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.
So what has happened this week? Monday was a steaming hot day, and I cycled
into the city to have my haircut. It had
been irritating for quite a while, and had I been going on holiday I would have
it cut ten days earlier ready for the trip.
However, I have had to cancel my planned holiday so I can be available
for all the appointments I need at the hospital. DN2 was meant to be coming with me on the
holiday and she has been most upset at losing the holiday (and with it the
money for the flights for reasons that are a bit tedious to explain) and she
remarked that I had not complained, which made her feel guilty. It hadn’t occurred to me to complain, I was
the one with cancer and the thought of delaying some treatment so I could
continue lying on a beach seemed an idiotic thing to contemplate. Unfortunately, my Timehop app on my tablet
has been showing posts from my holidays over the years. The only other year I didn’t get a holiday
was the year James left for the first time.
He came back after 6 days away and I spent the rest of that year fussing
round him, worrying about him and not me.
I remember him remarking he wasn’t sure how I was doing it, I wasn’t
sure either, but when he finally left I fell apart, which is a timely reminder
to look after myself.
I had thought quite a lot about what might
be facing me, and if there was anything I could do to be prepared. Of course, if the cancer had spread, then I
suppose it was time to dig out the bucket list, but on Monday I didn’t know
that. On Monday I was trying to carry on
although the worry of the test results was beginning to weigh down on me. It was getting harder and harder to close that
metaphorical beautiful box lid. One of
the ways I dealt with those thoughts was to try and be practical at what the
most likely path was for me. The breast
surgeon had outlined what the most likely path was to be, but before that could
start I had to have tests to confirm I just had breast cancer. I can’t remember his exact words, but
interestingly DN2 interpreted them differently from me. In her mind, so it transpired later this
week, she believed the surgeon knew more than what he was saying and he knew I
was going to die. I took it very
differently, but isn’t interesting how we can understand something different
from the same words? The breast care
nurse had told me that the chemo does usually result in hair loss or though you
could have a cold cap that does help some people. I had decided that I wasn’t going to wait for
my hair to start coming out in handfuls, that seemed to make the situation
worse. So I had resolved to have my hair
cut off. Not in a nice, neat bob, but
really short. I had talked to almost
anybody who talked to me about this, I had looked up on the internet Jamie Lee
Curtis, Judi Dench and tried to navigate Pinterest search results so I could
look at the options available. I have
never had my hair short, not a short style that is not but short and doesn’t
masquerade as a little feminine bob. Conditioned
from early life to be ‘feminine’ and always reinforced with the view that
someone my size could never be a ‘elfin pixie’ type of woman, the idea of short
hair previously appalled me. My first
serious relationship after James left was with a man who found me really
attractive and liked long blonde hair.
So, I grew out my bob, and for many years have really enjoyed long,
blonde hair. I started out as a natural
blonde, but that faded with time. My
mother never encouraged me to colour my hair (that was something for ‘loose
women’ to do). I know now that colouring
my hair improves the weight of my very fine hair, and for many years I have had
long blonde hair. I was very fortunate
to be recommended to an excellent hairdresser by one of my new neighbours when
I moved to my rented house and have settled down to a routine of visiting her
every few months to have the long, straight, blonde hair trimmed, and the roots
and grey covered effectively.
I had messaged my hairdresser to explain the
situation and that this time I wanted a very short cut and no colour. I cycled to my appointment, as ever, mindful
of the fact that soon there will be a time when I shall not be able to man
handle my bike out of the house and feel the breeze on my cheeks as I pedal off. Soon I shall be restricted in all I do as the chemicals kill off my white
blood cells in an attempt to give me back my life. It’s quite difficult to get your head round
the severity of the treatment I’m about to face. I am reminded of Harry Potter facing
Voldemort, not wanting to be cowering in fear, but stand up and take it. Hence the haircut. The thought of vomiting, holding my hair out
of the way and it coming off in my hands and getting mixed up with the vomit is
quite revolting. I can’t stop how much
this is going to hurt, but I can try and ‘look it in the eye’. Mel the hairdresser asked if I was really
sure, and I said yes, so she took me off to wash my hair, and then started
cutting. I did ask ‘how much are you
cutting off’ and all she would reply was ‘lots’.
So now, for the first time in my life I
have very short hair. It’s no longer
blonde, but dark mouse with some strands of blonde and grey at the front. It has been universally applauded as
flattering, (taking years off me, I am assured). I’ve been out and bought mousse and wax to
style the hair before it goes. There are
days when I like the freedom, and certainly when the heat was upon us it was a
blessed relief. But as time goes on, I still
find myself thinking, ‘I must take my hair down’ then I remember, I left it all
on the hairdresser’s floor.
When the phone call came from Kit the nurse
on Tuesday afternoon, it was the best results I could hope for. The cancer is only in the left breast. She once again reminded me that the drugs
that I am to be given could make the tumour disappear altogether. There is a lot to be grateful for, and the relief
is astounding. I have allowed myself to
read the nhs website and the macmillan website, and I find chilling sentences
such as ‘the drugs are to be used for as long as they are useful’ for those
with advanced breast cancer. I don’t
have that. I have an aggressive
tumour. But hopefully, maybe, this is
something that can be destroyed, rather than the person around it. The statistics are favourable. So I keep telling myself.
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