The finger, the foot, my bone cancer

Abstract

“I f you don't put your finger in it, you'll put your foot in it”—this is an odd thought to have at 4 am, when you're waiting to have operation number three for your bone cancer. At first glance it was a bit of an imposition. A male nurse was asking for my professional opinion on his mundane rectal symptoms—at 4 am. I was awake and anxious about my own operation in a few hours' time. He was supposed to be looking after me, not the other way round. I was on sick leave. On the other hand he was one of those nurses you value: professional, polite, caring, and helpful. And I liked him. He was my age, just over 40. He had turned a blind eye to my using my mobile phone to stay in touch with my family. In return I had lent him my charger when his mobile ran flat. These things matter when you are an inpatient for three weeks. I had been back at work since then. My brain had shrugged …