Back in October and November, when I was a newbie at the breast cancer clinic, and still going through the am I going to die? phase, I used to watch the 'graduates' breeze into the waiting room with a huge degree of envy.
These were the ladies coming back for their check ups. Often they sported short, gamine, post chemo hair styles. They looked confident and healthy. The breast nurses would greet them by name, give them a big hug and make a fuss of them.
Meanwhile, I'd be sitting, pale faced and traumatised, waiting for the results of my MRI scan, or lymph biopsy, or whatever, thinking one day, maybe, that'll be me: through the worst and out the other side.
Well, today it's my turn.
I have an appointment with my consultant, who haven't seen for two months.
The way the whole cancer thing works is like a conveyor belt. Your consultant surgeon does the initial diagnostic work and the operation. They then hand you over to the oncologist. They, in turn, pass you over to the radiotherapist, and when they've done with you, you get sent back to the consultant surgeon again for 'check up and sign off'.
I've been looking forward to it. Because once this one's out of the way, I don't have another hospital appointment for six whole months. I'd been planning to take chocolates for the nurses, and make a mini party out of the event.
But now I'm scared.
What if I don't graduate? What if I discover that I've failed, that I'm not 'all clear' and I have to start again at the beginning?
I've just started to move on from the whole cancer thing. It's been feeling a bit like that episode of Dallas, where Bobby steps out of the shower and realises that the whole of the previous series has been a dream. It all feels like the last three months all happened to someone else.
My lefty is all healed, and looking pretty good (well, it wasn't perfect to start off with, but at least it doesn't scare the children if they walk in when I'm having a bath). At the moment, I seem to have virtually no Tamoxifen side effects. I'm pretty much back to 'normal'.
Right now, I have that familiar knot of anxiety in my stomach (the one that feels very much like an alcohol craving). In fact, if it wasn't ten thirty in the morning I'd crack open a Becks Blue.
I'd reassured Mr SM, breezily, that he didn't need to take time off work to come with me, as it was all 'routine.' Now I'm regretting that.
I can't go over it. I can't go under it. I have to go through it.
Wish me luck.