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.

My decision to go public with my diagnosis was carefully thought out.  Plenty of people, although they may not say it to my face, would prefer these things to be on a ‘need to know basis’ and in doing so they keep their private suffering, private.  Having been emotionally shaken by quite so many kind comments when I broadcast my diagnosis on Facebook, I can see where they are coming from, their need to save their energy for ‘the fight’.  However, one thing I have learnt since James left all those years ago, is the goodness and generosity of friends.  Real human relationships are not about sly one upmanship and protecting yourself against all comers but finding pleasure in people.  All this makes me sound borderline saint like, and if you know me, you know that is far from the truth.

If you’ve ever seen a really good musical performer, and I could mention names, but we’d probably all disagree on who qualifies as ‘really good’, you might notice that the best draw energy from the crowd.  It can be many thousands of people but the performer seems to grow in magnificence as they sing.  Actually, I’m thinking of Freddie Mercury and I’d arm wrestle anyone who disagrees with me that he wasn’t astounding on stage.  If your brain is running on you might be thinking ‘heck she sees herself as Freddie Mercury?’ but no, the analogy isn’t that exact.  I draw strength from others, I am supported by others, and I, in turn, support.  My children comment on how many friends I have, and it is true, I do make friends.  I lose them too, either nastily or not.  It is one of my friends, a relatively new one and colleague, who said she’d like to read my blog of this experience.  Through the break up of my marriage, and my subsequent break up with Pete, I wrote a lot.  It helped me a lot, partly because I was suicidal a lot of the time and fighting for find a reason to go on.  This time, of course, it’s very different.  I’m fighting to live.  The statistics are favourable, the treatments superb, but not everyone pulls through.  My daughters and I have that thought rushing through our heads more or less constantly.  I don’t know what I’m fighting, but I fear it’s going to be one hell of a struggle.  If nothing else, it will be useful to look at how I feel now, once I get through.  One of the ways I saved myself when I was suicidal was to find a way of expressing myself when a strong inner compulsion was drawing me to jump off the Orwell Bridge.  Many, many kind people have mentioned how strong I am, and in truth I don’t feel it.  What do weak people do then?  Die?  I doubt it.  All of us when faced with what I am facing would find reserves, it’s what being human is all about.  My ordinary extraordinary drama in a teacup, as I said to the MRI staff today.

So today was MRI day.  A hot dry Sunday lunchtime at the hospital.  The MRI department works seven days a week up to 8pm.  The staff were lovely.  For some reason my cannula fell out and I had to have another one fitted.  It didn’t hurt but as I wriggled into position on the table, I was frightened.  Lying on my stomach with my boobs in two large cups, my arms above my head.  Not the most comfortable position to lie in for 30 minutes, but at least I couldn’t see the tube I was placed in.  The table I was lying on slid into place, I could feel my arms jammed up against the sides of the tube.  A thought to panic crossed my mind, but then I thought, ‘this is for you, for you to get better, just breathe and keep going’.   As the machined whirred into noisy action I decided to think of my happy thoughts, and dear readers this will shock you, I thought of sex.  Of all the glorious loving sex I’ve had in my life.  No, I am not going into details (sighs of relief all round I’m sure) but I sunk into the memories of places and people, of the ecstasy and completeness.  Then, so’s not to get too ‘diverted’ I thought of skiing my favourite runs in Austria, of that glorious letting go when it’s easy and you feel complete.  The machine stopped every so often and I was asked if I was ok.  I was, I was coping.  Next, I remembered dear lovely Cloud and galloping across the stubble and up Fysh Hill.  I remembered the power of him letting go, those hindquarters pounding, almost out of control, and him coming back to me on my voice, ‘Steady’ and he would slow, puffing and throwing his head in exultation.

The last three minute scan was hard because I knew the end was coming and my arms were sore.  But it was over, and I was out, feeling a tad wobbly and no less frightened than before if I’m honest.  I had to wait to see if they needed blood tests and as the first cannula had spurted into the eyes of the radiologist, creating potential cross infection,  but no.  DN1 and I came back here and she’s on her way to her home.

Does it help to tell you?  Well, yes, dear friends.  Let’s hope this story has a happy ending.  I fear it’s going to be a long saga though, long and quite bloody, but onwards is the only way to go.