Being diagnosed with a life-threatening disease isn't all bad, writes Melosina Lenox-Conyngham
When the radiologist said "God love you" I knew I had cancer, and when the doctor said "Grim news" I knew I was going to die. I told my brother where I had hidden the silver teapot and that there was an open tin of dog food in the fridge. He, though sympathetic about my imminent demise, considered it unlikely that I would be whisked up to heaven immediately and that, with present-day medicine, I still had a good chance of reaching my 90s. This was a relief, as I was unsure I wanted to renew my acquaintance with the loved ones who had gone before. Would I be greeted at the Pearly Gates by Aunt Bertha, never my favourite but so kind? The thought of her floating about on a cloud with a harp has caused me an unresolved crisis of belief.
I was afraid of the future - or, rather, no future - but I realised that any leave-taking would be for me very much easier than for others, as I have neither a husband nor what the taxman calls dependants.
I made a mental list of what I would be relieved to leave behind, starting with grand notions such as most contemporary Irish architecture, too many people in the world and the consequences of global warming, but deeper deliberation made me pleased at the thought of being parted from the kitchen drain, never having to buy shoes again and - the most positive advantage - not growing old to suffer loneliness and physical deterioration. What was I going to miss? All the things I had meant to do and never got round to achieving, my SSIA coming to fruition and, of course, life itself.
But friends, neighbours, relations and sleeping pills meant I had remarkably few moments to brood on my sad lot. During the following weeks I felt like a debutante. The telephone never stopped ringing, invitations poured in, visitors came to see me. Most of them urged me to be positive. I was not sure how to carry out this instruction. I tried using it as a mantra, murmuring "be positive, be positive, be positive" while I sat in the doctor's waitingroom. I sounded like Thomas the Tank Engine, and, even though there were fewer chairs than people waiting, all the seats cleared round me. So I stopped muttering and went back to reading Hello! magazine, the favourite periodical in waitingrooms. (It should be possible to gauge people's health by their knowledge of Posh and Becks.)
I did not suffer much pain or discomfort from a mastectomy, though I found it difficult to spell, but, like a fairytale princess, I was told never to prick my finger and to garden with gloves, as the healing abilities of my right arm have been impaired.
My well-wishers proffered alternative cures. I gave up dairy products, which course of action apparently had miraculously healed some sufferers, and it did make me feel that I was doing something active to help with the treatment. A friend made me drink elderberry juice, which, like the witches in Macbeth, she had stirred and incanted over as it bubbled on the stove. It was so nasty that one felt it must be doing good.
I had chemotherapy in a nearby hospital. The treatment was not as bad as I had imagined - or perhaps the elderberry juice counteracted it. Every three weeks I would go into the hospital and lie on a bed, reading a book on dinosaurs. I don't know how I came to choose dinosaurs, which, being extinct, are not a very positive subject.
The chemo made me sick immediately afterwards, but otherwise it did not devastate me as it does many people. Although I live by myself, kind friends and neighbours dropped by or stayed if I was feeling fragile. I think they envisaged smoothing snowy pillows, concocting tisanes and arranging the flowers; they were not so excited when I required their help with digging out the recalcitrant drain.
Often I forgot how ill I could have been, and when people took my hand in both of theirs, looked deep into my eyes and asked me how I truly was, only to hear that I felt fine, they emitted the slightest frisson of disappointment.
My goddaughter cut off my hair when it started to fall out, then took me to Dublin to choose a wig. She steered me firmly from a long blond one I had pounced on, hoping it would restore me to youth and beauty; nor would she let me even try on a fringed raven-black hairpiece that, combined with a long cigarette holder, would, I was sure, turn me into a fascinating femme fatale.
The wig that was chosen looked like a mop, but I was assured it was the same as my late, lamented hair. Later I found another wig in the dressing-up box that, though on the large side, with waves and curls like the Judge's in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, I fancied for social occasions. I gave enormous pleasure to the congregation at a wedding when I wore it with a Russian fur hat perched on top. The edifice slipped from my head and under the pew as I kneeled to pray. "I told you the wig we bought was a better fit," said the goddaughter, censoriously.
Having come through chemotherapy, radiotherapy was a doddle, with plenty of time to study the Beckhams' lifestyle, for one spent a long time just waiting. Otherwise I was able to enjoy Dublin - slipping past the gatekeeper at night after the theatre was like being a student again.
Two years on I feel remarkably well, and my hair is so thick that my hairdresser is earning a fortune. Am I still frightened? Yes. I go through periods of confidence, then something very slight will cast a shadow in the corner of my mind. But I am still here, and so is the kitchen drain.