Sometimes I still thought of the future with my old supposition that I would live to my eighties. Other times I saw life only a few months ahead and a gauze curtain hanging down, blurring the rest of it. Was I going to live a normal life? Was I going to die within the next few years? My agonising was compulsive but at the same time deeply boring. I longed for the day when I would return to Parkside Hospital to meet with my oncologist and hear the results of my tests. Then the misery of waiting would be over and I would know my prognosis. Had the cancer spread? If so, what was in store for me? If it hadn’t, how likely was it to spread in the future?