Housekeeping

We’re in the car on the way to the hospital to see Mr Hadjiminas for my pathology results. Nick pipes up. “I just thought of something honey. You should make a will.”

I chew on my nails with renewed vigour. But he is right. I don’t have anything like that: a will; a pension; an ISA; sickness cover; life insurance; stocks and shares. What are you on about?

“I will put that on the list of things to do,” I mutter, perhaps with a slightly curt tone of voice.

“Well the good news,” says Mr Hadjimainas, looking at a computer printout “is the margins are clear.” That is good news indeed. I already know what it means. Mr H can now go ahead and perform reconstructive surgery. I won’t be requiring a mastectomy!

But I’ve also grown wise to his good news / bad news routine. There is something more to come. I can tell. Mr H looks at his fingers and then at me. “I’m afraid we found cancer in the sentinel node.” My mouth opens and closes. I’m not sure that I actually say anything. “It’s only in one node. Two others have what we call micrometastases, just a few cells, and the other one was clear. It’s unlikely to have spread any further. But we’ll have to take out all the other lymph nodes under your arm just to be sure.”

“And it will mean you’ll have to have chemotherapy.” Mr H gives me a look as if to say: “and please don’t argue with me on this one.”