Five Stages of Reflection

AUTHORS NOTE - THIS IS WORK IN PROGRESS - ANY COMMENTS / SUGGESTIONS MUCH APPRECIATED - HOPING TO GET IT CONTEST READY

DENIAL

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t think ahead. I didn’t ever expect this. And it’ll be wrong anyway – I’ll read it again in a minute, it’ll be wrong.”

Bold, blue eyes glare back at me as I sigh before them. Will they accept anything I say?

“No. I don’t suppose you ever thought about me, not me right now, decades down the line.”

Decades. Entire decades. How can something I did so long ago possibly have an effect this serious now? It can’t. Can it?

“I never did anything to warrant this. Surely not.”

ANGER

But I did, didn’t I? There’s no denying it really. Blame youth, blame stupidity, blame myself. I was young, and very stupid - very, very stupid.

My stomach churns and a creeping nausea slithers up my throat. I swallow the saliva that pools behind my lower teeth as my mouth waters in preparation for the onslaught of vomit. I glance at the toilet bowl. How long can I delay the inevitable?

The harsh florescent bulb makes sparkles of the tears caught in my lashes. In a different mood, or a different time, I’d find them pretty. But not now. Right now, they inflict jarring savagery on my constricted pupils. The excess light only contributes to the dull throb building behind my temples.

BARGAINING

“I’m sorry.”

I grip the letter tighter in my shaking fingers and try to wish it away.

“No amount of pleading will change it.”

It’s true, the die was cast in the endless summers of thirty years and more ago. A time when we all felt indestructible. A time when we all believed anything was possible. We were the generation brought up to think that if we just worked hard enough and never gave up, we could achieve anything we put our minds to. Anything. Nothing could stand in our way. Certainly not a little thing like. . .

I swallow again.

“Of all the things I could have done. Why did I have to…?”

It’s impossible to finish that sentence. I’ve tried to say the word out loud several times. I always feel an apology is stronger if you can spell out exactly what it is you are sorry for, but faced with this, faced with those eyes, those lips, that brow. I close my eyes and shut the face out of my mind.

“I’m still here, you know.”

I do know. The one person I can never really be away from. No matter how far I run.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if they had told me in person. If I had had the chance to sit down and discuss it, to talk it through before coming face to face with. . .

DEPRESSION

Apparently they had tried to call several times and even sent someone to the house once. I wasn’t to know that my holiday was so badly timed, or that I should have cancelled Bermuda to be around in Birmingham just in case. So I got a letter. A letter marked urgent, a letter with a direct dial number, a letter I MUST NOT IGNORE. A letter I picked up nearly a full week after it was sent. Oh God.

“I’m sorry I went away.”

The first tear fell. It turned cold as it skirted the bottom of my nose and dripped over the tiny cliff of my top lip onto the tiled floor. It was followed by a second and a third. They gathered in strength and by the fifth or sixth I couldn’t distinguish between them anymore.

“That’s not my biggest concern.”

I put one hand to my mouth as a ripple of acid hits the back of my throat. I reach for the toilet seat with the other hand and lift it just in time to puke two rounds of semi digested toast and half a mug of coffee into the water. I kneel down in anticipation of more to follow.

It’s almost a relief that I can’t see that devastated face anymore.

I sob in the crouching position, eyes firmly shut, nose streaming, stomach retching, head pounding. I let the bottom drop out of my world.

ACCEPTANCE

My ankles are numb and my face is raw. The streetlights have come on. I pull a few sheets of tissue from the roll and wipe my mouth. A few more and blow my nose. A few more and dry my eyes. The tissue is always rougher when you’re sad. I throw the used sheets into the toilet and flush as I stagger to my feet. I can hardly balance as the tingling starts in my lower legs. Pins and needles remind me I am still alive and still have decisions to make.

I take a clumsy step towards the wash basin, leaning on the cold ceramic rim with both hands to steady myself as my sleeping feet follow me across the floor. As soon as I am balanced in my new position I grab the cold tap and turn the water on. Using my right hand as a cup I scoop fresh water to my lips and slurp it into my mouth, cooling my acid-burned tongue and washing away the taste of shame.

The letter is resting on the corner of the bath. It’s out of reach but maybe that’s for the best.

I slowly raise my head to face her, the woman I have wronged. There she is, staring back at me with swollen eyes set back in dark circles. The tiny dots where blood vessels have been broken across her cheeks with the pressure of being sick, stare back at me like a hundred accusatory freckles. I hardly recognise myself.

I search the reflection of the bathroom behind me for a sign of comfort. But all I see is an inverted image of the letter on the corner of the bath. Even in mirror image I can make out the NHS logo and my name at the top and the words Oncology Department.

The words Lung and Tumour swiftly follow.