The stag in the autumn. You stand there, in my imagination. Do you have any fucking eyes? Any ears, a nose perhaps and any heart? You seem utterly lacking in sensitivity, oblivious of me and what is going on inside my head. I know it may be difficult for you to see beyond my brave face and stiff upper lip, which sometimes trembles when you gaze over. My socks continually need to be pulled up as they keep falling down. I know it may be difficult for you to hear amidst your day-to-day noise, the quiet snuffles and sniffs and sighs as I deal with what is going on in my head. And yes, I do need to sort my head out. I know it may be difficult for you from a distance to smell the fear I smell when thinking about what may be going on in my head. Is that the whiff of fish, tuna, may be? Hopefully it’s canned. It feels like you have no fucking idea.
Written on the Eve, eve, eve of my first off adjuvant chemo MRI scan, 11/11/11
No Eyed Dear
Vicky Galbraith, November 2011