Fact is, I’m also an optimistic person. I couldn’t help allowing a fantasy of hope to intrude on my dark thoughts. My dreams, which have traditionally turned out the opposite, were happy, non-events – I simply didn’t dream about cancer, lumps or any news, good or bad. I yearned to return to my life and leave this histrionic period in the past.
I’ve always regarded myself a lucky person, living a charmed life, born on the 18th day - which in Jewish gematria represents life - in the first month of the zodiac. I perceived myself immune to true calamity, exempt from it – and it was inconceivable, despite the respective tragedies of my siblings and my dedication to hypochondria, that I too would succumb to this disease.
Furthermore, I was proud of my health – I never felt so healthy as when visiting the sick, especially in hospital. I would feel such an affirmation of my own robust state of health that I would be imbued with extra doses of energy. Such hubris, so deserving of its comeuppance!
I’d now been overtaken by events that threatened my sense of me, my essence and my self-image.
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