A relative phones to comiserate on my terminal liver cancer diagnosis. "How are you feeling?" she asks, in that special voice, beloved of hospice staff, specially reserved for the very sick. How do you tell people that although you're genuinely grateful for their call, you find it incredibly difficult to talk about? I like to put things in emails, but not everyone is comfortable with this approach....
Fortunately the subject soon shifts to her husband's mental health problems (which are infinitely more interesting than a terminal cancer diagnosis). These seem to consist of spending most days in bed sobbing, punctuated by odd antisocial acts such as cutting off the electricity / phone, sabotaging her hair straighteners, and setting fire to cartons of milk. "There but for the grace of God" I think, as I contemplate my huge stockpile of painkillers, neatly arranged in the kitchen drawer like a Damien Hirst composition. These have been gathered over the years, from childbirth, through my husband's hernia operation, through various cancer interventions, to prescriptions obtained from the GP "just in case". The palliative care nurse has even promised morphine if things get really bad. The thought of adding it to the collection brings a frisson of anticipation - I expect it's a bit like the hunt for the Beanie crocodile on Psychoville.
"Why don't you throw that lot out", asks my daughter. "Well, I like to be prepared, but I don't usually take them because I like to feel my pain while it's possible" I reply. I just like to look at them, and if Damien Hirst can do it.....She looks at me as if I'm some kind of S&M disciple and sidles off to watch Hollyoaks. The worst pain I ever felt was when I had to have a tooth filling done without anaesthetic (it was in a developing country). Can cancer pain be any worse than that? Hopefully I'll never find out.
