It’s 5.45am and I’m rushing to get ready for work – which is down in London today (doing my crappy film production job).
As I crash about the house, desperately trying not to wake everyone up, I notice the following bag in the hall by the front door.
It’s litter for our new kitten – which we adopted a few weeks ago from the family of one of my daughter’s school friends.
For the first time, I notice (and it is the first time I notice this, this isn’t artistic licence!) that the brand name CATSAN sounds an awful lot like CAT scan. It’s now I remember that, of course, it’s Lizzie’s CAT scan today! How could I forget?
I put the thought aside for the moment… then finish crashing about the house and leap into the car.
I feel surprisingly chipper, as I hurtle through the darkness towards our local train station, listening to Grimes’ ‘KILL V. MAIM’ on the car stereo (I’m probably far too old to be listening to this song, but I’m still enjoying it).
I’m drifting through a foggy patch of road, when the thought of Lizzie’s CAT scan suddenly re-asserts itself in my brain.
Lizzie and I have been in such good spirits recently, with her chemo ending. The whole family has been, in fact.
But that could all be turned on its head, if the results of the CAT scan aren’t good. If the results aren’t good, what will that mean? More chemo? Steroids or statins? Or something else? (If there is anything else).
What am I even doing going to work in London today? I suddenly ask myself. What if Lizzie gets some bad news and I’m a hundred and thirty miles away?
‘KILL V. MAIM’ continues pumping away on the car stereo, in its surprisingly upbeat way (considering its title), and I think how fragile our good moods of the last few days have been.
Well, let’s see what happens next. What else can we do?
I call Lizzie from London, that lunchtime, as I go for a walk around Fitzrovia – where the office is based.
‘How did the CAT scan go?’ I ask on the phone.
‘Do you mean the CT scan?’ she replies.
‘Er, yes,’ I say. ‘I think they’re the same thing.’
‘It was fine,’ says Lizzie. ‘I’m fine.’
‘When do you get the results?’ I ask, tentatively.
‘I don’t know,’ says Lizzie, in a tone which suggests she clearly doesn’t want to talk – or even think – about this. ‘I don’t really want to know, to be honest! I’m just happy painting my flowers!’
I understand. If anyone deserves to be able to stick their head in the sand, at the moment, it’s Lizzie.
‘Ignorance is bliss,’ I say.
Lizzie doesn’t respond. She clearly doesn’t even want to think about that.
P. D. Clifton 
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