You see Mrs M. She says, oh, you look well. You know, when I saw you in July, I didn't think you'd last the summer - and you are grateful for her honesty, rather than telling you what you might want to hear.
You say, I think the treatments I'm getting are doing a good job, and you talk about the NHS, and the different system in the US. Mrs M says - they dread getting sick over there you know. If you don't have the right insurance, you don't get treated. And you think, actually, that's right.
You have lots of friends from the US at work, and healthcare is a big issue for them. Insurance is expensive, but without it you don't get treatment. If you were in the States and didn't have the right insurance, there would be no Dr D, and no Dr G. There would be no GP, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, pain control, the list goes on. Or, if you understand it correctly, there would, but you'd be looking at remortgaging the house, and leaving debt for your family to cope with. It doesn't bear thinking about.
You say goodbye and walk slowly back to the car, cocoon yourself inside, press play on one of DJ Viv's CDs. On the way home, kept company by St Etienne, you feel bad for ever having complained - about public wards, or waiting, or an early morning CT scan. You count your blessings, and think, thank God for the NHS. For all that it is, not unlike yourself these days, a bit shabby, and frayed round the ages, you have been taking it for granted. But actually, like the support network of people around you, when you think about it carefully, you run out of superlatives to describe it, and as you turn onto your road, you realise that you have the stereo turned up to 11, and are singing at the top of your voice.
