who is Frank?

It was 12th of June when I first met Frank. He greeted me warmly with a firm grip, ushering me to the chair by his desk. Opposite me was a poster, the kind used to teach children the alphabet. A is for apple, B is for boy, X is for X ray. I didn't notice it at the time.

I'd like to remember what Frank said that day. I copied down some notes from the meeting but none of them make any sense when you read them back. All I remember was Frank's kindly face, his warm demenour and his slight northern accent making you want to believe him. I was soothed by hearing him talk.

Frank is a Gynaecological Oncologist: he changed my life: he told me I had cancer.

Comments

[Scott Denny]

I have an earache, right now, actually, I have had it for several months. In a cyclical way it goes from worse, to not so bad, to forgotten memory -- but, then it comes back and the drainage feels like cement constipated in the side of my cheek. This. This scares me? I was not feeling sorry for myself . . . just scared, knowing the inevitable--the invisible horizon is somewhere, and I am woven within its ubiquity. My absurd fear before I entered your weblog was absorbing every bit of my energy. The moment I read your post though, my thought . . . my thoughts--the governors of my fear--became so superfluous and miniscule that I am ashamed considering it; though, it is a natural malady of humans when alone with nothing but their own vast, abyssmal silence, with only that lonliness of the soul's yearning and voiceless thoughts . . .

I am sorry this is going on. . . the cicadas outside my window have distracted me . . . their choir is not so shrill and unrelenting as it had been in summer. July, they seemed like metals grinding . . . Now,though, they've become less restless,as if, they too with the seasons cooling nights and October's enormous shining moon are all fusing in a blend together: they uncoil, and are a concerta of some other order, digressions. . .

It is nice to feel myself drawn out, and it is strange that I should do this here . . . But, when I read about your fight with cancer, and the bond you have now with Frank, your doctor. I was immediatelly pulled out of my blanketed thoughts and fears of self-absorbtion. I felt--and thought dissipated. I wanted to thank you for that, because I desperately needed it. your courage is an inspiration, I'm glad I was around to read it tonight. Courage and Grace . . til' then.

[DannySea]

Frank was the rabbit in Donnie Darko, so I'm sorry candygirl, you can't ever be him.

Last week me, my good lady, and the nippers were all ill to various degrees with a rather nasty sore throat/cold/cough/flu thing. We recovered. Without Platinum drugs. Without test results. Without disinterested medical care (Sainsbury's bored pharmacist doesn't count). and with our hair. and one week of nausea was enough for us, let alone months. So, hang tough, and keep on reminding us what the important things are. Like friends, like family, and picking up the damn phone.

[candygirl]

Frank...danny darko...of course I loved that movie. Completely over the top teen age angst made real.

[nlhe]

I miss you I miss you I miss you. It's your birthday and you should be here. I read this site so often when you were still here and I never typed a response. Until you had left us. Started many times. Spoke to your Mum last night whose doing well - considering. E pointed out you were born in that time zone not GMT.

We're having a small party to raise a toast to you tonight. Somewhere where we had cocktails with you. One person missing - the birthday girl, one new person to the party, your niece. Who, your Mum tells me, has taken her first step almost to the day at the same age you did. You would be such a proud Aunt. I have to tell you your sister is a fabulous Aunt. But you always knew she was the best. And your brother - well. He really is the best dad. I'm biased of course.

But we are talking about you: it is your birthday. You were such a lively presence and sometimes it's still so shocking to realise still you can't be found on the end of the phone or a taxi ride away. You wouldn't believe it but they've changed one of the bus services so there's a bus that pretty much takes you from your house to our house. I find it outrageous that it's only there now.

I remember this day, sitting in that room with you. I can't remember the poster but I can remember the desk and its little pgeon hole of forms. And how you were brave as ever. Despite the news. And there had i been in the waiting room telling you that it should be OK as it only seemed to be stage 1 from what they told you and ovarian cancer is only so bad because mostly it's only detected at stage 3. Which is what Frank diagnosed about ten minutes later. I felt terrible about my idoitic pre doctor chat. I should have been worrying about you, not me. You were so brave and just remained Emma who we loved. And who we miss. Wish you were here tonight.