I didn’t cry in front of the doctor who told me I had breast cancer.
I didn’t cry in front of the surgeon who told me I’d need a mastectomy.
But I did cry – great big fat unstoppable tears – in front of the dermatologist who told me the ‘rash’ on my face, chest and back is actually drug-induced acne that may take “several months to clear” after treatment.
Yes, it’s vain, and yes, it’s a tiny thing in comparison with the rest of treatment but it really bugs me that I will be spending the next year or more with a face covered in pimples like a hormonal teenager. Except with more wrinkles.
Of course, if I was a less shallow, more spiritual person I would take the fact that I will soon be one-legged, one-breasted, bald and pizza-faced as an opportunity to fall back on my sparkling personality. But my personality (less sparkling, more sarky) seems to have been replaced by a grumpy, insular, humourless arsehole. Even my father-in-law has noticed that I can’t be bothered to argue with him about sodding Brexit. It’s that bad.
I’m wallowing in angst, spending a lot of time sitting in my bedroom alone with the curtains closed, listening to music and browsing the internet for acne cures. It’s just like being a teenager, without the rebellious fun bits.