Sex, Drugs, and Taxol

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of health, it was the age of sickness, it was the epoch of vitality, it was the epoch of mortality.

It’s all just paradox, isn’t it? As soon as you’re born, you start dying.

I’ve always wanted to excel in life, and it looks like I’m on the accelerated track. I took the fast track into life, too, joining the ranks of the rest of the planet 8 weeks before my scheduled due date. At least I’m consistent.

I remember explaining this little story to my doctor. He was not amused.

“Isla,” he said sternly. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of your illness”.

Oh, I understood. To the centimetre. Approximately 4 to be precise. The size of a walnut. Coincidentally, I was also at Stage 4, the most advanced kind. What can I say? I like to be the best at everything. Even if that’s growing cancer cells, apparently.

If there is a God, He has an odd sense of humour. It’s probably cliché, but it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Things had just started to feel like they were moving in the right direction. Moved out of my parents’ flat? Check. Made partner at the law firm? Check. Learned to how to successfully navigate through a gaggle of tourists on Portobello Road? Double check. When life is short, always go antiquing.

Now that I finally have that corner office, it is poetic justice that I will not be around to enjoy it. Slaving away 14 hours a day to secure a 40 meter office just to find myself 6 feet under.

Now I have 14 months.

“Best to start getting your affairs in order now,” the doctor said.

He was right. I should get my affairs in order. Starting with Alistair.

If I was waiting for him to make the first move, I would be waiting until I was dead. Literally.

I resolved to get myself a new pair of stockings and fresh lipstick on the way home from the hospital. Perhaps a set of indicators in case he still missed my signals. It’s been 3 years, and the thought of brazenly advertising my availability in neon lights seemed necessary at this point.

We would bump into each other on the lift almost every morning, him with his quad espresso, me with my double-bagged Early Grey. The closest we came to even talking was when the lift made its usual hiccup on the third floor, sending my ill-fitted top toppling to the tile below. A few splashes of tea made their way onto my blouse, and he instinctively reached for his pocket square and angled towards my bosom before realizing his faux pas.

His intentions were noble, merely to cleanse my shirt of its offenses. I was far more interested in his less noble intentions, but there didn’t seem to be any. If there were, they were, in stereotypically British fashion, kept close to his bespoke-suited chest.

If it is not bull or bear, Alistair is not interested. The stock market was all he seemed to notice, and given I:

A. am not even remotely interested, and

B. once thought a ‘bull market’ was a specialty shop for male-specific cow products, I don’t think he would bat an eyelash if I wasn’t on a stock ticker.

But I would have to get creative. I was running out of time, and there was none of it to waste.

Alistair was first on the list, but he certainly would not be the last. I fully intended on making the most of the time I had left. 12 seemed like a perfectly reasonable number. A standard number of eggs in a carton, the number of Jesus’ apostles. The number of men who would help me find my way. Or spread the gospel if you’re feeling cheeky. I was. I had 14 months, and I may as well make the most of them.