Where There Is a Will

You may recall a year or so ago, back when I was first diagnosed, Nick and I were rushing around Harley Street getting scans and generally trying to make sense of it all and, between surgeries, Nick asked me if I had made a will.

I’ve been avoiding that question ever since. I know it makes sense but making a will just never quite seems to get to the top of my list of priorities. I did go to WH Smith and buy a ready-made-do-it-yourself will kit. It sat amidst the pile of papers on my table for months. Every time I caught a glimpse of it my heart sank.

I took it to Australia. I figured that, since it was his idea in the first place, Nick would be kind enough to hold my hand whilst I filled it out. Ha! After that the sight of the damned thing distressed me even more. It became a physical symbol of just how on my own I am.

But I couldn’t in good conscience just chuck it out. I mean, every sensible person has a will don’t they? Especially those sensible people who have had a potentially fatal illness. So I packed it in my suitcase and flew it all the way back to London. I shuffled it back in amongst all the other difficult to deal with documents on the table.

Today I came across Gloss Legal, an online will making service. It is so simple, a matter of filling out a straightforward step-by-step form. First off they ask you to name your executors. They ask if you have any particular items that you would like to leave to particular people. I have quite a few paintings and photographs that I know some members of my family will like. Then it asks if you want to make any cash gifts to charities or specific people. Next it asks you to divvy up the remainder of your estate, naming the beneficiaries and ascribing the percentage of your loot that they will receive. Finally it asks if you would like to be buried or cremated and if you hanker for any special funeral arrangements. Obviously, since my friend’s funeral last week, this has been consuming my thoughts. I had already mentally composed a list of songs.

The great thing is that it is all saved as one goes along. I could go back and add or change things as they occurred to me. The website claims it will take 20 minutes and cost £39. In the end it took about an hour-and-a-half and cost £69. That is still a small price to pay to get one particularly gnarly problem dealt with.

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.”