if it’s all gone according to plan, by now the NHS should have finished blasting me with gamma rays and set me free into the wild to take up my new career as an X-Man, woman or non-binary person.
Once again, the Western General has played a blinder. The radiotherapy staff, a cheery bunch of slender tiny creatures, have remained implacably calm, smiling and helpful even in the face of my grumpy, whinging face, and trust me, I do grumpy on a grand scale when people insist on treating me as a person with an illness.
Yes, I know technically I do have an illness, and, boy, do I resent it.
The NHS has done its duty and done it well. Teams of people have valiantly locked arms around me and cared magnificently for me. An army of wonderful people on my side.
In fact, the only disappointing and downright irritating person in this whole process has been . . . me. This has rather taken me aback. You see, I always thought I’d be good at being a patient. I had an image in my head, mostly informed by Sunday afternoon black and white movies, of me being brave and noble and saying things like, “we’ll beat this together, doc” whilst gently biting my lower lip and hiding my tears. All beautifully lit, of course, and with suitably soppy music in the background.
The medical staff would be overwhelmed by my grace under pressure, and would leave murmuring about my courage and fortitude and other words that would make great titles for the big screen treatment of my inspiring battle.
In reality, it turns out that Sick Susan is no saint, but a cross between a bad tempered toddler and a roaring punk rocker. I have peevishly fought, quarrelled and bickered through the entire process, and believe me, no Hollywood A-lister is in a hurry to sign up for Peevishly Quarrelsome.
I didn’t meet a male consultant I didn’t pick a battle with, I challenged every decision like I knew what I was talking about, I ranted pointlessly at cleaners about their working hours like a misplaced Lenin and at one point I even managed to have a fight with a toilet door, but I am willing to concede that the fault there lay with me, since apparently I can’t comprehend the words Push or Pull.
I became exactly what I hate the most, a mithering old bint who won’t be told. Even worse, who thinks she knows better, on account of 25 minutes on Google, in the face of 12 years a consultant. Seriously, I would have shown myself the door. But here’s the the strange thing, in some ways, I did know better.
When I made the decision to have a bilateral mastectomy I was a little surprised to discover that I would have to beat to quarters, to use a fine old Royal Navy term, and cross swords with a consultant surgeon, who is undoubtedly the kid with the smarts when it comes to scalpels, but seemed to have no idea how women actually function.
I’ve also been slightly bemused by the attitude of some staff when I said I wasn’t really that keen on reconstruction. Oh, they said, implants are perfectly safe.Really? All I’m saying is that the news is awash with new concerns about implants, so you know, I think I’ll opt for Plan A after all.
Anyway, I’m done with bits of plastic being wedged in my interior. When I was fitted with a contraceptive coil I swear I could change the channel on the telly by just walking past.
Treeza’s Brexit tour is on the road – it’s already driving us gaga
So Treeza’s on tour touting the Brexit deal, eh? I’m assuming she’s got stage jackets with tour dates picked out on the back in rhinestone. She’s always struck me as a gal with a touch of Lady Gaga. Remember those leopard print shoes?
Apparently she’s sent a letter to everyone explaining The Deal, so that we can all back her, which is completely pointless, since we don’t actually have a direct say in the matter, having already having had a direct say in the matter, and we all know how that ended.
We’ll just have to trust that elected representatives like Bojo and Rees-Mogg will fight for our best interests. If anyone’s looking for me, by the way, I’m over here, stockpiling tins of tomato soup and watching The Walking Dead to pick up post-apocalyptic survival tips. Brexit’s like being trapped on a plane with a rowdy unpleasant stag-do. Far from getting to the promised all-inclusive sunshine paradise, our flights being redirected because of these lads to some miserable back-of-beyond airport.
I didn’t get a letter. Mind you, I’m the one who can’t manage push or pull commands on doors, so presumably I’m not the best person to consult on clean exits.