Back in March we both came down with Coronavirus. Recovery was slow but we just felt pleased that we were gradually feeling slightly more like ourselves. Yes, we were both breathless, husband more than me, but so what.
Life was returning to a new type of normal. We were socialising more, masks had become a fashion item, hand washing and sanitising part of ending every activity, of entering and leaving every shop. Everyone was walking, footpaths grew wider and wider. Farmers appealed with walkers to stick to footpaths. People would keep their distance. It was socially accepted that if you were walking down a pavement you would step into a driveway or into the road to ensure that social distancing was maintained. People would smile at each other, even say thank you, conversations would start up. The world, locally at least, became a far more friendly place.
August came and husband told me about the painless lump that he had discovered in his armpit. After 3 weeks it was still there, perhaps slightly bigger. He also developed this rash. Very itchy. He decided that it was a sweat rash. I wasn’t sure so gave him some Fucidin H to try. It helped. The H is hydrocortisone, a steroid. I noticed that his legs were different colours. One was paler than the other. I suggested he consult the GP. He wasn’t keen.
After a couple of weeks Husband must have been worried as he made an appointment to speak to the GP. The phone call, GPs don’t automatically see patients anymore as Covid has affected everything, led immediately to a face-to-face. The face-to-armpit led to a scan. The scan led to a biopsy. 3 weeks from phone call to biopsy.
Off we went to Cornwall to stay with our friends. On the 4th day we went to a beautiful little port, Portscatho. Standing, admiring the view over the bay, Husband’s phone rang and our lives took off on a different path. It was the GP, ‘It’s cancer’.
A Midwife's Muse 
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