It’s the morning of Lizzie’s last (hopefully) chemotherapy.
I offered to drive Lizzie to the hospital in Edgbaston for her last session, a couple of weeks ago.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t sensitive or forward-thinking enough to think must book some time off work to drive Lizzie to her last chemotherapy, back when Lizzie actually first began the treatment. It took Lizzie saying ‘if you don’t drive me to any of my chemos, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life,’ for the thought to lodge in my mind and slowly transform into an actual offer.
Lizzie has warned me the night before she can be particularly crabby on these journeys. I’m also feeling that the credibility of my chivalrous act – i.e. taking Lizzie – has been undermined by her insistence that she do the driving. ‘It’ll make me feel less stressed,’ she says.
So we set off – with Annie too so we can drop her off at school – with me feeling slightly trepidatious.
For some reason, Annie has got in the front of the car and I’ve had to get in the back, feeling like a child even more than usual.
I glance at Lizzie. She looks OK, so far – just concentrating on driving.
Suddenly Annie says ‘a dead rabbit!’
There’s one splatted gorily all over the road. Guuuh, I think. That’s a grim start to the trip!
Lizzie, however, instead of being perturbed by this brush with mortality, suddenly starts to sing joyously ‘IT’S THE CIRCLE OF LIFE!!’
I join in. Then follow up with the chorus from Bright Eyes for good measure.
So far so good.
Lizzie now asks Annie to put Radio 6 on and Running Free by Iron Maiden immediately crashes across the airwaves.
‘This isn’t very relaxing!’ I shout from the back, but Lizzie just smiles – apparently not minding.
We drop Annie off and then continue to Edgbaston in South Birmingham – with me now upgraded to the front seat.
The subject of cancer and chemo is conspicuous by its absence from our conversation, but maybe this is what Lizzie needs.
Instead, we talk about music. Lizzie puts on Blackstar by David Bowie on the car stereo – via the Bluetooth on her iPhone. It’s an album she says she’s been listening to a lot, recently, whilst she’s been painting.
‘This is cheerful!’ I joke, as we listen to the record. ‘You know, he still sounds pretty good considering…’ Er… considering he was about to die from cancer? I don’t think so!
‘… considering he wasn’t very well,’ I conclude lamely.
Somehow, the subject of the Big C remains unalluded to. Lizzie now puts on a live version, by Bowie, of Wild is the Wind. Then she plays Nina Simone’s earlier version of the same song. It’s beautiful – you can’t help but listen to every word.
As we near the hospital, Lizzie suddenly starts speaking about her oncologist.
‘He always comes to visit me, when I’m doing chemo, at eleven in the morning,’ she says. ‘But, by then, I’m so pumped up on steroids and Piriton, I can’t understand a word he’s saying.’
A grim expression grows on Lizzie’s face, as the thought of spending the day being pumped full of toxins – whilst feeling completely out of it – becomes suddenly present and inescapable.
‘You know,’ says Lizzie, as we now finally pull up to the hospital. ‘I want to live at least another ten or twenty years… and I never want to do chemotherapy again. Ever.’
I nod back. Who would? The car pulls to a stop in front of the BMI Priory Hospital and we purse our lips into socially-distanced goodbye kisses. We then both get out of the car, say our farewells and Lizzie heads into the building.
As I climb back into the car, I realise that Wild is the Wind by Nina Simone is still playing on the stereo; the iTunes on Lizzie’s iPhone must still be connected to the car, via Bluetooth.
As I pull out… and the connection to Lizzie’s iPhone is broken… Wild is the Wind slowly sputters out, then disappears.
P. D. Clifton 
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