Hysteroscopy
It was a treat to be a burden, a problem for other people to solve, rather than always being the one to do the solving, although doubtless I’d soon grow tired of it. How will we get mother to the hospital? Who will make the dinner now, who can look after her while I get to rehearsal, and then me in the middle, a great big useless lump, smiling benignly, waiting for decisions to be made, wanting no more than to be warm, get my shoes off, get the telly on. Perhaps I shall lean in to this newly enfeebled state. I might unearth a latent love of custard creams and afternoon game shows. Just put a blanket over me, darling, and let me dribble gently to the sound of canned laughter, advertisements for funeral plans. Yes, I’m quite happy, thank you. Leave me be now. Legs up in stirrups, five other women in the room, bustling about my gash, centre stage as always. A kind nurse held my hand and whispered gentle nonsense at me. She asked what I did: I said I was a writer. Will you write abou...