I hate my oncologist visits. Not because she’s not my favourite in terms of warmth and empathy. Well that too. But because immediately it all becomes real again. As much as I feel an observer, there are those moments I feel so nauseous I have to excuse myself as I sit in the waiting room, surrounded by bald heads, decaying spirits and hopeful faces. The smell, the smiling nurses, the ‘to us cancer is personal’ slogan. Still too fresh. Still nauseating. A stark reminder of what was and will be. But what I hate even more is receiving a message the next day to please call the doc rooms to discuss my blood work. I love the ‘all looks good’ calls.. For fucks sake. I know better and I don’t live in constant threat of doom, but in that moment my world crashes. And it takes all that is me to bring myself back to for goodness sake girl, pull yourself together. Anyway, cancer markers good, thank fuck, calcium levels out of normal range, need to be rechecked in four weeks to make sure not indicative of something out of the ordinary. For fucks sake like what. What is ordinary. What is normal. I’m just, today, me one, cancer O. Fuck yeah.

And I got a glimmer of something I liked in my oncologist. Maybe it was the smile reaching her eyes as she told me she found me inspiring and will be using me to encourage so many of her patients who don’t go the whole way. She means no nipple tattoos. Cos they’re obviously not nipples, just like my boobs aren’t boobs. So women just don’t bother. Especially older women.  Well I did and its made a heap of difference to me. I like me a little more. In that moment I’m not reminded of the horror immediately. And the moments are all that matter.  I like her for seeing me this time.