I looked at Tatty.
‘If it helps,’ Felicity said.
Tats read my mind and said ‘Let’s give it a couple of weeks, see how we go.’
On the way out she found me a leaflet for the Haematology specialist support counsellor. ‘Her name’s Alex, she’s lovely, brilliant, actually. I’m surprised we never told you about her.’
‘You probably did but I probably didn’t take it in.’
‘Well that’s it. You’re so concerned with what’s in front of you that you’re just dealing with that.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And when you think about it, you’ve been through an enormous amount of stress. And now maybe you’re just realising just how much.’
‘Exactly.’
‘It’s not uncommon you know. We worked with a psychiatrist on a project some years ago who found that over 30% of our patients feel depressed after their treatment is over.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Like you, especially after radiotherapy.’
She handed me the yellow leaflet.
I wanted to say what an outstanding and perceptive doctor she’d been. I wanted to hug her.
Instead, clumsily, I mumbled ‘Thanks again for everything.’
It was tipping when we got outside.
Nic has just been on the phone. I said to her, ‘Just as you don’t fall apart when you’re diagnosed, you don’t exactly begin popping champagne corks all over the place when the news is reversed.’
Lisa rang as well. She sounded terrible. She hadn’t read the email, so I had to tell her. ‘Oh Anthony, that’s fantastic news,’ the warmth in her voice tangible. I felt only guilt.
Part of the flatness – nothing to do with rain, nothing to do with tiredness – is knowing that I live while others choose not to. Ellie, who has been typing the first thirty pages of this manuscript out for me, committed suicide yesterday afternoon.
She had a visit from the crisis team earlier that day and urged them to admit her so that she could begin Lithium treatment ASAP. They declined.
Between the time they left – lunch? – and Philippa returning from work at 5 she must have decided enough was enough.
She was emailing me only last week asking my advice on the pamphlet of poems she’s been putting together. I said I’d be delighted to help her – and then didn’t, of course. ‘Too tired, too busy,’ I heard myself say to Tatty. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘I think she meant it this time. It’s nothing to do with what you thought of her poems. She knew you loved them.’
Friday 27 October
I did something previously unimaginable yesterday: I rode my bike. Not my old bike, which got stolen from the garage a couple of weeks ago, but my super-dooper new Marin hybrid with mud guards and a kryptonite lock. I took it for a spin around Fore Street, near the Bike Shed shop, threw the gears on a hill start and felt deeply foolish. There are some things you can forget. Second time round it rode like the wind and I said ‘I’ll take it.’ Got a new helmet too, and I know it won’t be long before I go back for an Altura Nevis jacket in fetching luminous yellow. As Ruth Picardie says, sometimes retail is the only therapy that will do.
Have just been up to the deli for olives and salami for a sandwich. Who should I bump into but Felicity? We had one of those it’s-a-small-world moments as we discussed the fact that her daughter rows with Abigail (Ellie’s sister) for the UCL medical school. We discussed Ellie at length. Felicity said she’s known several people who’ve killed themselves, one of them a brilliant oncologist. I described how the crisis team had come round and seen her that day, but obviously decided against admitting her. ‘Why can’t they do more for these young people?’ she said, looking teary.
Then we stood outside in the cold chatting about the ward, and I admitted to her that I’ve been keeping a journal about the whole thing. She looked teary again. ‘You have nothing to worry about, Felicity,’ I said, ‘You came out of it brilliantly.’ Then I asked what Karl’s surname was. ‘I’ve written him a poem, you see, er, about blood.’
‘He’d love to see it, I’m sure.’
Saying goodbye I thanked her and said again she had nothing to fear. For a split second I toyed with the idea of stooping a little to give her a kiss on the cheek. As a friend. And because I will never stop being grateful to her, not just for her skill but also her great humanity. But no. I crossed the road and she disappeared into the flower shop.
The sun has just popped out, after a heavy shower; the washing line a string of pearls.
It’s time to live.
Copyright
First published in 2012
by Impress Books, Innovation Centre, Rennes Drive, Exeter, EX4 4RN
This ebook edition first published in 2012
All rights reserved
© Anthony Wilson, 2012
The right of Anthony Wilson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–1–907–60536–9
Love for Now Page 25