30/09/15-Work: I lock up my locker, stick my earphones in my ears and leave behind the place I work, just like any other day at the end of my shift except this isn’t any other day.
I march off down the hill, homeward bound knowing that the next time I’m at my place of work-my place will be as a patient.
I exit my local convenience store, conveniently en route, the comforting weight of a bottle of wine in my rucksack. Ironically I gave up alcohol three weeks before my diagnosis but I’ve decided to jump off the wagon before I fall this week.
I still haven’t really cried yet and it’s worrying me a little. I’m a major weeper, it’s what I do and it always has a cathartic effect, it’s as natural as breathing to me, it’s how I preserve my sanity.
I imagine that the wine will soften up the guards that have my emotions restrained and fettered and I’m not wrong! Three large glasses of wine later and ‘Grief’ and ‘Sorrow’ sneak past the sleeping guards and make a run for my heart.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…so sorry…so sorry…I’m so very sorry” I sob cradling my left breast as if it were a friend I’d let down beyond forgiveness and there in the quiet sanctuary of my bedroom, me and my left breast begin the process of letting go.