Don't tell me sooner or later I'll have to get over,
Sooner or later I'll accept or find a way,
Don't tell me to take each day at a time,
To look for joy in little things,
Sooner or later I'll accommodate.
Sooner or later I'll die:
Just beware I don't kill you first.

This was written in pure anger, after being given some simplistic advice about how to cope with cancer by being positive. Unlike most of her other poems, this was written quickly and left as was.

One thing Sandra could not stand was being told how she should feel. As her carer, I often used to fall into that particular trap at the beginning, and in fact had to watch what I said throughout her illness. After one such bad fall from grace on my part, she completely lost her temper with me, and started pummelling my arm, hard, with clenched fists: the bruises took a couple of weeks to die down, but I had learned my lesson.