For the last week our phone calendars have been flashing up with reminders. I’ve responded to emails requesting finalisation of the tapas dishes we wished to be served.
Today was our wedding day. Except it isn’t, won’t be – because we’re already married!
Despite the diagnosis, we’d intended to stick to our plan of a small wedding in a city that held special memories. The venue, date and catering were all sorted.
But then, well, the awake craniotomy didn’t go as planned. There was the errant left arm, hand, and that learning walk stuff which shifts your focus a bit.
Having been wheeled by a porter from my ward (at Salford Royal NHS Foundation Trust) to the small Christie unit there in January, awaiting a CT scan and radiotherapy mask fitting, and cannula-ed up – we nodded our mutual agreement.
Let’s just do it.
There were formalities to sort out – giving notice and the like – but apart from that it was simple.
We grappled with guilt for a few weeks, I mean could we really not invite anyone? The truth was that it was what we really wanted, and so yes, we did have the guts (and the T-bomb for backup should we need it).
The biggest challenge was finding something to wear. The crutch, and drop foot – I didn’t want to marry in trainers.
I relied heavily on internet shopping and went on mad online sprees, returning most of it soon after it was delivered.
In the end I wore what looked like a trouser suit, but technically wasn’t, and ordered a nude strap for my foot because wearing black under white trousers was most certainly a no no.
Matt looked ever so dashing, and we were coordinated in grey (independently chosen – I add, and surely a good sign if one was needed!!).
What you doing this weekend? Oh, nothing much.
We went to the Register Office in an Uber (how else!). A champagne breakfast was followed by an unhurried lunch, where we were served by a waiter that couldn’t quite decide if our tale of having just got married was a joke or not.
Four weeks into chemoradiotherapy I’d consequently peaked by mid-afternoon. Sneaking across the city, (seriously though – how would I explain my limping around in a very white suit on a grey Saturday to friends/family/colleagues) we spent the evening listening to Bob Dylan, Nick Cave, and caught Meet the Fockers on the sofa (such an underrated comedy classic in my book!).
Quite unsure how I would respond to treatment, yet it wasn’t about that. We did it for the hell of it!
Devoid of grand expectations, the words we exchanged were weightier.
We were married, and the big room felt small.
Wig – courtesy of the NHS