Returning reluctantly to an old theme

So I haven't blogged about cancer recently. Those of you newish to my blog might not even know that at one stage in its life, it was a cancer blog. Does that exist, actually? A cancer blog? Do they call them that?

Don't worry. No serious announcement following. Just an "I recommend we check this out. It's usually nothing, but if you have it checked out, then you'll have peace of mind". I hate those. They're too... familiar. That's what it is. It feels like going back into a country you were happy to leave behind. You've been through security checkpoints and passport control, and you're on your way. Then someone stops you in the road and turns you back.

"I've heard so many women say that", said the doctor. "They don't want to go back into it all again."

"OF COURSE WE BL***Y DON'T" I wanted to yell.

But I smiled, because she was so incredibly nice, and sympathetic, and good at explaining everything, and sensible, and had time for me. I smiled, and I said "I agree it makes sense to check it out". And I felt the tears at the back of my eyes, because I always feel those when doctors are kind to me. It's a result of all those times doctors haven't been kind, or had time, or been good at explaining, and have instead quoted percentages (as if percentages mean anything).

I'm not worried. The symptoms aren't even quite right, and the doctor is very clear that the procedure is just to be thorough. It's good to be thorough. She thinks it's nothing. She thinks it's fine. So I'm not worried. Nah. Worried? Me? Nah. Little old Mrs Stoic in the corner? Worried? Nah.

I'm not agitated. That's not why I turned off the Today programme when they were discussing the breast cancer drug Tamoxifen, which I've been on for over 3 years now, and got to the bit about one side effect being an increased risk of endometrial... issues.

I'm not concerned. That's not why I phoned and told my mum, saying "I'm going to tell you something, but you've got to promise you won't worry about me". Because that's a sure-fire way of ensuring she doesn't worry about me.

I'm not anxious. That's not why, when my daughter caught the virus that's doing the rounds, I got into bed with her, and held her, warm and soft, in my arms, wondering whether her headache might in fact be a brain tumour, and imagining...

I'm not jittery. That's not why I'm sitting here with cold hands and feet, browsing websites on relaxation exercises, thinking about making vegetable soup, wondering if I should go to Sainsbury's or perhaps take the dog out, or both, and then reading another blog or two instead.

I'm not allowing myself to get carried away. That's not why I've been on to our realtor in the US, trying to get some movement on our house, so that'd be one less thing for Husband to...

Worried? Of course not. I'm only blogging about this because I thought it would be interesting to write a post about the NHS, and how it compares to my experiences of medical care in the US. A thoughtful, analytic post. Prompted by my visit to that nice doctor. A post about the NHS. Yes. A good topic for a returning expat blog. Don't you think?