I’m sorry, my darling

“I’m sorry, my darling.”

I knew what was coming, deep down it was going to happen but still, I just stood, taking it in. A question within, “Shouldn’t you leave now, there’s nothing for you here,” but isn’t there anything I can say, I can do to make any difference? No, of course there isn’t, I realised. No big surprise in hindsight, the next steps inevitable, walking me out of the door. “Can I leave this way,” I asked, knowing the answer. No time left for banter, or room for manoeuvre. The exit was all-too-clearly signed, as you would expect it to be in these times.

I had arrived well before my pre-allotted slot. It was worth a shot, a hope I could get it over with quickly, as likely as not. I’d already felt apprehensive, but put that down to a shortage of time: I had to be back for a call, a recording. Don’t you know who I am, I smiled to myself, more wryly than chuckled. But lurking deep down was the dullest of feelings. While still without meaning, I knew its presence: normally signalling something forgotten, in this case, that the journey was already begotten, I could have avoided the waste of my, and their, time.

And then in the side room, I’d sat by the piano, full pint in my hand of the requisite fluid, less of dutch courage and more of the volume I’d need to replace. I’m not going to lie, it was in that place that I first felt anxious, a fear of being by-passed, as all those around me were having their name called, you know that thing, where people come in and seem to be waved through, before you? But still there I sat, empty cup on piano by now. Finally, back to the counter I went to enquire as to whether my details were logged, which they had, then it was my time.

I had been so proud, before leaving the house. For once in my life, I’d remembered the form, the checklist of questions requiring a yes/no… there’s always that one which asks if you’ve been pregnant, I’d learned to scan down to that point on the page before checking the rest, a sequence of crosses, of course I’m not ill, nor suffered a stroke, nor travelled to places exotic, and no I don’t smoke, but yes, I guess, I should check the box about seeing a specialist though that wouldn’t matter, I’d had the all clear, well mostly at least? That’s what I’d thought, at the time.

Then I’d folded it down the crease it had already been given and bagged it, all ready to hand to whoever, how’s that for efficient. But somehow already, the first, oh-so-steady vibrations of a deeper anxiety. Maybe it was about finding the location, it was an unfamiliar destination, but surely I’d find it. Back in the hall, I still couldn’t place it. Twice, then three times I checked for the form, then I’d gone back outside and reparked the van and remembered my phone. All of these reasons, to try to uncover the truth that still lurked in the depths of my mind.

Back at the counter they’d checked, and my name was right there in the list, nothing was missed and they’d call me as soon as they could, “So sorry, we’re running a little behind,” though that wasn’t the problem, I cared less about the time: even though it was ticking, and I was clock watching, that wasn’t the issue but I wasn’t in a position to say what was not clicking. And then nothing mattered, as my name was called. A nurse took my form and scanned through the questions and jotted some notes and then pricked my finger.

And now it was time. “We’ll just have to check a couple of things, I’ll speak to the nurse,” said the nurse. Which confused me a little, but I wasn’t in any position to question, I wanted the session to get underway, I’d get through the thing I’d planned for that day and be on my way. I’d feel good about giving and a little lightheaded, and I’d wait five minutes and drink some more fluid. I’d get on with my life, back to the grindstone: I’d take that call and all would be fine.

Then everything changed. “Hello, my love,” said the nurse as she stood before me, no not that one. I couldn’t exactly ignore what she said, but paying attention was hard as I felt my surroundings closing in around me. “As long as there’s a chance, you see, we can’t really take your blood today, there’s a chance…” Indeed, and how stupid of me, not to see or to say in advance. I hadn’t considered it, at least not before time…

“…That the thing in your eye is malignant,” she continued. “I’m so sorry.” And yes, so was I, or I wondered if actually, I might not be, or whether I should put in a call to customer service and ask whether mistakes had been made, but of course they wouldn’t have been. That was that, and there was the door so I left, back to the van that I’d had to repark, and I’d got on my way, leaving it all, the questions behind me, lost in my thoughts and a realisation that I had known the answer, all the time.