Friday
Just as with a newly broken heart or a bereavement, the only decent moment of the day is the first millisecond of wakefulness before the horrid reality floods into the conscious mind. I wake, open my eyes, swallow searchingly, and there it is ... the blockage I noticed five weeks ago, assuming it was psychosomatic (it became noticeable while I was re-reading John Diamond's account of his throat cancer on the day after his death). However, I am now convinced it is a growth.
Saturday
When Rebecca finds me sliding my Adam's apple from side to side, she seems concerned. "If you really are worried," she says, "shouldn't you see the doctor?" But I did see a doctor, a new chap at the Grove called Thomson, who said everything was fine, as far as he could see. The thing is, what's going on where he can't see?
Sunday
Rebecca returns from walking the dog to find me ending a call to my mother. "What does she think?" she asks as I put the phone down. "She thinks it's psychosomatic." "Well, there you are." "There I am? Where am I? My mother isn't a doctor." "Yes," says my wife, "but she thinks she is." "Well, what do you think it is?" "I don't think I'm a doctor, so I've no idea." The ensuing silence is not merely pregnant but nine months gone with triplets. "So what exactly should I say?" Rebecca mutters, eventually. "You're meant to say, and we've been through it a million times, 'I don't know, but I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.' " "OK," says Rebecca, "I don't know, but I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." "How on earth can you be sure?" I say, as she storms towards the stairs. "You're not a doctor."
Monday
As dusk falls over Shepherd's Bush I retrieve my wife's address book from its current hiding place (a Wellington Boot drying out in the boiler room). But when I turn to the J section, I find that the last two numbers of Sarah Jarvis's home number have been Tipp-Exed out. It could be any one of a 100 possibilities, from 00 to 99, and I am just apologising for dialling a wrong number for the 42nd time when Rebecca appears to confiscate the book.
Tuesday
I awake limp and morose after a monstrously troubled night. In the dream, Dr Jarvis refers me to a Harley Street ENT specialist, who turns out be the youthful-looking public health minister Yvette Cooper. Midway through the prissy lecture about smoking, she notices that her Hear'Say CD is visible on the desk and slides it beneath under the pile of Jackies and Just 17s. Then she takes the endoscope and slides it down my throat. "I'm very sorry," she murmurs after removing it, "but you're right, there is something there. Remind me, when did you notice a problem?" At this, the tumour leaps out of my throat. "About five weeks ago," says the tumour, pointing at me. "It started as a boil on my arse."
Wednesday
Wearily, Dr Jarvis asks me for the symptoms (I have cracked the home number on only the 73rd attempt), and 40 seconds into my resumé she interrupts. "Globus," she says. "It's something called globus hystericus, a psychosomatic condition brought on by ... hang on, I'll get the book." A minute later she returns. "Blah, blah, blah ... found in people with a strong fear of cancer," she paraphrases, "blah, blah ... brought on by a friend or neighbour contracting throat cancer." "Oh, you won't like this," she continues, before asking me to attend the Grove at 8.30am tomorrow, "it says the only way to set your mind at rest is an endoscopy."
Thursday
In Room 19, Dr Jarvis says my throat looks fine but refers again to the endoscopy. "I won't need that, doctor. It's gone." She smiles. "I see, so my diagnosis convinced you." "Yes. Well, no. Rebecca's friend Gerry was over last night, and when I mentioned my problem she said she'd had absolutely the identical thing. Astonishing. And the second she told me that, the lump went. Not of course," I add, noticing a thinning of the doctor's lips, "that your diagnosis didn't help." But it's too little too late, and pausing only to print out an eardrop prescription (a touch of otitis externa), Dr Jarvis rises smartly and guides me through her door.
