My mind, however, being the size of a planet and yet mysteriously near-invisible to even the strongest of telescopes, kept screaming caution at me. It would insist on reminding me that one of the most tediously repetitive aspects of the past three months has been the phenomenon of the false dawn.
‘How many times did the doctors and their test results give you the impression that you were as fit as a flea?’
‘And how many times did they go on to say “Ah, but…” to pull you back down into the mire again?’
‘Quite. So expect nothing. Just do as you’re told, go with the flow, and see what happens.’
But doing as I’m told and going with the flow is little short of torture for somebody like me.
I sometimes wish I had Emily Brontë’s certainty. When she was dying of TB she declined all palliative treatment for fear that it might delay her release from the tyranny of incarceration in a human body. She wanted total freedom, as do I, but I don’t have Emily Brontë’s certainty in spiritual independence. I just want my body to go with its own flow and do as it chooses.