The Registrar tells me that they will probably operate on my liver following a discussion with the surgeons. This suggests there is a possible cure. The issue is the size of the four liver tumours. To determine whether or not Chemotherapy should be prior to or after the operation they are sending me for two further scans in Southampton. I am to wait two or three weeks for these. I ask if a few more weeks will make any difference to my chances. The registrar shakes his head. I have to play a waiting game now. I am relieved that the Chemo is not to start straight away. At the same time I am worried that this treatment will drag on and on.
There is a trial drug not available on the NHS. If I agree to be part of the trial, then I have access to this possible cancer shrinking drug as well as Chemo. One of the side effects is a skin rash akin to acne. It will affect my looks. I have never been particularly vain, but am not sure that I want to be transported back to some of the seedier sides of being an adolescent. I struggled enough at the time.
Lamb dressed as Mutton
Age is a privilege. You can dress as you want, wear your hair short or long at will, and for me at least the best bit is just being comfortable. At age 13 life was not so simple. There was overwhelming pressure to conform.
I was a bit of a Tom Boy. I couldn’t be bothered with girlie stuff and just wanted to have fun, run about, and be a kid. It took some courage to be like that and avoid the lifestyle adopted by my friends; they liked ‘dressing up’ in pretty frocks, but for me it was shorts and a T-shirt in summer, slacks and jumpers in winter. One day we decided to go and see an X rated film ‘Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb’ at the Rex. It was supposed to be terrifying. My friends scrutinised my cardigan and slacks.
“Oh Linda!” they despaired… “You look about ten! Right, we’re gonna make you look sixteen. It’s only the local flea- pit. It’s so dark and dingy in there they won’t look that closely…ready?” I grudgingly accepted the invitation to dress up.
The transformation took about half an hour. Lynne held the disgustingly red lipstick and tried to apply it to my unwilling lips: “Come on, keep still it won’t take a minute”
“But it tastes foul”.
“Don’t make a fuss now, just purse your lips. Good. Jessica, have you got the suspender belt?”
Jessica passed across the most clumsily uncomfortable piece of clothing I have ever put on. The clips bit into my thighs, the stockings imprisoned my legs.
“Stop scratching like that!” snapped Jessica.
“But they are so itchy….can’t I just wear socks?” I protested weakly. They ignored me. Grudgingly I squeezed myself into the tight skirt and slipped on the high heels that pinched my toes. To add to these indignities, Lynne started backcombing my hair and as I squirmed she sprayed on a lacquer, which felt like a glue fixative and smelt even worse. It was utter misery.
“Lets have a look at you then?”
I walked up and down awkwardly.
“Hmm. You’ll do I suppose.”
So it was, that dolled up to the nines but still looking like a ten year old with lipstick, I passed the scrutiny of the lady at the desk, who appeared mildly suspicious but not particularly bothered.
I don’t remember much about the film. The music was creepy, the Mummy of the centuries dead prince less so, as he rose unconvincingly from his sarcophagus and began robotically patrolling his new London surroundings. I knew just how he felt.
The bit I remember most vividly was spending the whole film picking at a thread on the knee of my stocking and ending up with a satisfying hole through which at least my kneecap found freedom.
I look at myself in the mirror today. My hair is cropped; I wear a comfy pair of cargo trousers with a casual shirt. The lady at the Rex, if it still existed would let me in just as I am. The freedom to be me is a joy.
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