Then someone places a metaphorical hand on me or gives me a virtual hug or reminds me that I’m one of the lucky ones; I swallow my scream because it really wouldn’t do to be ungrateful.
But this is my cancer. This is my experience of cancer. And I’ll damn well scream if I want to.
When my diagnosis of breast cancer came at the end of November 2014 (an experience not for the keyboard today) it felt as if my world had fallen apart. As a 43 year old mum of two boisterous boys I simply didn’t have time for cancer, but here I was, in the undeniably crap position of having a diagnosis just before Christmas. That was that.
Surgery came quickly in the form of a single mastectomy and reconstruction and I hoped (fervently) that no more treatment would be necessary, oh, apart from at least ten years on the hormone Tamoxifen which would give me menopause symptoms and is reportedly really quite awful but of course I had to be grateful because I was one of the lucky ones; my lymph nodes were clear. This cancer business is all about making deals, you know.
Unluckily – it turned out – the tumours (hate that word, much prefer ‘lumps’) were bigger and faster growing than expected. Chemotherapy for me. They told me on New Year’s Eve. Then I vomited into the tiny sink in one of the tiny examination rooms at the Breast Clinic I had become so familiar with. That was also that.
Which brings me forward. My letter arrived in the post yesterday telling me the exact time and date of my first chemotherapy appointment. Not the appointment where they interview you and you sign stuff and they give you advice about drinking less alcohol and tell you gravely that your hair will fall out, that your nails might fall off, that you might feel terrible for a few days or a week even. We all know the effects of chemo don’t we? Even if we’ve never known a person who has had it, we’ve seen it on TV, in the media, and it looks really bloody scary.
So yes, the letter came; my stomach turned and I ran to the toilet just in time NOT to poo my own pants – which my children would have found hilarious no doubt. Reality hit good and hard. No amount of practicing tying scarves around my head or banking up box sets to watch and books to read when I’m at chemo’s mercy is ample preparation for actually having chemotherapy, and I am scared. Proper scared.
I’m scared less about the hair loss, more about the loss of time I’ll get with my boys and my husband. I’m scared less about the vomiting; more about the long-term impact this violent treatment will have on my body. I’m scared that I won’t be able to eat, that I’ll have a mouth full of ulcers, that I won’t be able to bake, cook, clean and look after my family, and believe me I’m NO domestic goddess. I’m scared. I’m just scared.
And this is where my little italicised byline comes in. Sometimes I am sick and tired of positive thinking. Sometimes I don’t want to hear the advice that everyone has to give. Sometimes, controversially, I even indulge myself in feeling down for a while. Sometimes I even cry, but for goodness sake don’t tell anyone I told you.
This morning I went for a walk. Before I had cancer I used to run a little bit, no more than 4 or 5K maybe twice a week, and very definitely very slowly, but enough to keep the effects of booze and crisps widening my hips beyond recognition. After my surgery I couldn’t run – I still can’t run because I’m not allowed to jiggle my new boob – but I really really miss getting outside and exercising. This morning I donned my running gear, popped in my headphones, started the app (being sure to change the exercise type from run to walk) and walked my usual running route. And I cried.
I cried because no one could see me. I cried because the sun was shining and the country lanes were clear and the frost sat stoically melting on the hedges. I cried for me, for my boys, for my husband, my mum. I cried as I walked the earth and put one cold foot in front of the other. And I felt better. It didn’t make any of the shit go away, but for a while it helped.
It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to… but not if anyone’s looking…
https://www.justgiving.com/baldys-buddies/