What difference does a month make? Four more episodes of poison being pushed into a vein made to swell by sitting in a tub of hot water for 10 minutes. Four more periods of extreme tiredness when crying takes too much energy. Four weeks without going back to play bridge and scrabble with friends.
What difference does a year make? If the blood clots in my lungs had broken off and gone into my heart; if my blocked bowel had exploded; if my surgeon had been too tired after a long day to take on a very complicated surgery; I wouldn’t have had the chance to see my son get his own house and leave a job for another, without being fired. I wouldn’t have seen my granddaughter go off to University; I wouldn’t have fully realised the kindness and care of the NHS, and I wouldn’t as fully appreciate the love that others have for me, and me for them.
Last chemo session I told the nurse how excited I was about counting down to the end of my treatment. “Only 7 more to go after today,” I said with a big smile on my face. “Are you sure? I will just look it up,” and a few minutes later, she wiped the smile off my face. “You’re only just over half done, and I have down that your last day will be the 9th of February. And then in a few weeks after that you will get your scan to see what the result of it all has been.”
Maybe in that extra month I will be better able to appreciate what a good life I have and that the NHS is doing the best to keep it going.