Last time I saw you, I was lying in a hospital bed, back in March.

You really chose your moment, didn't you? I had to have my biopsy that morning. Whilst the biopsy itself wasn't so bad, afterwards I had to stay motionless on my back for six hours - possibly, the longest six hours of my life, although the time I spent on the back of that motorbike on my way from Lyon to Brussels came pretty close.

After a while, all I could think about was the pain in my back, tears leaking out of my eyes, sipping water with a straw because I could only raise my head a little.

I remember them announcing my diagnosis and the proposed treatment while I was flat on my back. I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry, but I wasn't allowed to move. I let those fat tears just run down my cheeks - they were still there when Big turned up. Between sobs, I told him what they'd told me. His own tears joined mine as he held me.

So when you came, it wasn't a great time. I wasn't at my best, wasn't prepared for your visit, even though your arrival heralded a kind of relief. You stayed for a few days - a breath of normality when everything else was alien and scary.

Then you were gone.

For six months, I didn't see you. I wondered if I would see you ever again. Sometimes I would wake up in the night in a cold sweat and would convince myself that you were gone forever. I'd kind of resigned myself to it, and was okay with that.

But is that you I can see? Is that you I can feel? Your presence is as comforting as it is irritating. What you represent is not what I want or need. And yet.

What you do is contribute to my feeling normal again.

You.
My period.