The next day, the phone call came. From a doctor at the hospital to let me know the scan results were in. They’d found a solid mass, around five centimeters in length, and she wasn’t sure it was in my cervix or ovary. She wanted to speak to me urgently about getting another scan.
For the rest of the day I was in another realm, outside time, floating above my body. I knew all too well what the outcome was. Mum had died from cervical cancer. And Aunt Lynne. And my grandmother. All of us, born with a gene that prevented the women in my family growing old.
Mum had four rounds of chemo. She grew thinner and weaker, less and less like herself. They tried surgery. We celebrated the news that it did work, only for the cancer to return. She died two weeks after the news.
I had three girls to care for. Three fatherless girls. Who was going to care for them, raise them? Not my father. Not Sean’s family. They had hearts of gold, but his parents were too old and his brother was an alcoholic.
What if my girls were born with this gene?
I ran. I thought that if I kept moving, we might outrun this terrible disease.
I drove us all the way to Newcastle before the fuel light came on and I was forced to pull into a petrol station. I filled up with petrol, then bought us all some cold water and crisps in the services station. I spotted a small email café in the corner of the station. I needed to check that email from Anna Taylor, the one about a commission. Some kind of mural she’d been asked to do but it clashed with her wedding.
Hello my lovely, how are things?
Sorry for the delay in getting back to you but I’ve been busy, as you can imagine! Are you able to do the commission? It’s well paid and I recommended you very highly. （I don’t know if you’re doing many murals these days? The one you did for St. Mark’s hospital was incredible. Still the best one I’ve seen!）
Patrick is very keen for you to take it up but he doesn’t do email. Please can you think about it? I’ve forwarded you the info. Let me know as soon as you can!
The venue was a decommissioned lighthouse with the bizarre name of the Longing. It was situated on an island, Lòn Haven, off the east coast of Scotland. The owner wanted an artist to create “a stunning and inspiring mural” inside the lighthouse, which was being transformed into a writing studio. A handful of images showed rugged coastline fringed with turquoise sea, a tall white lighthouse overlooking cliffs. Five thousand pounds plus expenses for just over a month’s work.
I’d already emailed Anna to say that yes, I’d be happy to do it, but now I emailed to say I could arrive earlier than planned. Tomorrow, in fact.
Anna replied straightaway.
Thank you!!! I’ll email them now. OK to pass on your number??
II
Right up until I arrived in Lòn Haven, I’d had no symptoms. Nothing at all to indicate that something might be wrong. And yet, the day after we arrived, I started peeing blood. It started off pink, with cramping, like cystitis. By the time Finn made the comment, I had back pain. I called at the island GP and asked for antibiotics.
“I have a tendency toward UTIs,” I told her. I was wary of being pulled into the hospital and confronted with the full facts of my diagnosis. I knew how stupid my own thoughts were, but it didn’t make them any less compelling—the idea that, if I simply ignored it, if I point-blank refused to face up to the fact that the cancer that had stalked my family had finally found me, it would go away.
Distraction was key, especially now that I was showing signs of the illness taking hold. I took painkillers regularly, both paracetamol and ibuprofen. I wore pads to collect the spots of blood that ruined my underwear, and asked Isla if I could borrow a hot-water bottle for back pain. I tried to force myself to enjoy every detail, every second of time. When I looked out at the beach, I imagined each grain of sand like a measure of time that I’d been allotted. I could either let them run through my hands or I could stop and pay attention.