Day 1 Chemo Cycle

Dig spends the day in the Oncology ward. He is keen to get down there before 10am, because all the best locations are by the wall sockets. Then he can power up various devices with which to pass the time.

I take him down, but I won't come in until late afternoon and pick-up time. Perhaps that is mean of me, I don't know. Instead of coming in and staring at the patients, the floor, the drips, the fluorescent lights throwing a bleak, bland light across us all, there is only the endless television, washing the walls with daytime programmes about car crashes on motorways and how to plan your dream home. I leave to use the time instead in all my practical ways - stitching books, ferrying children, stocking up foodstuffs, visiting the garage, making plans for this summer's garden.

And I tell myself that a chemo ward is not really the place for visitors. I feel in the way, taking up valuable space with my clutter of bags and flasks and books and coats. The floor in the centre of the room is kept purposefully clear. People are lined along the walls, where nurses can access arms quickly, respond to bleeps, position drips and wheel trolleys in a trice. Occasionally there is a great flurry. Modesty curtains are flung across rattling rails; there is the sound of retching, quiet talking, bitter laughter.

There is a leaden quietness about the methodical processes here: it reminds me of an industrial setting, a closed warehouse with set procedures and conveyor-belt timing. Nurses tick sheets, check charts, move patients, raise arms on pillows, balance bottles and drips, concentrate on injections. I feel my feeble attempts to be jolly are misplaced; forced, not spontaneous. I am adding to pressures and obligations. My few jokes are soon exhausted. Without me, Dig can relax and doze. He will have been given a strong antihistamine before the chemo drip is begun, to make sure his body does not react in shock to the poison. This will make him drowsy. Chemo drips take hours, and hours.

I can see the nurses do what they can. They've arranged four seats round a circular table with Homes and Gardens. They've put LED lights round a hand bell, which promises bright sparkling jubilation when someone completes their chemo course. It is a promise that this will end. Cards and notes are pinned to the wall: thank you, thank you, thank you.

When I bring him home, I feel like skipping in the bright sunshine of today. We have escaped, released, demob happy. But not yet. Not yet. Along Dig's arm runs a tube feeding into his body a poison mix held in a small plastic bottle. He tucks the bottle into his pocket for safety and I can disappear the sight of it. For moments, the shortest of times, I can forget, and say, Today I cleared the seat in the garden. I bought potatoes. I paid the electricity bill. I picked up Squirrel at the library. What chatter can be made of an ordinary day.