A date with Sarah-Kate; Kate’s home truths
A bittersweet chapter leaves Sarah-Kate behind
Sure, I’d like to holiday on a superyacht in St Barts and go shopping at Chanel (not in the back alleys of Hong Kong), but I can’t say I’m normally the envious type.
However, my green side was tweaked in a thoroughly disgraceful way recently and it’s testimony to the individual who tweaked it that she can engender such emotion.
My friend Miranda, who’s in my book club, was earlier this year diagnosed with breast cancer. Here’s a trap – did you know not all breast cancers start with a lump? She’d had a mammogram a few months before, which was clear, but then noticed an unusual rash on her bosom.
She took this rash to the doctor lickety-split (please, lovely ladies everywhere, never
ignore the slightest wonkiness of a bosom), where it was quickly confirmed to be cancer. Her treatment began a couple of weeks later and she is now more than halfway through her chemotherapy, with a mastectomy and radiotherapy to come.
This would send most of us to bed with a bowl for our tears and a vat for our gin. I know. I’ve had cancer myself, but I took it extremely personally, hated even saying the word, never talked about it, resented the hell out of it, eventually completely recovered from it and remain horribly suspicious of it. Which is not a bad thing.
But Miranda, who is the light of many a life with her quick wit, giant brain, boundless energy, legions of friends, kind heart and open home (to me, anyway – not that I’ve asked; I just show up there a lot), has simply taken it in her masterful stride.
Yes, she was sorry to lose her hair, but it’s nothing a beanie can’t fix. She’s still doing yoga, hiking great hills, filling her house with friends and family, helping out with fundraisers, popping in here and there (one of her truly awe-inspiring skills), and expressing eternal gratitude that she is coping so well with the cocktail of chemicals fighting her pesky disease.
“I’m obviously used to putting disgusting things in me as I’m feeling really good,” she said cheerfully after the first dose.
Now, the thing about my book club is that it’s in Queenstown, but I’m in Auckland. I still go as often as I can for deep-diving into the world’s most contentious literary issues (and wine), but mostly I’m up here and it’s down there. Which was where my embarrassing attack of envy comes in.
In a group email from Miranda to book club: “Hey, girls, I’ve got chemo in Clyde and my friend says the bookclub girls can raid his orchard while I get my fix of toxic waste if you want plums, apples and pears. We could have lunch at Olivers afterwards?”
As I sat slaving over my computer at the other end of the country, watching the flurry of responding emails jumping aboard Central Otago’s funnest trip, I felt my cheeks burning with realisation. I had FOMO over Miranda’s chemo. Rightly so. Everyone had the best time. Even Miranda. I take my beanie off to her.