The Damoclean Sword.
They say that no news is good news, and therefore news is good. But on 25th February, 2005, there was bad news. Christine had been diagnosed with breast cancer, setting in motion a chain of events that took my life over completely, with me flying over to California from sunny Nottingham to be with her through whatever transpired. Two weeks later the medical machine took its pound of flesh, grinding on through months of chemotherapy and radiation treatment, in which time we got married and I became a "Permanent Resident" of the United States.
We've been told that Christine is "in remission", which seemingly means that "you don't have cancer as far as we can tell, but there are no guarantees". Proof of the latter, were it needed, comes about every eight months. There have been several trips to doctors and many scans of various body parts, as suspect lumps are discovered, and subsequently proved to be nothing. Cancer is our sword of Damocles hanging ominously over us on a highly uncertain thread, blown by the winds of life, and occasionally, we are convinced that the sword is falling. Like Damocles, we have no choice but to sit under it day after day.
Now we come up to date, and the latest thinning of the hair. Last week, Christine discovered another lump, which she duly took to her doctor, who sent her (and it) for a biopsy yesterday. Frankly, we were both expecting the worst, given the location (a lymph node in her neck, above the site of one known to be involved in 2005) and the size (around 2cm (that's almost an inch). The past 24 hours, I have been the bear with a sore head, snapping at things I wouldn't normally, kicking figurative cats all over town. So sure was I, that I spent a good deal of today thinking about what we would do about her, me, and Tess. In particular, I was dreading Christine having to tell Tessie, who would have been worried beyond imagination.
"No Malignant Cells Identified."
These were the four words we never expected; four words that had us doing happy dances and going for a champagne supper. Well, Christine had the champers - I find it vile, and enjoyed a Hoegaarden. It's a massive relief to know that the malignancy we thought was back, is no longer, at least for now. Having lost too many people to cancer (Christine's mother, Tessie's favourite aunt, my uncle and my Dad), we honestly didn't want another reminder of mortality. "Death to malignancy!" is my battle cry.
"Do they have the Fourth of July in England?"
Seriously. Someone asked me that question. And being me, I answered it. "Of course not!", I replied, "we go straight from the third to the fifth". My interrogator thought for a moment. "But you'd have one fewer day in the year!" Smiling sweetly, I pointed out that in the United Kingdom, we have 29 days in February. "It seems a shame to have only twenty-eight days". I almost carried it off, but of course, I know what they mean, and the question is still stupid. Do you really think that we would celebrate the independence of our former colonies? Think of all the tax we'd collect from you nowadays. But then, on the other hand, you did spoil an awful lot of tea, so maybe we are better off without you.
This brings me to the real reason for this journal note. A year ago yesterday, I received a phone call to tell me that my father had just been buried. Apparently, his wish was that I not be informed of this, or even his death, until after the event, which my sister dutifully obeyed. People occasionally ask me what I will be doing for "the Fourth", and I will ever reply thus: "Wear a Union Flag t-shirt and a black armband".
In Memoriam, Raymond Weedon
In Gratitude, Christine Ottaway