The Wall

I am aware the metaphors are being thrown around somewhat indiscriminately in this blog thread.  Some days it’s all about a show in five acts; today I draw upon the marathon analogy of ‘hitting the wall’. I haven’t run a marathon and probably never will now.  My last boyfriend was training for a marathon when we got together; it added to his glamour.  To be possessed of such resilience and determination clearly singled him out as someone special; to tackle such a difficult feat for the first time in his fifties also, so I told myself, suggested someone ready to take on a new way, moving forwards into the future.  Fortunately, my then psychotherapist warned me kindly that he was in a period of change and I was probably a transition after the end of his marriage and when he had settled again, I would be cast aside.  At the time I tried not to think of the warning, but it was prophetic.

FEC! (as Father Jack might say)

Chemo has started again.  Having braved the procedures last year, was it easier to walk through the doors of the chemo ward?  The answer to that is, unsurprisingly I’m sure, both yes and no.  A friend who had not accompanied me before was at my side for this first of three FEC chemotherapy treatments.  Whilst FEC is a standard breast cancer treatment, this day would be new to me and I felt something like a first former having moved up a year, the walls of the classroom were the same but the books were very different.  To add to the novelty, my appointment was for a Friday at 3pm rather than a Wednesday at 8.30am.  I wasn’t one of the new patients for the new day: the rhythms were well established, the comfy seats occupied and the biscuit basket had made many laps of the ward already.

Intermission

I’m in another ‘downtime’ phase after the excitement of my histology results.  They were almost as good as they could have been, with no cancer in the lymph node, the tumour completely removed, and evidence that the chemotherapy had killed more than 90% of the cancer cells.  I was genuinely surprised, because I had to have a therapeutic mammoplasty rather than a lumpectomy, as the footprint of the tumour appeared largely unchanged from MRI data.  I was bracing myself for more surgery, disappointing chemo results and spreading cancer, but none of this has happened.  It seems that the only reliable evidence is when you get to see the tumour for real and the histopathologist can do his (it was a ‘his’ in this case, not my casual sexism) analysis.  It felt like the horizon was opening up in front of me, such was the relief that enveloped me.  Nevertheless, my mood has changed as I deal with the practicalities of life now and what comes next.