LOVE AND OTHER (CHEMO) DRUGS

MY EXISTENTIAL CRISIS CAME during my lowest point in cancer treatment. Around the time my toenails started falling out, I simply hit a wall. Time felt like a soupy fog around my ankles and, quite inexplicably, the end somehow felt even further away with every hairless, lethargic week. Chemo had made my life take on an Alice in Wonderland property. Things were more remote than they seemed, bigger than they looked and tasted all wrong. That’s around the time I finally conceded my biggest fear.

You’re thinking that would be dying, right?

No, the thought of dying wasn’t that scary, actually. Death sort of pursues cancer like a mouthy seagull, so that cogitation came with the package. I finally entertained the deep, dark rumination I’d had since this began, but hadn’t yet admitted even to myself.

I was scared I’d never fall in love again.

I could keep up the optimism when it came to slapping cancer around its ample jowls, but if I survived this round of treatment, what then? What if having both breasts amputated and your eyebrows fall out and not knowing how long you’re going to live simply means no one wants you anymore?

I’d already learned that being single truly does come with a lot of perks. Like being able to eat McDonald’s in bed at 3am and leave dirty underwear on the floor for literally weeks on end, just to name two of my top 897 favourite fringe benefits.

But my goodness, there’s a whole lot to idolise about love too. There’s a reason that for every “Single Ladies” there are 300,000 “I Will Always Love You”s. Fierce independence only sells so many records. And almost no long-stemmed roses. For all its lovers’ quarrels and breakups and breakdowns, love has an otherworldly way of making life that little bit shinier. That little bit more purposeful. Even when we are happily single, I think we always entertain