I’m on my daily walk with Lizzie and Cedric.
We’re talking about her upcoming final session of chemo on Friday, which is two days’ time.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind me going out on Saturday?’ I ask. I’ve arranged to meet A. and J. – who I studied English with at university a lifetime ago – in Birmingham on Saturday for lunch. It’s high risk. We’ve never met up in Birmingham before (A. and J. live in Cheshire and Cambridge respectively). I never imagined I’d ever meet anyone for lunch in Birmingham, to be honest. It hardly seems like the gourmet capital of the world. Who knows how it’ll turn out?
‘You must go,’ says Lizzie, sympathetically. ‘You need to have friends to talk to as well, about everything which has been happening. I mean, you’ve not really spoken to anyone about any of this, have you?’
I shake my head. No I haven’t. My complete failure to make any new friends in the bit of the countryside we now live in – and the fact all my friends now live miles away – means I really haven’t had anyone to confide in, the last few months.
‘In a weird way, that’s what my journal’s been for,’ I say. ‘Like… something to confide in. It’s actually been quite therapeutic.’
Lizzie nods – like she sort of understands – and we continue tramping through the dirt.
I suddenly remember an interview with Christine McVie, of Fleetwood Mac fame, from a few years ago when she describes her own feelings about mud. Apparently, after she left the band, McVie bought a huge estate in Kent – and spent most of her time trekking through the sludgy fields there. One day, after fifteen years, she suddenly realised she didn’t really like trudging through mud after all – and missed all her friends – so she promptly moved back to London and rejoined Fleetwood Mac.
Should Lizzie and I rejoin our metaphorical Fleetwood Macs… and move back to London too? Maybe… maybe… it’s a question we’ve asked ourselves a lot, the last couple of years.
Suddenly, Lizzie’s phone rings… and she chats to the lady on the other end for a couple of minutes. It sounds like a medical conversation.
‘What was that about?’ I ask Lizzie, after she’s hung up.
‘My CAT scan,’ says Lizzie. ‘They’ve confirmed it for a few weeks’ time.’
We continue trudging on, Christine McVie-style, and I consider what Lizzie has just said.
‘But I thought you didn’t want to have your CAT scan straight after your chemo,’ I say, ‘’cause you can only have them every six months. I thought you wanted to hang on for a bit, so you don’t waste it.’
‘I did,’ says Lizzie, matter-of-factly, ‘until my hair started to grow back.’
‘Huh?’ I reply.
‘When my third chemo was delayed by Covid, a couple of months ago,’ Lizzie explains patiently, ‘my hair started to grow back really fast. I had, like, a centimetre of hair. Even more than I do now. Remember?’
‘Of course!’ I say. It’s not a lie. I do remember when Lizzie grew back a centimetre of hair, because her chemo was delayed, a couple of months ago. I’m afraid I don’t remember this fact for caring, medically-concerned reasons. I remember Lizzie’s centimetre-long hair because I thought it made her look like Ripley in Alien 3. I.e. kind of cool and sexy.
‘Anyway,’ Lizzie continues, ignoring my inappropriately dreamy face, ‘when they give me chemo, the poison they pump me full of attacks the fast-growing cells in my body. The cancer, obviously. But also the cells which make nails and hair grow.’
‘Which is why your hair fell out,’ I say.
‘Exactly,’ says Lizzie. ‘So… when I had chemo last time, a couple of weeks ago, the nurse didn’t really seem to know what she was doing.’
‘I remember,’ I reply. ‘You said she struggled to connect the chemo tube to your port.’
Lizzie nods. ‘I don’t think she did it properly. And have you noticed what’s happened since?’ She looks at me expectantly.
‘Er…’ I say, feeling under pressure. ‘Your hair has started growing back again?
Lizzie nods rigorously, like a professor who’s coaxed an answer out of a particularly hopeless student.
‘Exactly! My hair is growing back at again!’
Indeed it is. Lizzie’s hair isn’t as long as the last time it re-emerged. But there’s no denying it – it’s there.
‘So what do you think that might mean?’ Lizzie often puts things as questions, like a teacher, to check I’m actually paying attention.
‘Er,’ I reply. ‘You think it means that the nurse cocked it up? And you didn’t get your full dose of chemo?’
Lizzie nods again. ‘And that’s why I’ve asked for my CAT scan to be moved forward. If my hair’s coming back… I want to check that my cancer isn’t.’
‘That makes sense,’ I say. I try to smile reassuringly at Lizzie… but as I look at her growing hair, I feel the knot of worry growing again in my stomach.
P. D. Clifton 
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