Last Sunday was my birthday. The plan was to spend a fair
chunk of it at a picnic in leafy-green Yarralumla, getting some sun on my face
as I ate imported cheese, quaffed sparkling white and threw soft toys at my
baby daughter in the naïve hope that she might make some motion to catch them.
It didn’t quite go to plan (a public yoga presentation and a
howling gale put paid to that) but it was still a whole lot better than last
year’s birthday. That was spent in the cardio-thoracic ward of The Canberra
Hospital, awaiting the results of the biopsy on the huge mass that had been
found in my chest.
There was a small part of me that feared that last year’s
here) might in fact be my last one. Or at least my last one in the carefree
happy-go-lucky life to which I had become accustomed.
But a year on, I remain largely free of care (perhaps
sometimes too free of it for my own good), still chugging along much as I was
before my cancer struck. The biggest change by far in th…