Act 2: Beginners Please

My attitude approaching surgery has been different from preparing for my chemotherapy, partly because surgery seems more comprehensible than the potions of the physician.  The surgeon is going to cut the cancer out.  We can all get our heads round that; no need for bewilderment at the technicalities of the chemicals that make up those black covered bags, the contents of which have been pumped into me.  Of course, the surgery is anything but simple, but the concepts are easy to grasp, and therefore the reactions post-surgery should be easier to deal with.  Maybe.

Rollercoasters

Even in the midst of treatment for cancer I have found something to admonish myself for. Part of my soul is relieved as, since I found that lump at the end of June, I seem to be reinventing myself as a wise and content woman of strength, dealing maturely with the challenges that have been thrown up. I can now assure you that inside all that dressing there still lurks a very frightened child screaming ‘why me?’ and ‘it’s all my fault; I deserve this’. Yes, very confusing I agree. So what disappointment has simultaneously soothed and reprimanded? The fact that I promised myself (and by extension my band of readers) a blog at each stage of this process and yet weeks and events have passed with my fingers not reaching for the keyboard. I have thought about writing a number of times and even, unusually for me, thought of a title for the blog before setting finger to keyboard; but it is only now, when I know I’ve ‘let myself down’ that I can get to the job of writing. Why? What is happening now?

Seconds Out

Of the many tangled issues to deal with when living with cancer (oh, doesn’t that sound like the start of an advert ridden click bait you’ve just idly opened), the biggest issue is one of time.  You either have too much or too little of it.  For me, before treatment started there was the creeping anxiety that my grade 3 tumour was going to spread too fast to catch it, and now, I want it all done and over with.  I’ve had one cycle of chemotherapy, I’ve been brave walking forwards into the unknown, now is the time to be told ‘it’s fine, you’re ok’.  It isn’t like that.

Patience

Last Monday I thought about writing this next blog and was worried it might be a bit tedious for the reader used to the high drama of diagnosis and first treatment.  I had got through the worst of the pain of the first chemo and only had my wig appointment to look forward to last week.  Much as I am apprehensive about losing my hair, I’m not agonising about it, not yet. It’s not something I relish, but equally it isn’t something can really do anything about except be practical.  I have written about 'being practical' before, I thought about these things before, this is not new territory for me, and there I was, pondering what might appear in the next blog.  There is a lesson in that, one of those that could be converted into a syrupy meme with a hazy picture of a sunset as background.  Never worry about tomorrow, enjoy today.  If only I had known.

How Was It For You?

Chemotherapy is a highly individual medicine.  It is made for the patient in the hospital pharmacy, once all the patient’s details have been given.  True, the processes within the body are broadly similar, but the body’s response to those chemicals can vary widely.  This makes the next part of my ‘journey’ quite difficult (oh, how I hate that term, but find myself using it and berating myself simultaneously).  While there are commonalities between people having chemotherapy, nobody can tell you how it will affect you.  Those of us who read the ‘side effects’ lists on drugs will know that there is a tendency for drug companies to cover themselves and put all manner of ‘side effects’ as potentials.  These days the companies helpfully categorise side effects so you have an idea of what is common and what is not, but facing something so fear-inducing as chemotherapy, my usual way of dealing with things by trying to understand what is coming is rendered useless, partly through my own fear.  Cutting off my hair, which I don’t like even if it does make me look so much younger, was something I could choose to do to mitigate the effects of what was coming.  However, I have always been aware that to some extent I must surrender.   This I have found tricky, because to surrender I have to trust, and life has taught me that is a bad idea. 

The Enemy Within

The euphoria following the test results left me a bit stunned.  So many people were genuinely relieved that my cancer is localised, and my daughters were, frankly, shocked.  Not disappointed shocked, but the worry had so invaded their souls and bones, that they, and I, were numb with relief.  Of course, whilst the good news was amazing, the process of dealing with my cancer had to continue, and the next thing was a visit to the oncologist.  I hung round when the post was due, and if I’d been out, my eyes scanned the post on the mat with a practised eye, looking for a tell tale white envelope with a local franking mark.  Sometimes they are marked ‘confidential’, at other times they are quite innocuous.  Kit had told me I would hear in the next two weeks, but, as ever, the appointment arrived a few days after the results of my tests, with an appointment for the following Thursday to see the oncologist.

Hair Today

It has taken quite a lot to get down to writing this week, not something I’ve had a problem with in the past, but I promised myself I would write this as a record for me, so rather than assume I’d remember all that happened this week, I have kept my promise to myself and opened the laptop.

