I’m having drinks in Clerkenwell, with the staff of the film production company at which I’m working.
It’s nice! We’re in Clerkenwell Green by the Three Kings pub, next to the impressive edifice that is St. James’ Church.
The sun’s out and the place is full of young media types living it up. I feel old, of course, but I’m getting caught up in the infectious spirit of it all. And I’m sad when I have to leave the drinks early, in order to catch the 8.50pm from Paddington home.
An hour later, I’m on the train from Paddington to the Midlands, when Lizzie calls.
She sounds funny. A bit strained. But then, to be honest, she often does when I’ve been working in London all day and she’s had to do all the home stuff herself – whilst doing a full-time job at the same time.
‘Can you talk?’ she asks. I’m sitting on the train at a table surrounded by people. Normally I might say ‘not really’, but then Lizzie says ‘it’s about my blood test.’
‘I can talk,’ I say instantly, then duck into the carriage passageway next to the toilet… leaving my stuff behind on the table.
‘What is it?’ I ask, nervously.
‘It’s my markers,’ says Lizzie. She sounds borderline tearful. ‘They’ve gone up.’
Oh no, I think. Is she about to tell me her cancer has come back? Please no.
‘What have they gone up to?’ I ask.
‘Forty,’ says Lizzie. ‘They were twenty.’
‘What does Mr. F say about it?’
Mr. F is Lizzie’s oncologist – her cancer doctor, put in layman’s terms.
I’m hoping Mr. F. will say this is all to be expected… markers always go up and down… and Lizzie shouldn’t worry about it. Too much.
‘I’m not seeing him until next Wednesday,’ sighs Lizzie. ‘When are you getting home? I need someone to talk to about this.’
‘Not until 10.45,’ I say, glumly. Going for those couple of shandies, after work, is looking less and less like a good idea.
So we continue our conversation – about Lizzie’s markers going up – in the train passageway, by the toilet. I’m not sure what the other passengers standing nearby must be thinking about it, but who cares? I’ve got more important things to worry about. And it’s not like I have Lizzie on loudspeaker.
‘I’m going to start taking those drugs,’ says Lizzie. ‘The repurposed ones.’
‘The metformin?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ says Lizzie.
Lizzie’s been talking a lot about this, the last few weeks. She’s been researching how a number of ‘repurposed drugs’ (i.e. drugs originally created for another purpose, like curing diabetes) can apparently help shrink cancer tumours down – or so the evidence suggests.
Lizzie suddenly sighs, deeply. ‘Sorry to dump all this on you,’ she now says. ‘But I had to tell someone.’
‘God, of course! That’s what I’m here for!’ I reply. It hardly needs saying.
‘I feel bad though,’ says Lizzie. ‘It’s not like you have anyone you can talk to yourself, about this stuff. Not really.’
She’s got a point. I haven’t really got anyone I can regularly dump all this stuff on (it just wouldn’t feel fair to do it to any of my friends or family. Not on a regular basis, anyway). But, five minutes later, I do the next best thing. I begin writing it all down.
And, unlike on previous occasions (when I originally started this journal), I don’t feel bad or guilty about writing it down. It’s OK to write about this stuff, I tell myself. And I believe myself (I can be pretty convincing, after all).
When Lizzie sees her oncologist – Dr. F – the following Wednesday, he does more or less say what I’d hoped he’d say… i.e. this is all to be expected… markers always go up and down… and Lizzie shouldn’t worry about it. Too much.
Lizzie feels a little bit reassured by this, she tells me after the appointment. But, nevertheless, it’s clear a seed of uncertainty has been planted in her brain (let’s be honest, there’s probably a whole field’s worth of seeds of uncertainty in Lizzie’s brain – on the subject of her health – these days).
The thought that there’s a chance the cancer might come back one day, has definitely grown – malignantly – a little larger in her mind.
‘I’m definitely taking metformin again,’ says Lizzie, determinedly.
Lizzie’s certainly never one to take worrying news lying down… and, not for the first time since this all began, I can only marvel at her resilience.
P. D. Clifton 
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