This is me, now: bald, vomiting, sweating with fever, fear and hellish agony. Malignant cervix, malignant liver, malignant thoughts. I am building up a hatred for my pal on the next-door bed – he is so cheerful (unlike the nurses, he is not even paid to be so). I couldn’t care less for – ‘aren’t we lucky?-It is sunny for the third day running, and in April!’. It is of no relevance to me when I am unable to be outside, feeling the sunshine and breathing fresh air. I’m stuck here and who knows for how long?

The ward round approaches. It is an unjust match-five medical professionals (four really, one just a work experience school girl) versus one me. Me, anonynised in grey gown, and them, anonymised in white coats. There is only one question that I want to ask, but it is a different one that leaves my mouth. However, they must have known exactly what I meant when I asked them ‘How am I?’

Their meager answer, ‘Your blood pressure is looking much better. Good work, keep it up Mrs Jones!’

It is not rocket science, Christ ! I’ve given birth to my only child. All I want to know is, for how much longer she will have a living mother.