I stop shaving my legs: not feminism but a jettison of the energy drain. Thank God my brightly coloured dresses peacock for me. I run for the toilet at every opportunity, certain my bladder will rupture. I press tumour-hunter fingers to my belly but there is only fat, just as there is only ever dust in the nit comb. My manager looks at my hands when he says, last week you looked like you might’ve been doing better. In team meetings we pretend that I am not mining deep, miming the full force of my personality. The unactioned emails in my inbox keep changing. I’ve produced plans for a project it looks like someone else will have to complete. They are solid plans. I don’t remember writing them. Sick leave should be better than losing the job if not better than keeping it. In the first weeks my face salt-cracks with every smile. I sit in the park by the doctors and suncream my neck and poke at should-have-tried-harders. Forgiveness is an ongoing project and recovery seeps through in impatient increments. This weekend I have not kept myself awake because I might at some point in the night need the loo.