Outpatients could not look forward to Wednesdays. I was due
for CROP number three and the prospect of this had me hoping
that the preceding days would never end. It was easier
approaching the visit, if only a check-up was planned.
Treatment, or results of tests, made the trip more stressful.
Recently, my mother and I had been introduced to the group.
At the clinic were some fine people who suffered from this
disease. One of these was a grandmother of six.
"I have had leukaemia for four years," she told me one day,
as we sat on a green bench waiting for our names to be called.
Her olive face was worn by the years, and her wig sat
precariously above. A short, stocky lady, she wore a floral dress
that exposed dramatic veins along her arms. The yellowing bruises
that riddled them reflected the intensity of her fight.
With a heavily accented, caring voice, she began to share her
thoughts.
"Things haven't been that bad, but I wish they would stop
missing my veins."
Her treatment was very different to mine, so I could only
imagine the amount of hardship she must have already suffered.
"...and if I cut myself, I always make sure that I cover it quickly
with a bandage. I'm so scared that one of the kiddies will catch
it."
"They couldn't, could they?" I said timidly. The last thing I
wanted to do was disagree with her.
"You never know. You can't be too careful."
Her love for her grandchildren was there in her eyes.
Naturally her relatives were in no danger, but her concern
for others was really moving. She maintained that her sixty years
had been filled with happiness, and she could face her limited
future quite contentedly. There was a level of acceptance that
I, would have great trouble achieving.
She died one year later.

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