Lizzie and I are about to go on our first walk together – with the dog – for ages.
I don’t know why there’s been such a large gap between walks. I guess we’ve just been busy doing our own things.
Cedric reacts in his usual way when we shrill the word ‘walkies!’ – and wave his leash – at him. He hides under the kitchen table.
We cajole the lazy oaf out, however (with a treat) and we’re soon ambling down the hill with the dog snuffling about by our side.
After a few minutes, Lizzie stops walking, turns away from me and says… ‘does my right calf look funny to you?’
She’s not referring to one of two baby cows she owns (we’ve not been in the countryside so long, that we’ve turned into farmers). She’s referring to her right lower leg.
I look at Lizzie’s right calf, then do a mental compare and contrast with her left calf. They both look exactly the same.
‘It looks exactly the same as the other one,’ I reply.
Lizzie turns back around and grimaces. ‘I’ve had a pain in it for some time and I’m worried there might be some kind of blockage in it. You know, with a vein.’
Despite the pain, Lizzie continues walking – she’s a trooper like that – and I follow.
The idea of any kind of blockage is no laughing matter, to Lizzie, after her visit to the hospital a couple of months ago – for her bowel adhesion. It was a horrendous business… a jarring coda to a horrendous eight months or so of medical treatment.
‘When’s your next blood test?’ I ask, now feeling concerned for Lizzie.
‘In six weeks,’ she replies, ‘but I’m going to ask if they can bring it forward.’
‘Why? Are you particularly worried about something?’
‘I’m particularly worried about cancer,’ Lizzie says, matter-of-factly. ‘And the fact it might come back and kill me.’
I nod, slowly. Who wouldn’t feel like that, in Lizzie’s situation?
We continue walking across the fields by the village church.
Sheep are facing in different directions, in the long grass. They look like they’re trapped in a low-hedged maze… and are all frozen with indecision about which way to turn next.
Lizzie looks thoughtful, like she’s remembering something. ‘When we were on holiday in Greece,’ she says, ‘the last but one day of the trip was the very first day I completely forgot about my cancer, since it all started.’
‘I was feeling so relaxed, it just went completely out of my head.’
‘It was only when I got to the evening, of that day,’ she concludes, ‘that I suddenly remembered everything.’
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘So you’ve thought about it every other day this last year?’
‘In the morning… in the afternoon… in the evening… when I go to sleep and when I wake up,’ sighs Lizzie, ‘I’m thinking about it.’
‘I’m glad you had that one good day in Greece,’ I say, trying to be comforting. ‘And I’m sorry you don’t have more.’
‘Me too,’ says Lizzie.
And, with that, we continue our stroll, along a path hewn by a tractor through the grass.
P. D. Clifton 
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