The Girl Who Cried Wolf(5)
‘Will I die?’
He must dread this question, but he was well prepared.
‘Anna, this has come as a terrible shock to you but you must take heed that we are treating your illness with an aim to cure. There have been many exciting developments in this field over recent years. We will do everything we can to treat you, and I can assure you the oncology and neurosurgery team at Milton Keynes Hospital are second to none.’
Himself included, I supposed, as he said the last part with pride.
‘So I won’t die?’
I wouldn’t let him wriggle off the hook quite so easily.
At this point, the door opened and I heard a faintly familiar voice. ‘May I come in?’
I turn to see Dr Braby hesitating and it’s all I can do to stop myself launching at her. All my hate focuses in her direction, and with one look at me she actually takes a step back.
‘This is your fault,’ I hiss. ‘I was fine until I came to see you, now I have a brain tumour! Tell her!’
I look at Mr Raj, looking less confident and probably more familiar with patients who need sympathy and comfort after this sort of news. Not me. I’ve always been an angry person and quick to find someone to blame. Well, here was the person. Miss Perfect was done up to the nines for work, and for what? Just to interfere and ruin lives with her examinations and fascination with ‘all things brain’. I started shouting at her, words I cannot remember. I may have called her a slut, at which point Mr Raj slammed his hand on his desk, making us all jump, and Braby left, closing the door swiftly behind her.
‘Did that make you feel better?’
Actually it did, but his face had gone very red so I said nothing. Angry men unnerve me.
‘I invited Dr. Braby to our meeting. She is very learned in this field and I thought you may want to thank her for alerting us to your illness. Lord only knows how long it would have taken you to realize you were ill. By which time your condition could have been so much harder to treat.’
I cannot help but feel desperately sorry for myself. Now I’m being told off? The nurse, who had removed her arm from me when I started shouting, professionally changes the subject and suggests we discuss treatment and focus on that for now. Mr Raj smiles gratefully and she blushes. He tells me he would look further at my scan results before deciding on the next course of action.
‘The tumour is not in the most desirable place so it is likely we shall start a course of radio and possibly chemotherapy before attempting surgery. This could reduce the mass and make matters more promising for us.’
‘Not the most desirable place?’ I am left wondering in what world there is a desirable location for a brain tumour. I sigh and, with that, the dark cloud settles itself contentedly above me.
***
It has been a little over a month, but I have not entirely accepted the fact that my old life has finished; that I now belong to this nightmare – a new world of pain, fear and desolation. I have experienced levels of pain I did not know existed, and I’ve had treatments you would not wish upon your most hated enemy.
November’s early dusk creeps into the room in which I now reside, and to my left I hear my mother snoring gently, her posture awkward in the visitor’s chair. I feel a sudden rush of love I’ve not felt in long while. For the first time since my illness struck, I was not thinking about myself. I was sad for her. She had never been very tactile with me or my younger sister, Isabel. There had never been any of the all-enveloping bear hugs that came naturally to most parents. Mother would pat us gently on the shoulder if we brought home a good school report, or give us an occasional brusque kiss on the cheek if she was feeling really affectionate.
We had always been cared for, I suppose. A little spoilt, really, with bedrooms crammed full of dolls and toys, dresses that matched shoes and ribbons that matched dresses. I didn’t want to feel angry at her any more. She barely left my bedside now.
I pulled the blanket away from my legs and, manoeuvring around my drip-stand, tucked it gently around her. I wanted to close the window at the far end of the room but I was too tired. A cold autumn breeze blew the thin curtains back and forth in a ghostly dance.
I opened my eyes sometime later and Mother was fussing around the bed, tidying up. The blue blanket was back over my legs and the window was firmly closed.
She did not exactly stroke my head, but she sort of patted it the way a person might pet their friend’s snarling Chihuahua when they’re secretly terrified but do not want to seem rude.
‘The doctor is on his way, Anna. We should be ready for him.’
Mr Raj walked in right on cue. Despite having my own room, there is no privacy here. Your body becomes hospital property. I’ve woken up several times during the night to find a nurse is injecting something into my stomach. No explanation, no ‘Perhaps we should wake her first and see if she minds being stabbed with whatever this is.’
In here I was no longer Anna Winters; I was female patient in room C. Brain tumour.
Mr Raj pulled the visitor’s chair towards me with a piercing scrape and sat down. Mum hovered behind him, then to his left, and eventually plonked herself down at the bottom of the bed. I could hear her breathing.
‘How are you feeling, Anna?’
The old me would have had a thousand sarcastic quips to offer him, but now my mouth felt too dry, my mind too cloudy. ‘OK,’ I mumbled.
‘I have the results from your last scan and I’m afraid it’s not good news. The chemo does not seem to be working. This will be your last session, and in a week we may let you go home while we plan the next stage in your treatment.’