Today is a very important day in the annals of the B- family (I feel like a Victorian novelist, putting it like that. My mother would have said, "And a right B family it is, too. But I digress). Today, as I was saying, is the birthday of my sister-in-law, Michelle.
What has this to do with cancer, you may ask, although I'd think it was a bit cheeky of you if you did. It has this to do with it: Michelle is a two-time survivor of breast cancer. The first round was five years ago, when she and my brother were still - can you say 'dating', when the people involved are in their 40s and 50s? Well, whatever the word is; she was undergoing chemo when they got married. She'd lost her hair, but wore a beaded headdress and a blue satin dress and was one of the most beautiful brides I've ever seen. They also had a super penguin cake, and the wedding was carried out by Lionel Fanthorpe, with interjections from Professor Jack Cohen, but that's by the way. My family never does do things the way other people do them.
Michelle is, without a doubt, the smartest person in our family*: she's strong and capable, and cancer never stood a chance against her. It may have helped that, having worked for L- Bank (there I go, Dickensing again) for many years, she had a fairly spectacular health policy built up and didn't have to rely on the kindness of the NHS, but that's just the jelly in the doughnut; she would have beaten it no matter what.
But cancer is a coward and a sneak, and it came back last year. Michelle fought it again, and she won - again and, I hope, this time for the last time. She had to have a mastectomy and, as I type this, is presently at home, recovering from reconstructive surgery. This, in itself, is braver than I shall ever be: having had very minor surgery myself, the thought of having elective major surgery is mind-boggling to me. But she did it. And she dealt with it. It's what she does.
She's the best thing that ever happened to my brother, and I am proud and honoured to have her as part of my family.
(My poor brother, btw: a crabby wife and a crabby sister, both at the same time!)
Contrast and compare: my younger brother, Jeremy, and his wife Karen. I don't talk about them much - this may well be the last time, in fact. Jeremy Is Not Speaking to me. No, he is not five years old, he's fifty. I have no idea why, and I may as well admit that I honestly don't care. Karen, meantime, carries a thirty-year grudge against Judy. At my mother's funeral last year, when Judy and I came into the church, Jeremy and his family were already there. They turned their backs and ignored us, stood apart and ignored all the rest of the family afterwards, and, when we went on to the crematorium, they sat in a different pew from the rest of us. Jeremy knows I have cancer. I haven't heard a word from him. Not. One. Word.
You choose your family. I choose to discount this particular element! He is a wet and a weed, and I uterly diskard him.
(I should say something about my sister, Penny, for the sake of balance. Hi there, Pen! No - she's great, too. She lives in Penzance, so hasn't been able to be around much, but she's phoned a number of times, and is coming up here for a visit next week.)
Back to the diary. I've been out of hospital for almost a week now, and am doing pretty well - I think: (almost) no vomiting, and what there was was really just gagging on the giant hospital paracetamol, and the Hospital Cough vanished almost overnight. My stomach is very sore, in several different ways - unfair: one would be enough - and I've been quite tired, but I think I'm gaining strength. I managed to be up and dressed for friend/colleague Rebecca's visit yesterday, and today I managed to walk to the Co-op and back.
Every day, in every way (etc).
* That's actually not saying a lot. She is very smart, and extremely competent.
