Nuns get it, apparently. Non-smokers get it. Ovarian cancer, that is. I can make no claims to anything in the nun department, despite the nunhood clearly being my destiny at 7 years old. Seven year olds are notoriously fickle, though, so by the time I was 8 I had the medical profession in my sights. Given recent events, I suppose some might say I still do. But smoking, that’s another matter entirely. I was such a boring wuss as a teenager I wouldn’t even try a cigarette, not even the ones that created the strangely scented cloud that enveloped all teenage parties in Jamaica, home at that time. Although, if I were a politician, I would probably have to admit that I’d inhaled. Apparently Jamaican villagers gave (?give) crying babies spoonfuls of ganja to lick; the West Indian equivalent of a baby bottle filled with Irn Bru, perhaps? Did you need to know that? I have never smoked. Not once.
We saw the oncologist on Thursday, Continue reading