When I was in the throes of the cancer and the treatment and I couldn’t see clearly for more than about two minutes at a time. I thought going back to work would signal normality and wellness; so I missed it, I ached for it, I wanted it.
I’ve changed my mind.
Don’t make me go back. Please.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not being lazy, I absolutely promise you that, I just don’t want to go. And the silly thing is that I really do like my job. I adore my colleagues and I love the kids and the banter is great and the day to day of knowing I’m a person who works who therefore has some worth is invaluable to my self-esteem, I’ve just got a feeling I don’t need that particular boost anymore.
I’ve always worked, whether that be teaching, teaching assistanting or being a mother, but I’m no workaholic and I’ve never wanted to be. Work is a means to an end, a way to pay the bills that inevitably come in (when one has a penchant for Prosecco like mine) and a less than popular reason to get up in the morning. It’s not my life and it never will be.
Obviously the whole cancer thing made me think about what’s truly important to me and I’m afraid to say that work didn’t make it onto the list, not even as a substitute. I’ve thought about this a lot and discussed it with other people and I think an element of age comes into it. I’m 43; I’ve done well over twenty years of hard graft in various arenas (mainly education) and now, frankly, I’m stamping my foot because I don’t want to do it anymore!
I’m a writer. I’ve always been a writer, I just haven’t had any major successes yet (at this point I ought to put a little winking emoticon to show how hilarious it is that I haven’t made it yet but I don’t know how to do it on my laptop, pah, some writer I am!) and having the cancer thing going on made me realise that writing is the thing I want to do most, it really, really is. I feel a little susceptible to torment and jokes by revealing this, but I have a feeling none of you will mind me saying it. You might think I’ve absolutely no chance of making it but I’ve got a feeling you won’t subject me to ridicule… hopefully.
What would your top three things be? It’s one of those memes isn’t it? No one on their death-bed ever said they wished they’d spent more time at work. The top one is easy – it probably is for most parents – my children. I want to try to be a better mother. I’ve spoken before about parental guilt starting the moment the little buggers are out of the womb and this is only exacerbated by having a potentially deadly illness. I am a consummate failure when it comes to motherhood (for a million and one reasons for another day) and cancer hasn’t made me any better at it. Despite the fact my eldest said the other day ‘Why have you been so much nicer since you’ve had cancer?’ I’m still rubbish at being a mum. OK, they might be fed and watered (I can’t guarantee organic, healthy, non hideous food and drinks though) but am I the mum I want to be? No – and I never will be – however hard I try. Is anyone? But this won’t stop me from putting the effort in to trying to be that mother who turns up to everything, whose children never swear, who never has a hair put of place (chance would be a fine thing) and who can put their hand on their heart and say they always, every second of every day put their children above all else. I can’t say that, especially if I’ve only got enough money in my purse for a bottle of wine and the boys want Haribo.
Second? My long suffering husband. The poor husk of a man who has been taken to hell and back because of a) my children, b) my cancer and c) my family (I can say this because my mum has never read this blog and isn’t likely to). OK, so any of you who know him know that husk is probably the wrong term, but you know what I mean. His work has suffered, his health has suffered and his sense of humour left the building for a while (which was the most challenging period our relationship has had to endure) because he was looking after me and my boys and trying to make it look like the seams weren’t bursting. But they were, and they did, a lot. Now is not the time to do my ode to Dave, but at some point I will. He’s my number two.
Third, then; me. Which means my writing, which means my mates, which means all the people and things that make me happy. And suddenly I realise that work does actually come into that because I have so many wonderful friends there. Damn it!
Full circle. A rushed missive. Spaghetti brain. It’s the chemo that did it. At least that’s my story. I won’t mention the half bottle of Cab Sav I’ve got through since starting to write tonight…
Oh, also, you lot. You lovely, brilliant, wonderful lot of readers who keep me going in the darker times. You’re my fourth, my fabulous fourth, and when I’ve made it, when I’ve really made it, I’ll take you all out for champagne.
So tomorrow I shall go to work, and I shall let you know how it goes.
Thank you.