'Dog Training for Cancer Companions' by Jo Withers

Sit – Longer than is comfortable, on hard resistant hospital chairs. Like they were designed to increase anxiety. Scrutinize every public information poster without taking in a single word. Do not speak or try to lighten the mood. Appointments over-run and days disappear but outside life is fading anyway.

Fetch – Around the clock. You are now an emergency nurse with no training. You work the day and night shift. You jump every time he breathes deeply and bring water before he asks.

Play dead – Forget who you once were and every small thing which seemed important. There are no irritating days at work, no frustrations with the children, no sickness or worries for you. These are instantly dwarfed by his condition and would be selfish to mention.

Heel – Stand close-knit together, form a protective inner circle of privacy. Be mindful not to bore friends with suffering and set-backs. Keep situation contained. (Note: Sudden and unexpected bouts of tenderness can sometimes arise from the intimacy of these dark times but on other days you’ll both feel claustrophobic.)

Beg – Constantly of everything. Hope harder than you thought was possible. Pray for the first time in thirty years. Make silent, supernatural pacts with the universe – if I get through the crossing before the lights change his tests will show improvement, if it stops raining before we get home he won’t need the operation. Never drop the baton of worry or stop thinking about him for a moment or you will lose the game.

Rollover – Accept his mood, the backlash, his bitter envy of your health. Absorb his frustration. Deflect the stinging blows from his savage tongue. Remember it is just the treatment talking (screaming), somewhere underneath he is still the same.

Stay – Although sometimes you don’t want to. Terrified by each new symptom. Wishing for just one normal day. Hoping you both reach the other side.

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First published by Reflex Fiction.