overdue

Yesterday started off not too bad. Actually, it wasn't yesterday. Midnight has come around again and it's another day. So, let me begin that anew.

Friday started off not too bad. I had a reasonable night's sleep and a bit of a sleep-in. I had to go back to the GP but I had done a heap of research and Grave's Disease wasn't looking like an insurmountable problem. A pain in the arse and, probably, a lifetime on medication but doable. Liveable.

Then the doc shot my new-found optimism down in flames.

It seems the CT scan, (which Mr I'm-a-total-prick Ophthalmologist hadn't thought necessary to confirm his diagnosis), had shown a problem unrelated to any thyroid condition. The scan indicated that I have (in their own words) an "intraconal soft tissue mass of the right orbit between the superior rectus muscle and the eye globe".

Suddenly, from being a routine consult to get a referral and a script or two, it went to being a roller-coaster of phone calls and appointments and scary words. For the first time words such as carcinoma, tumour and malignant were used. The possibility of lymphoma was raised as was melanoma.

I didn't even have time to be scared. I was given two hours to organise things and get myself to the city for an MRI.

I went home, made umpteen phone calls to reschedule the rest of my day and then fought my way through the long weekend traffic up to Subiaco. MRIs are not pleasant. Even for someone not normally claustrophobic, being strapped down and motionless in a loud plastic tube is nerve wracking. The technician pranged two veins before he managed to get the dye in (I guess my fear was making them less than accessible) which didn't help my state of mind. All in all, the middle part of my day was pretty bloody ploppy.

All I wanted to do was go home, curl up in a ball and feel sorry for myself. What I actually had to do was put on a party dress and mingle with 70 odd people, most of whom were strangers, to celebrate my son's engagement. I was definitely not in a party mood.

But, needs must.

I went from the hospital to my son's flat. He wasn't yet home from work and S was at the hairdressers. I let myself in and, in an effort to not sink into misery, found his iron and pressed the frock I had stuffed into a bag at home. I discovered that, in my haste, I had brought my husband's suit but not a shirt and that I had forgotten to pack knickers for myself. Ruing the fact that he wouldn't fit into one of his son's shirts, I got back in the car and headed into Cottesloe to get a shirt and some grundies.

By the time I got back my son had got home and his father had arrived in response to the mangled message I had left on his phone. The bruising on my arms was blatant in summer clothes so I had to make an explanation to the boy. I told him about the Grave's Disease. He didn't need to know the rest before his special night.

I waited until Bo and Sar were busy occupying the bathroom to quietly share my fears with my husband. We smoked a cigarette on the balcony and didn't say very much after the bald facts were given. There was really nothing much to say.

I put on my pretty dress and my manager's wife's smile and we headed off to the party. No matter what my misgivings, it was probably the best thing I could have done. T and Gray were there, glowing with impending parenthood. The grin on S's face rivalled the sparkle of her diamond. All my son's mates were there, full of joy for their friend and warm welcoming hugs for me. The father of the bride-to-be made a emotional speech and glowed with pride at the couple. My son spoke of his joy at the prospect of a life spent at his fiancée's side.

I know when it happened. Gordy came up behind me and wrapped his huge tattooed arms around me and rested his chin on my head. He didn't say a word, just enveloped me.

I stood there in his arms, arms scarred by needle marks from the addiction he fought so bloody hard to beat. I saw my son dancing with the woman he will marry in a few short months. I saw him stare into her eyes and kiss her nose. I saw my daughter laughing with the father of her baby. I saw his hand reach down and caress her belly. I saw their father sharing a beer with the boy's mates, part of an intimate circle established years ago. I stood there, wrapped in Gordy's arms, and I knew.

It doesn't matter what the quack says on Wednesday. It doesn't matter because, whatever it is, I'll bloody well beat it. I will swallow drugs, be cut open, lose my hair, whatever it takes.

My kids have a future. And so do their kids. And I am going to be part of it.

Whatever it takes.

Time for moping, brooding and self pity is over. Now's the time to fight. And win.

Thanks Gordy.