Holiday

We go to France.

I spend the next two weeks eating, drinking, reading, pondering on life, the universe and everything, playing Uno and Hearts, going swimming and to the fun fair.

I find it incomprehensible that I am to have a major operation, to have part of me amputated within a matter of days. I feel fine, I have had no symptoms whatsoever. I vacillate between being resigned to my fate and total rage.

Eventually though I realise that in the grand scheme of things having a breast removed is not the worst thing that could happen. It's served its intended purpose and fed two babies. It's not as though I am losing a limb, an eye or several feet of intestine, all of which, I feel would have a more profound affect on my life than the loss of a breast.

As we travel back to England there is still a teeny weeny bit of me that hopes I'll only have to have a lumpectomy, but I know that's not going to happen.

The answerphone message confirms what I already know. I actually feel very sorry for the Breast Care Nurse who has to leave the message. It really must have been hard for her to give such news to a machine without any way of knowing how the recipient will react.

I spend the time between arriving home and Tuesday morning washing clothes and sorting out everything from the holiday.

Tuesday 5.30am arrives soon enough.