No, I get up when I wake now. Softly, so as not to disturb the other two. I make myself a green tea, and if it’s cold I open the curtains, curl up on the couch, and watch the world awaken from within my sanctuary. But if it is warm, or I am feeling particularly scared of what is coming and need reassurance that I am still alive, I go out, onto the deck, and let the morning chill steal my breath and tiptoe across my skin, springing goose bumps up in its wake.

I watch the stars fade out as the sky lightens, from black to inky denim to baby blue, the horizon hazy with the colors of a new dawn. And I smile, and I breathe, and I give thanks that I have made it through another night and been gifted with one more day. Because it is a gift. I know that now.

Some of the people I have met through the cancer network, which stretches its tentacles far and wide, have referred to cancer itself as A Gift. For differing reasons; it truly made them appreciate their loved ones, their job, the very fact they have life. Being ill gave them the kick up the arse they needed to finish that book they started writing ten years ago/buy that motorcycle/jump out of that plane/end that dead-end relationship/mend those bridges. It has given them perspective.

I don’t agree.

My cancer has not been a gift. Yes, it has changed the way I view or interpret certain situations and circumstances, and it has caused me to physically slow down and focus on what is the most important thing to me, day to day, even sometimes hour by hour. But if I had a choice between being terminally ill and living the way I used to live, with blinkers on, I’d take living any day. Hands down.

Perspective is good. But a fat lot of good it will do you when you’re lying in a hole in the ground.

“Morning.” Kate emerges from the house, coffee in hand, blinking in the unadulterated pureness of the morning light.

“Another stunning day in paradise,” Amanda says, joining us. She is wearing sunglasses, as if she is not ready to face the light of day. Last night her band played a gig as a favor to the publican of our local. A short, rotund guy named Gary, he has known us since we were fourteen and hiding in the bushes outside his pub balcony, ready to pilfer unconsumed alcohol from glasses and cigarette butts from ashtrays.

“Ugh,” she groans, collapsing into one of the deck chairs. “You know the day-after recovery gets harder the older we get? I’d hate to see what we’ll be like when we’re forty.”

There’s an uneasy silence while we digest her words.

“Shit. Sorry, Ava. Shit.”

She is stricken with her thoughtlessness but she needn’t be. I don’t expect everyone to filter every word before it comes out of their mouth on the off chance it might upset me.