The Max Factor

It’s been three weeks since my hospital discharge. Since then I’ve received the results of my biopsy and I’m delighted to say that my tumour came back benign. The exorcism had worked. Its arse was grass. That malicious mo-fo was gone. I was so relieved. All I had to do now was heal.  

But the road to recovery hasn’t been easy. It’s actually been one big, fat long stretch of empty. A yawning, sprawling blanket of tedium briefly interrupted with intermittent flashes of unbearable pain, all of which have prompted displays of unparalleled psychopathic behaviour.

With the entire mid-section of my body held together with Egyptian mummy quantities of bandages and topped off with a stomach brace that gives Bridget Jones’ knickers a run for their money, I’ve been rendered completely useless.

I feel like I’ve fallen off the edge of the world. Marooned. A permanently pajama’d beached whale. So naturally, I’m dealing with this in the only way I know how…

By morphing into some kind of frothy-mouthed she-devil who spends much of her time wallowing in a cesspit of despair.  I could effortlessly reduce even the bravest of men to rubble.

Well…all bar one.

Max.

Max has just spent the last two years hiking around India. He’s scaled the Himalayas, grappled with ferocious wild animals and lost his own bodyweight in sweat crossing jungles and barren deserts. All to raise money and awareness for India’s poor. So if there’s anyone best equipped to deal with my shenanigans, it’s him.

Which is fortunate for me because Max just so happens to be my boyfriend.

Over the last few weeks Max has shopped, cleaned and cooked for me, endured my tears and she-devil tantrums, scraped me off the floor and genuinely saved me from disappearing up my own arse.

He’s even given me his own blood. It turns out we’re not just a love match, but compatible all the way down to the capillary level. Max, as I only very recently discovered, was my mystery transfusion donor. Even my parents, who've despised all my past partners, have started calling him ‘Saint Max’.

And it doesn’t stop there…

Here in Goa, his actions have acquired him legendary status. He’s helped everyone from the local village boy to the big shot businessman. Blokes want to emulate him. And girls want to throw their knickers at him. It’s like dating Brad Pitt. Except that right now, I don’t feel anything like his Angelina Jolie.

Nonetheless, his good nature and unflagging optimism have managed to tame the heinous she-devil that I’ve become and she’s slowly inching her back in her box. I’m beginning to feel much more human again.

And with the Max Factor beside me as well as inside me – I'm like a whole new person, ready to take on the New Year, armed with all the strength, courage and support I could possibly need.