My bed in the hospital became my sanctuary.

Nurses came and went. I zoned out in a blur of  drips delivering nutrients, antibiotics, antacids and painkillers.  Having struggled with fatigue for so many weeks, my body just imploded.

As a news junkie… I watch every aspect of war, politics, volcanoes, floods and earthquakes. I had lost all interest in the outside world. I just lay in my bed as a fatigued vegetable.

“This report is NOT good”, noted Jane, my wildly intelligent… best friend. She appeared at visitors time on Saturday… with a “WTF” expression. Old friends are marvellous. No explaining required. Just … how are you and what is this new journey you are on? Jane threw in a dose of protectiveness. Every nurse was cross questioned on what they were doing and which drips were being administered … and why?

After Jane left, I was collected for a CT scan on Saturday afternoon at 16h00. It was surreal to be collected in a wheelchair. But beyond cheerful chipper conversation with the attendant moving me around in a wheelchair, my brain had become a ‘nothing box’.

I smiled as I remembered conversations with my engineer husband… who said that my brain was like a spagetti of sparky, action neurons, whereas he lived in a world where his brain was located in a ‘nothing box’ for most of the time.  Suddenly, I understood what a ‘nothing box’ felt like…

On Sunday morning, I was wheeled to an MRI scan.

“You will be in the MIR machine for 20-25 minutes”, explained the team. It seemed closer to 40 minutes. I was brought out to sit on a couch. Then, I was then sent back in again for 5 minutes.

“Wow!”, I thought. “There must be an awful lot to see”.

Crunch time took place at 12h30 on Sunday. A intense, passionate, concerned and focussed surgeon appeared at my bedside.

Aa a jounalist… I just let him talk and listened. He was philosophical. He talked about his mum – who had died of brain cancer. He advised that I should do life my way. I should compile a bucket list. If I wanted to go skydiving. Now was the time.

Skydiving?! Phew! No thanks. I get apaling travel sickness and vertigo. The only times I’ve been on luxury yachts and helicopters, I disgraced myself badly by bringing up all over the passengers. Not going down that road again…. I thought.

No. I would go home to my cottage, husband and dog… and plant seeds and bulbs.

He explained that I shouldn’t be pushed into painful operations unless I wished to be there. The subject matter was too high level for my foggy brain. The high level cancer debates flew past my mind. I knew he was explaining important stuff debated by cancer scholars. But I was out of my depth.  I just hadn’t done the preliminary research needed for engaging an interview with a top surgeon. I also wasn’t too sure what all the vocabulary – lingo meant. I am a good listener. I just listened.

He with me for an hour.  But the bottom line was clear.

You have Terminal Pancreatic Cancer – Stage 4. It has metastisized into your liver. You have three months to live.