This is my support. It’s all the rotten circumstances offer. I give it. And then it’s taken away when they suddenly push things back. When they find more trouble. When they take the neat time frame I snatched up and butcher it.

We get a big fright. We break down in opposite ends of the city and then lace ourselves up. Strap it all back in so that when we see each other, we can both prepare for the onslaught from selfish relatives demanding their time to whine down the phone over their adopted tragedy that wavers, pops and disappears as soon as they put down the receiver.

They can’t say when they will operate now. They can’t say how much they’ll be taking out. Or off. They say they’ll do more scans. More Biopsies.
My reason for going. The point of my stay, it’s gone. It’s postponed. For a day we wonder how long I’ll be sitting in London killing time. Trying to do meaningless things that don’t really detract any pressure away from the enthusiastic balled up gremlins silently spawning in her body.

The pillar of support and victim of multiple growing stumbling blocks ploughs away at coping, like she’s always had to. I notice how little there is- and how neatly it’s all arranged. She’s pendulously kicked her former coping mechanism and has somehow folded, stacked and arranged her messy situation into something I can only see as an entirely ordered disturbance.

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