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.

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.