With deepest sympathy on your sixty fifth birthday - Susan Morrison

Choosing the right birthday card can be a challenge

One year my husband presented me with Athletes Foot Powder. He’d been blindsided by the slightly attractive packaging and thought it was a kind of ‘after-bath’ thing. His words, not mine.

This proved two things. One, it confirmed my suspicions that his gift buying technique could be summed up as ‘grab and go’ and two, his timing for present sourcing was based on the ‘Just In Time’ principle. He does not shop in advance.

To be fair, he doesn’t like shops at all, being one of those men who prefers to stand flanking the doors of retail establishments like those elegant statues guarding the tombs of Pharaohs.

Cards and flowers are also challenging. Many years ago, when we still worked shifts that ended in the early hours of the morning, my birthday bouquets always had the whiff of the petrol station around them.

It was the same with cards. I still treasure the one with the lovely watercolour of Sweet Williams and Snapdragons on the front. Inside, he’d written ‘Happy Birthday’, oblivious to the words ‘With deepest sympathy’ printed underneath.

The imaging suite of the Western is probably not where I would have chosen to host a little bash for the big 6-5, but it's actually quite a cheery pace and that is entirely down to the fantastic staff.

They are endlessly chuffed to see everyone who comes in. I have long suspected they are probably slightly off their heads having been exposed to that weird diluting juice they serve in there.

Well, for whatever reason, they are more welcoming than some five-star establishments I’ve been in.

They always ask you your name and date of birth, just to make sure they have the right person. Nothing worse than sticking a cannula in the wrong arm.

Trust me, if some passing wannabe Tory MP was just passing by begging for a vote and extended a careless arm for a handshake with a prole, the team in the Western could spot a vein, slide in a needle and have him hooked up to a saline drip before he’s even had time to place a bet on who’s next to be outed for having a sneakily well-informed flutter on the election date.

My nurse Karen took my name, asked my date of birth, checked her form, and realised it was my birthday.

She told the nurse next to her, and she told the receptionist and the entire team burst into ‘Happy Birthday’. It was a lovely gesture, although I have to be brutally blunt. They are great with needles. Less so with harmony.

Also, the only person who actually knew my name was Karen, so at the crescendo, the whole team sang “Happy Birthday dear *everyone holds the note and leans over and reads the piece of paper in Karen’s hand* SUSAN”

Of course, the scanxiety monkeys came out to play. But they didn’t have long.

About a week later and with a comedian's sense of timing, my brilliant oncologist called at 8.27 in the evening, just as I was about to walk on stage at The Stand.

The scan was good, she said. Another clear report. What a birthday present.