Alongside my own ‘extraordinary, ordinary storm in a teacup’ we have had a very hot summer.  I’m not sure whether the mind numbing heat has somehow allowed me to attribute some of my perceptions to be clouded.  Was it the heat that made it seem so unreal and otherworldly or have I just got used to the idea of having cancer and settled down a bit more into the reality of my diagnosis?  Or is it, like the amnesia that happens after childbirth, the mind in an attempt to help you deal with the past, just wipes it from the front of your mind and files it away quickly and efficiently, so the pain that so overwhelmed has diffused and gone.  With the passing of time I can recall the pain, but in the year after my first daughter was born that perception faded, only to come into stark clarity as soon as I got pregnant with number two.  It’s one of those ‘old wives tales’, I’m sure, for I didn’t have life threatening issues in childbirth, but I am told one of the problems of having the father of your child with you at the birth is it can be very distressing to see your loved one in such pain, and something that doesn’t fade with the passing of time.

Testing, Testing, Testing

Part of the information given to me by the breast surgeon was the notification that several tests were to be undertaken.  Primarily to determine whether the cancer might have spread, but also to insert a clip into the tumour as a marker.  As I have Herceptin receptive cancer they want a way to measure the tumour’s progress with the chemotherapy. The tests were to be a bone scan and a CT scan, in addition to the MRI.  All this is very business like and efficient and you must admit they really are looking after me.  I’m now at the end of my week of tests, with no results yet, and feel I’m passing through a gateway.  Actually, the picture that comes to mind is one of an Ancient Greek adventurer in a small wooden boat passing under a natural stone bridge between two islands.  Something like Jason and Argonauts, from the original fabulously engaging 1963 version with special effects that so entranced me as a child.  I’m sailing into new unchartered waters, and with this, I know I’m changing how I regard myself.

The Tricky Second Post

Whilst I thought I was able to anticipate the reaction to my first post following my cancer diagnosis, the outpouring of good will has been slightly overwhelming.  This has set up a spiritual battle within me, and one, if you’ve read the rest of the blog, that won’t surprise you.  It is the sin of pride.  I am delighted that people have read my story, relieved I haven’t had to repeat it over and over again, watching faces try and assemble themselves out of shock and into a supportive caring pose, relieved to have got it all written down.  However, at the same time I am aware that pride in my achievements is dangerous thing.  This awareness was inculcated from early childhood.  If you’ve ever met my brother, you know he’s an extremely modest man.  He did try to justify his enormous professional success to luck, but as his big sister I hotly contested that and told him very firmly that luck was only part of it, his intelligence and very hard work had far more to do with it, and that his success was also entirely justified.   He was uncomfortable at my assertion, much as I have been uncomfortable with the plaudits that have been flung my way.  Unlike his undeniable success, I am aware that those who didn’t like or didn’t want to read the blog probably have just side-stepped saying anything to avoid hurting my feelings at such a challenging time in my life.  I hope that those who want to avoid my musings will just avoid the blog, and I have a small gang of supporters who will forgive any vainglorious smugness that may appear. Though today, I feel anything but proud, my main emotion is one of terror.

The Big C

My brother and I have always known that we are on the A list for cancer.  I’ve always kept fit, neither of us smoke any more and he drinks less than I do.  Is there something else I should have done or not done?  Would it have made a difference?  It’s one of the thoughts that lurks once you have a diagnosis: did I deserve this?

I can almost hear the readers screaming ‘NO’ the looks of outrage accompanied by veritable thought bubbles of denial, and at this time at the start of the process to rid my body of the cancer that has grown, it is probably the least helpful thing I can do.  I find it hard to accept that the cancer is part of me, it seems much easier to see it as an alien invader, but of course it is not.  I’m no expert, although I fear I’m going to acquire a great deal of knowledge I would be much happier never knowing, but I find it hard to accept that something growing inside me has the power, almost it feels, the desire, to destroy me.

10 Years On

Well here we are, 10 years on, and I have, much to my surprise in those early years, survived.  Sadly, of course, I have not found lasting happiness, but there is time for that, so I tell myself.

I made this sad little slide show in August 2008, partly as a way to teach myself to use the application, but also as a way to try and vent my raw, desperate feelings.  I've always kept it, and rarely shown it, partly because it is very rough round the edges, and partly because it is a personal salute to the life I lost.  However, fingers crossed my life is about to change again, and, fingers even more firmly crossed plus prayers, for the better.  Who knows?  My problems are quite small compared to the suffering even here on the streets of Norwich, with a roof over my head and enough money to feed and clothe myself adequately.  It would be nice to find a new happy ever after, which seems as much of an impossibility as James leaving me all those years ago, so there has to be hope.

I have survived, some might say I have even thrived, and that is to be celebrated in these dark days of winter.