I worked for a period as the Front Office Manager at a hotel frequented by celebrities. One evening I had the late-night honour of awaiting the return of Fleetwood Mac to the property following their show. On the way up to the penthouse, Stevie complained to the elevator about her failing eyesight, her repeated requests for some kind of luminous tape to be added to the edge of the stage had been ignored or forgotten by roadies, and she was sure she’d miss it and fall off if it wasn’t fixed soon. I wanted to block my ears. My illusion of Stevie Nicks the sparkly cocaine witch was ruined in that moment. She looked tired, verging on old. Human.

The man in the ED cubicle across from me tells his nurse about his love of Fleetwood Mac. A few beds down an older gentleman incessantly bleats “No, no, no…” in the same tone and cadence as B would when resisting a nap. The young guy on my other side calls his mum a stupid cunt and polices who enters his curtained domain. “I only wanna see doctors”, he says, “The rest of youse fuck off.” He asks everyone who enters whether they’re a doctor, if not, they get the boot. He wants a cigarette. He wants fresh air. I feel exactly the same way he does.

I’d crept out of bed in the middle of the night with a fever. I tiptoed around for essentials, shivering and sweating. Once my new “cancer bag” was packed, I ordered an Uber, smug in the knowledge my babies and Tim could stay sleeping. Z would be able to handle school, Tim would be able to handle B. B would be able to handle life. I’d won a small victory.

On her fourth attempt to cannulate me, the young doctor starts to visibly panic. She calls in another doctor whose fifth and final attempt is more a “fuck it I’m just going to shove it in” than a show of accuracy or finesse. I want to spit “could you please get a nurse or someone who actually knows how to do this?” Against my nature I start crying. Every wiggle and dig had been painful, but now I’m just fed up, fuming. Poor me, poor me, poor me. My sobbing surprises me but the doctors look guilty like they knew how much they were hurting their guinea pig. It’s not the pain, I want to say, I gave birth twice, it’s not that. It’s you and your fucking incompetence. 

I’ve moved from camp I-might-die to I-probably -won’t. I’ve figured out that the somewhat hurtful complacency shown by many medical professionals in relation to breast cancer is simply down to them knowing you’re very likely to survive. They’re just going through the motions to get you out the other end. Once my full body scan came back showing cancer only in places already known, I settled into that same point of view. “Not Stage 4” is a cause for celebration.

A few weeks earlier I sat beside my Nanna’s hospital bed and trawled through a suite of short stories I was judging for a contest. I’d sent Mum home, she was stretched to her limit. Her 98-year-old mother had broken her hip and her daughter (me) was about to launch into chemotherapy for breast cancer. I read the entries until Nanna’s dinner arrived, then raised her bed gently and attempted to help her eat it. Each tiny spoonful I got into her mouth was a struggle. The sun set and she fell asleep having consumed hardly a morsel.

I reported back to Mum at her place, swigging a glass of wine and swinging B onto my hip. I made a plan to decorate the hospital room where Nanna would move in a few days – she needed photographs and flowers to regain her clarity and joy. I felt full of energy, steering the conversation, bossing Mum with instructions to rest. I felt well.

A few days later I was curled in a ball under the enormous, suffocating blanket of chemo hangover trying to block the sound of my freshly weaned toddler crying in a far away room. She was sick. Very sick. Her little nose and throat full of mucus, gagging and almost vomiting every time she coughed. We battled with her to get Nurofen in before bed each night and even then it barely touched the sides. The primal instinct to scoop her up and pop her on my breast was overwhelming. My body full of poison. Her body full of germs I was meant to avoid. Tim and I blurred together in frustration and sickness and self-pity. The worst 72 hours we’ve ever endured together. Me retching, sleeping, crying, him juggling, growing stuffy with his own cold, awake all night. Z would creep up beside me, trying to peer inside me for her real mum. “You okay Mama?”

You know the punchline, I caught the cold, that’s what led to the fever, the neutropenia, and a three-night hospital stay. They wheeled me past Fleetwood Mac man, my fellow 14-hour veteran of the ED ward. I waved, he waved, his head slick and shiny with chemo alopecia. I saw fresh-air-cigarette in the hallway on crutches and he smiled at me like he’d never called his mum a cunt in his life.

On the long journey across to the Medi Hotel I coached myself through things about which I could feel happy. The new Ed Gein show is almost on Netflix. Weaning B meant my nipples have returned to a normal size for the first time in two years. Z practised her trumpet without being told. I have a fridge full of food made by other people which means not having to clean the kitchen as much. My pottery is ready to be picked up. Tim’s parents are on their way in a week to spend time with the girls while we are occupied with cancering. I am lucky. 

The silence in my room was cavernous, beautiful. Tim and the girls visited and put a sprig of Geraldton Wax in my water cup. I thought of our friends in PCH with their five-year-old son who’s recently suffered a massive stroke and is up against significant brain damage and a world of challenges. My kids are well, I tell myself. They pick flowers. I am lucky, I am lucky, I am lucky. 

I place my noise cancelling headphones over my ears and listen to Gypsy then, Rhiannon. 

Maybe I’m so lucky that one day I’ll grow old and need luminous tape to see the edge of the stage.  

Taya. x

If you feel touched in any way and have a few dollar bucks to spare, please send them to beautiful little Beau whose battle is so much bigger than mine:

https://gofund.me/587a003de