Thursday came and went.
Weird Doctor — as we had come to call him — had mentioned, almost in passing, that there was a chance I might be able to go home on Thursday. I knew it was unlikely. I had a senior oncology appointment with Dr Ranatunge on Friday, and realistically that was always going to be the gateway. But something about the way he said it got my hopes up in a way I hadn't quite anticipated. Not just hopes of Thursday — but a sudden absolute certainty that Friday was happening. That I was going home.
I went to bed Thursday night with that certainty, and I woke up Friday morning ready.
I'd had my breakfast. I'd had a shower — a proper standing shower, as close to normal as I could manage. I'd started packing my bag. I was as ready as it was possible to be. The physio team had come the day before with a walker — a wheeled frame that would help me get around at home and, more importantly, around a football pitch. Because I'd been told that Albert was playing in a tournament on Saturday, and Simon from the other Dale Park team had asked if Albert and a couple of his teammates could play for their second side. I had said yes immediately, and quietly added: if I can be there, I will be.
That tournament became my target. Getting home by Friday night was the only way it was happening.
Doctors usually did their rounds between ten and eleven. Ten o'clock came. Nothing. Half past ten. Nothing. I got out of bed, got my walker, and started patrolling the ward. Had anyone seen Dr Ranatunge? Was she coming? Every nurse I asked gave me the same answer — yes, she's coming, just be patient. So I'd go back to bed, wait half an hour, and then get up and patrol again.
At eleven I decided to jinx it. I walked up to the café on the floor above — by myself, with the walker, which felt like a minor triumph — got a piece of cake and an iced coffee, brought them back down, and settled in. Right, I thought. I'll just have a little lie down. Watch something on the TV. I've been following Stanley Tucci: Searching for Italy in preparation for my recovery trip, so I put that on, lay back, and told myself very firmly not to fall asleep.
I fell asleep.
About an hour later I was woken by Dr Ranatunge standing at the end of my bed.
My excuses started immediately. I'm so sorry, it was the steroids last night, I didn't sleep well, I feel absolutely fine, I promise I'm ready to go home—
She smiled. She was fine about it.
She asked how my movement was. I said let me show you. I got up, walked to the toilet, walked back. She nodded. And then — she didn't immediately mention discharge. She talked about immunotherapy first. Which, looking back, was exactly the right order of priorities.
The steroids were being reduced. Things were going well. She thought we might be able to start treatment at the end of next week, or the week after at the latest. And then I did something that felt slightly absurd in the context of a conversation about cancer treatment, but which felt entirely necessary to me.
I told her about the West Ham tickets.
Final game of the season. West Ham versus Leeds. Me and Albert going, Lucy and Flo coming down to London too. If the immunotherapy fell on that Friday, would I be okay to go? How tired would I be?
She didn't laugh at me. She considered it seriously, said it probably wouldn't be a problem, that getting the steroids out of my system sooner rather than later was actually better. I left it there — said of course, treatment comes first, whatever you think is best — and made a mental note to phone my contact at West Ham the moment I got home.
Then I asked the question I'd been building toward all morning.
Does that mean I can go home today?
Yes, she said.
The paperwork would take a few hours — medication to sort, discharge letter to write, cannula to remove. She thought around five o'clock. I messaged Lucy immediately.
The afternoon passed slowly and then all at once. At half past four someone arrived with my medications, took out my cannula — which had long since stopped being used for anything — and handed me my discharge letter. I told Lucy to get in the car.
Before I left I said goodbye to Alan. Shook his hand. Wished him all the best. Lucy had brought chocolates and gifts for the nurses, and I made sure Alan got some — he'd been eyeing them up with considerable interest. He'd had a good day, as it happened. He'd got out of bed. He'd eaten his lunch sitting in a chair. I told him to keep going — that if he stayed mobile, if he kept getting up, there was every chance they'd let that catheter come out sooner than the two to three months he'd been told. He seemed grateful. I meant every word of it.
I hope he's doing well. I really do.
Lucy pulled up just before five. We loaded the car, drove out of the hospital car park, and headed home.
Twenty five minutes. It felt like it had been a year.
In some ways it had only been a week. But what a week. I'd arrived paralysed on my left side, unable to get myself to the toilet, managing my football team from a hospital bed and drawing lines in the sand about what I would and wouldn't allow to happen to my own body. And now I was going home.
The village looked exactly as it always does. Which was exactly what I needed.
I'd expected the dog to go absolutely berserk when I walked through the door. She didn't. She was calm. Almost eerily so — as if she'd read the room, understood that what was needed wasn't chaos but steadiness. She came to me quietly and that was that. Flo and Albert were delighted, which was everything.
Lucy's dad had popped over too, fresh from visiting Maureen — who was settling well and having good days. It was a full house in the best possible way.
And I was bored. Already. Gloriously, wonderfully bored.
I'd been watching Stanley Tucci explore Italy from a hospital bed and had become slightly obsessed with truffle. Before I'd gone into hospital I'd bought some truffle oil, and that evening — my first evening home — I made truffle spaghetti. Bucatini, actually. Mushrooms, truffle oil, butter, pecorino. Simple, rich, deeply satisfying. I cooked it myself, standing at my own stove in my own kitchen, and it was one of the best things I'd eaten in weeks.
We sat down, watched something — I genuinely can't remember what — and didn't stay up too long because I was exhausted and because Saturday was coming.
My own bed was less comfortable than the hospital bed, which I could move electronically into any position. It took me a while to get settled. But I slept. And in the morning, Lucy came across from her side and gave me a bit of space to get comfortable. And then we got up, packed the walker into the car, put the dog in the back — Lucy was going to visit Maureen after the tournament — and drove to the football.
Albert had been put in a team with four of his school friends, including George from our team and Seth from the other Dale Park side. Two groups of five teams. Finish first or second and you go into the cup final. Finish third and you go into the plate.
The other Dale Park team — the stronger side with ex-academy players — were always going to push for the cup. We set our sights on the plate.
A win, a draw, two losses. Third in the group. Exactly as planned.
Semi-final. One nil down. Came back and won three one.
Final. One nil. Winners.
Albert played in defence all day. Made tackles, covered ground, passed it around, kept his shape. I watched him — not as his manager for once, just as his dad — and I thought about how much he'd grown this year. How much better he's got. How much I love watching him play.
They ran around afterward squirting water at each other, lifted the trophy, sang something that sounded like "to the cup final, do do do do do do" which made no sense but absolute sense at the same time. Both Dale Park teams celebrating together. All of them soaking wet and completely delighted.
I stood on the touchline with my walker and I watched the whole thing and I thought — this is what it's for. All of it. This exact moment.
What a great end to a shitty week.
