On the drive home, David Bowie’s Five Years came to me. Five years, that’s all we’ve got … I sang it loudly, for comic effect. Humour has always been my family’s pressure valve. This time, my sister stared at me, aghast.
At the PET scan, I searched the technician’s face for clues. Nothing. But already, something in me was shifting. I’d done the treatments, swallowed the pills, ticked every box, and still the cancer had returned – or so it seemed. Perhaps this was fate. Terrible, yes, but also magnificent in its clarity. How many people know how their story ends?
I thought about my life. Gen X, just. Single, no kids, but full of stories, friends, family and George Harrison – my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. I felt the sharp sadness that he might outlast me. And then the tenderness of gratitude, that I get to love him at all.
“It’s good news,” she said quickly. “You don’t have cancer.” A multidisciplinary team had combed the scans. The lesions were not malignant. My cancer had not returned.
JULIETTA JAMESON
I made a decision: I could dive into despair or I could count my earthly blessings. It was as simple as that, and as profound as that, too. As soon as I did, I felt lighter than I had in a long time.
I’ve always been a stop-and-smell-the-roses kind of person. Now I stopped more often. Even the mundane – the smell of fresh washing, the dog’s snoring – seemed like something to savour.
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Even though I wasn’t afraid of dying, I had other fears. I was afraid of being a burden. I was afraid of losing my earning capacity. I began preparing. A no-frills cremation, prepaid in instalments. A catalogue of my treasures: the op-shop finds, the eBay scores, the vintage-market gems. My superpower has always been finding treasure in trash. I wanted to leave it neat, curated, ready for someone else to discover.
Then my blood results arrived. I Googled every marker voraciously. All normal. And I hadn’t been called back urgently after the PET. Could that mean … ? Still, dread filled me as my sister and I finally sat across from the oncologist again for the official word. This. Was. It. “It’s good news,” she said quickly. “You don’t have cancer.” A multidisciplinary team had combed the scans. The lesions were not malignant. My cancer had not returned.
In the car park, my sister danced. I laughed, stunned. Then I drove home, as if the episode had never happened.
When I finally posted about it on Facebook, the reactions ranged from joy to outrage. Some friends were furious I’d been put through such an ordeal. But I couldn’t be angry. When a cancer patient shows up with suspicious lesions, doctors assume the worst; they were just doing their job.
What I felt, more than anything, was gratitude. For the people who walked beside me. For the glimpse into who I am when pressed against mortality.
I’ve realised my superpower isn’t just spotting a vintage treasure among junk-shop shelves. It’s my whole approach to life. To keep searching, even when the pile looks hopeless. To trust there’s something worth finding.
When my time finally comes, may my epitaph read: “She found the treasure amid the trash.”
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