Bad. Just bad.

It’s bad. I’m in a funny kind of limbo waiting to hear exactly how bad, but it’s bad. The disease has progressed in my lungs, and there’s some evidence of bony changes. What I don’t know is whether there’s anything to be done about it.

I got the letter last night, with an appointment for Tuesday. I haven’t told anyone yet, except my husband (of course – he gets to suffer, too), and work – because there are practicalities there. Work, of course, are lovely, and I’ve been bought coffees, and hugged, and sent home, and taken care of.

The bit I’m dreading is telling my parents, and telling my kids.

The kids, then. It’s the start of a brand new term, and a brand new college for my daughter. It was my son’s first day back today. I didn’t tell them anything last night, but sometime between now and Tuesday I’m going to have to tell them something. The problem is the uncertainty. And the fact that I am supposed to take care of them, and this is something that I can’t make better for them.

My parents are old. They are both in their 80s. They worry. Actually, they may be tougher than I give them credit for, but I hate telling them things like this. I start imaging what it would be like if it was my child who had this crap happening to them, and I get overwhelmed by that.

Thank God for DBT. I used to think that you had a duty to explore these negative emotions, really get down to the bottom of them. I now realise that distraction is a perfectly valid coping technique, and I’m planning to use a lot of it over the next few days. I don’t want to hope, and I don’t want to fear. I want to keep my expectations balanced and neutral, and just manage the uncertainty.

I really want to be in Italy, in a perfect little square, eating a perfect dish of pasta and drinking a glass of chilled white wine.