodbyes and smiles.
Do you know him? I ask.
No! she says. It was just that he was so breathless when he arrived. He's got lung cancer.
We make sympathetic noises. We do that a lot here.
What about your mum? I ask.
The woman tells me about her mum. It seems that she has the same as me, with 3 weeks of RT. Finishing tomorrow!
Hooray, we say.
When I go in, I ask Daughter to time me. I could swear it takes about 8 minutes.
I change and wait, sitting in the little cubicle. Down the corridor comes the woman's mum. She looks lovely.
Hello, I say. I've been chatting with your daughter. She's knitting!
Oh, says the lady. She's wonderful.
She is, I say. And we smile.
I'm called in, and laugh as another nurse leaps out to call me in as well.
Wow, you're like a gazelle, I say. She is delighted to be called a gazelle, and does some 'leaping like a gazelle' about the room. We laugh and I step up onto the bed.
This time as they leave the room, I feel Jesus hovering above me. He is on his cross, facing me, inches from my face.  Once again, he takes the rays for me. The cross is exactly in the place where the rays are going. How generous and good he is. How amazing that he continues to take away my pain and sickness. How I love him.
We're back again! says the nurse. And helps me with my robe. I hop off the bed, and call goodbye as I leave.
That took 14 minutes, says Daughter.
14?! I say. It seemed like 5!
And we head off home, getting some petrol from Tesco, and chatting about Made in Chelsea.
I simply love my daughter.
And my life.

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