I’m lying there between two soft and just-bathed bodies and we’re reading bedtime stories.
I’m lying there reading and laughing and the lights go out.
A power cut, ironically confirmed by next door’s alarm. It rings somehow reassuringly in the near distance.
Don’t worry, I say, the lights will be back on in a minute.
We’re lying there in the dark, looking up at the shadows on the ceiling. And counting to 60.
When we pass 99 I say: lie here with me and sleep. Close your eyes in the dark.
There’s nothing to see. The lights will come back on soon.
I’m lying there, two warm bodies either side. We stare up and we’re quiet.
I’m thinking about my luck.
“What can I say? You’re an odd-ball.”
Nothing has changed. No growth, no enhancement, no increase in blood uptake.
My doctor yesterday. He’s not seen it before in my tumour type. But I’m stable. No change is no change.
I’m lying there and I’m thinking. There’s six months until my next scan.
I’m lying there and I’m thinking. They won’t measure the tumour’s blood for another year.
It feels like a lifetime.
I’m lying there between my two warm sleeping babies and I’m thinking. There’ll be no treatment before Christmas. There’ll be no treatment before Spring. There may be no treatment soon, at all.
I’m lying there between two softly breathing bodies. I’m thinking about when the lights will come back on.
And I’m smiling and hoping.
Not yet. Not yet.