When I had cancer

We wake from an impatient sleep. Oliver is the last to rise so I dot butterfly kisses on his rose cheeks. “Moe, Mum”, he whispers. He huddles under woollen blankets to shun the white of the bedroom light but his body betrays him and stretches like a mewling kitten.

Changed out of Spiderman pyjamas, he slides off the bed and follows my pointed finger to the kitchen where Nana greets him with a kiss and a bowl oozing with warm oats.

I shower quickly, taking care to shave under my armpits. It’s the least I can do. Mum and Dad pack their bags; work clothes, boots. I pack mine; toothbrush, pyjamas, books, slippers, and vitamins.

Outside slick rain pours from oily skies. We hurry to the 4WD where Oliver is already buckled in; a sloppy grin pasted on his face, he claps his hands as I climb aboard.

Christchurch Public Hospital. Ground floor. After 7am it’s a blur of people waiting, visiting, working, but it’s still early and we are alone except for a man peddling the morning news. Oliver tears about looking for friends and adventures, his squeals shred the silence.

The powdered lady at preadmission waves crimson fingernails at me and invites me into her office. I don’t ask her name though she asks me many questions, the same questions that will be asked of me for the next six months. Do you have any allergies? Have you had any other operations? Do you know your surgeon? No, I don’t. Yes, I have. Phillipa Mercy.

Boxes ticked and dotted lines signed, the powdered lady sends us to the day surgery reception, where we will wait as cartoons bleat inanely from a donated TV. Mum and Dad are teaming up for this one. They know without the other, they are likely to cry, scream, crash to their knees and hold me so tight I may not be able to breathe.