It’s not 3 weeks since Max remarked on how relaxed and happy I seem these days.
Happy. A release from fear, anxiety, distress.
My fingers walked a habitual walk, as they do, as all our fingers should do.
Found a lump. This time. Quite hard. Quite painful. Quite… lumpish. Very much not where it should be.
Plenty of us find them. Google. Rationalise. Crumple.
A doctors trip. Reassurance. Clinic booked. 2 weeks.
Anxiety. Equilibrium fades. I’ve been told ‘I think it will be fine,’ before.
Rationalise. Act. Keep up appearances.
It will be fine.
It won’t be fine.
Don’t make me watch them watch me die.
Don’t make me frighten them again.
13 days waiting. Fear. Endless.
2 days longer than the whole of a little life, panic short circuiting my anxiety channels.
Been here before.
Nothing saves us.
The lump is still there.
Yesterday. Just under the duvet, resilience gone.
A husband who knows when to make a safe place for us to curl up.
Neither of us speaking it.
What if? What if?
Don’t make us have to shatter their world again. Not again.
13 days of fear. 2 days longer than a little life.
My sister came, changed her whole day to be there for me.
Sister of mine.
They drew pictures in my skin. It looked a little like a mushroom cloud.
A lump. Probably fine. Not worried.
A scan. A mammogram.
Just a lump.
Nothing to worry about.
13 days. 2 days longer than a whole little life.
Fear. Anxiety. Crumple.
I’m not dying. We got lucky.