HOW DOES IT FEEL?

I would like to describe how it has felt over these last 31 years.
When I left secondary school, I decided that there was no reason why anyone but my closest friends should know about my illness.
It was the typical story. No one else apart from some lecturers
needed to know. I did not want attention, nor sympathy, nor endless questions. There was a normal life ahead.
I was just like everybody else.

If I told friends that I would be missing the next week of University, then I knew that they would cover my tracks and get me the relevant notes. I was certain that it
was going to be far easier to pass my tertiary course than it had been to succeed in my H.S.C. year. As it turned out I was right.
I progressed through my education without having to miss any years. I achieved my Bachelor of Science (Education) from the University of Melbourne in 1980 and took up my first teaching post in 1981.

The signs in my University days, had vanished, or were covered. I had a fresh growth of light brown curly hair which I grew eventually to shoulder length. The miniscule divots
in my lower back left by the bone marrow biopsies were rarely revealed, although I sometimes walked very gingerly on the day of the latest test. The veins in my right elbow had collapsed, and adhesive strips could regularly be seen on the inside of my left elbow. I had already had hundreds of injections, but still felt very sorry for diabetics because of their dependence on the needle. A couple of times I was asked if I had donated blood that day. It was not to the Red Cross, but I could still answer "Yes" to that question.

In all honesty, I was a little fearful of people's reaction to hearing of my illness. I hoped that it wouldn't jeopardise my employment, and saw no reason why it should.

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A NEW DECADE

After ten years, I needed to see my specialist to say thanks.
I hadn't been to Dr Whiteside's private clinic before, and he seemed a little put out to see me. He would have perused his appointment book beforehand, and been concerned about the reason for my visit.
"Hello Wayne. Come inside."
I had been sitting in the tiny waiting room, flicking through
a two-year-old women's magazine. There was no opportunity to
answer, I simply followed.
He had not changed much in the time since our last meeting,
perhaps he was a little greyer. It made me wonder what sort
of person chooses to work with the very sick; amongst the despair
and depression. Then I thought about the successes. Not only
the major ones like myself, but those who experience an important improvement in the quality of their life. Doctors could derive
a great deal of satisfaction from this.
I sat upright in a chair, opposite a desk littered with documents.
"What can I do for you?"
I could tell that he was intrigued, and I was eager to tell him
my news.
"Nothing really, I just came in to thank you for everything ..."
I was nervous.
I had always found it difficult to relate freely with a man of
such importance. Many of the occasions on which I had previously
talked with him had involved crucial dialogue like: "How did the
test results turn out?"
Much of the nervousness came from my anticipation of the
answers to such questions. "That's very nice. Thank you."
"Just hop up on the table ...and give me a look at you."
I couldn't believe it.

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