P. D. Clifton

It’s two months after my hernia operation and I’m due a visit to my oncologist. Oops! Freudian slip. I mean my consultant. Clearly, in some bizarre way, I’m trying to give my own, tiny, pathetic medical procedure more prominence than it deserves – by subconsciously thinking I might require an oncologist myself. Well, that’s clearly…

Hi blog readers! I’ve had a few messages, in response to the last couple of blog entries, asking how Lizzie is doing. Obviously, it’s because the tone of these entries (particularly the last-but-one: ‘Statistics’) is pretty bleak! Thank you – message-senders – for your supportive words to Lizzie, it’s really kind of you! Just a quick reminder…

I haven’t written anything for the last few days. Like Lizzie, I feel floored by the statistics her oncologist told her. I feel that what I’ve been writing might be too flippant. I’ve been so determined to look for any positives in this situation – particularly the humour Lizzie and I have shared – maybe…

Lizzie’s got the kettle on in the kitchen. Suddenly, she bursts into tears. I go up and give her a hug and she hugs back. ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask. Wiping her eyes, Lizzie explains that – because it was her last chemo – she felt it was time yesterday to ask her oncologist for some…

I walk into our bedroom. Lizzie’s lying down, watching something on her laptop involving a heated exchange between an Australian, an American and an English person (I later learn this is a show called The Tourist). As I glance over at Lizzie, I think… something’s different. It’s then I realise… Cedric is lying in bed…

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…

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…

Today – as a precious ‘memory’ – my iPhone presents me with… a picture of a lateral flow test. In fact, I took the picture a few weeks ago. I’ve taken lots of pictures of lateral flow tests over the last few months… so I can blow them up and read the tiny serial number…

Lizzie and I are trudging along a muddy footpath by a field, with Cedric. Ahead, is the footbridge over a brook which marks the hallway point of the walk – where we’ll turn around and head back. As we get closer to the footbridge, we realise Cedric is no longer with us. We turn and…

We’re in the kitchen, discussing the early days of Lizzie’s career as an artist. ‘After uni,’ she tells me, ‘I moved back into Mum and Dad’s. For four days. I couldn’t bear it any longer than that, so I moved to London without a job.’ Lizzie’s told me about her career origins before, but I’m…