I am officially banning the following words…
BRAVE FIGHT FIGHTER FIGHTING VICTIM BEATING BATTLE
…and any others you can think of that I may have missed.
This has long been on my mind I have to admit to being in a little bit of a quandary about it. I love the Race For Life theme of ‘Jog on cancer’ and all of that, but I just can’t get my head round the labels that have (with the very best of intentions) come my way since diagnosis.
1. I am not brave.
Brave is being a doctor on the frontline of a war or an abused child disclosing their situation to a grown up or someone jumping into dangerous waters to rescue a baby or even a dog. I have an illness that I neither asked for nor wanted but this does not make me brave. The fact that I’m facing it head on and not letting it piss me off for more than ten minutes at a time every few days is the only way I can be. Before I was diagnosed I never thought about how I would behave if I got cancer, I don’t expect many people do. Having cancer isn’t a choice, it’s bad bloody luck and I’m managing it in my own special way thank you very much.
2. I am not having a fight or fighting anyone/anything therefore I am not a fighter.
When I was a little girl I used to fight my brother all the time, he’s four years older than me and a lot of the time we hated each other passionately so we fought, a lot. My boys fight; wow how they fight, most days, most of the time, loudly and violently. Angry parents fight for custody of their children, teenagers fight over which game to play on the X-Box, cats fight about territory and our political parties fight for votes. I am – always have been – a pacifist. So there.
3. I will never, ever, choose to be a victim of anything.
And if you think I might, well, you really don’t know me at all. Shall I make a list of victims? Robbery, rape, murder, mugging, burglary, the list is endless, but none of it applies to me. I haven’t met a single person on my cancer journey who has felt remotely sorry for themselves (for any more than ten minutes) and I’ll be surprised if I do. Dunkirk spirit; yes. Steely determination; yes. Quiet dignity; definitely. Strength of purpose; without a doubt. Victim; absolutely bloody not. End of.
4. I’ll pick my own battles if you don’t mind.
The only things that get beaten regularly in our house are eggs. This isn’t anything to do with a specific diet I’m following (I’m not following any diet to be honest, we’ll talk about that little hornet’s nest another time) it’s because I have eggs for breakfast nearly every day, even when the chemo nausea is peaking. I battle with the hubby about how to load the dishwasher, I battle with the eldest about how many sweets he shouldn’t be eating and I battle with the youngest about who’s actually in charge. My battles are day to day, like anyone else’s, my battles are not specific to my diagnosis.
So what's my point? Do you know, I haven’t a clue. Normally I spend the few days leading up to blog writing by forming the ideas and words in my head but this time I haven’t. I’ve been far too busy on holiday in Croyde having a lovely time. Which reminds me of something and the reason this was the blog idea in the first place.
Whenever we go on holiday we always absolutely must have access to a swimming pool. We stayed at the Unison Holiday Resort at Croyde with some very dear friends and apart from us it was pretty quiet. I’d been slightly on the anxious side about the swimming for a couple of reasons. Firstly I hadn’t swum since my surgery in December and was worried about how the new boob would hold up. Secondly because I was going to be swimming as a baldy. I armed myself with a rather splendid new purple polka dot swimming costume and sucked up the nerves, after all, my boys couldn’t give a monkeys so why should I?
We swam every day of our holiday and saw various people we didn’t know while we did. Before each visit to the pool I took a deep breath before exposing the baldiness, but it was fine. Of course people noticed but no one treated me remotely differently and children didn’t appear to be scared either!
On the last day I thought about the memories we’d made for the boys. None of them were heart-stopping or momentous or dramatic, but in their own way they might have helped shape how the boys deal with their own challenges in the future. I hope that maybe, just maybe, the boys remember the holiday as the one where mummy was bald – but it didn’t matter.
So don’t come at me with your brave fight fighter fighting victim beating battle cries.
I am none of these things.
https://www.justgiving.com/baldys-buddies
ps - the song has no relevance - it's just a bit of feelgood!
BRAVE FIGHT FIGHTER FIGHTING VICTIM BEATING BATTLE
…and any others you can think of that I may have missed.
This has long been on my mind I have to admit to being in a little bit of a quandary about it. I love the Race For Life theme of ‘Jog on cancer’ and all of that, but I just can’t get my head round the labels that have (with the very best of intentions) come my way since diagnosis.
1. I am not brave.
Brave is being a doctor on the frontline of a war or an abused child disclosing their situation to a grown up or someone jumping into dangerous waters to rescue a baby or even a dog. I have an illness that I neither asked for nor wanted but this does not make me brave. The fact that I’m facing it head on and not letting it piss me off for more than ten minutes at a time every few days is the only way I can be. Before I was diagnosed I never thought about how I would behave if I got cancer, I don’t expect many people do. Having cancer isn’t a choice, it’s bad bloody luck and I’m managing it in my own special way thank you very much.
2. I am not having a fight or fighting anyone/anything therefore I am not a fighter.
When I was a little girl I used to fight my brother all the time, he’s four years older than me and a lot of the time we hated each other passionately so we fought, a lot. My boys fight; wow how they fight, most days, most of the time, loudly and violently. Angry parents fight for custody of their children, teenagers fight over which game to play on the X-Box, cats fight about territory and our political parties fight for votes. I am – always have been – a pacifist. So there.
3. I will never, ever, choose to be a victim of anything.
And if you think I might, well, you really don’t know me at all. Shall I make a list of victims? Robbery, rape, murder, mugging, burglary, the list is endless, but none of it applies to me. I haven’t met a single person on my cancer journey who has felt remotely sorry for themselves (for any more than ten minutes) and I’ll be surprised if I do. Dunkirk spirit; yes. Steely determination; yes. Quiet dignity; definitely. Strength of purpose; without a doubt. Victim; absolutely bloody not. End of.
4. I’ll pick my own battles if you don’t mind.
The only things that get beaten regularly in our house are eggs. This isn’t anything to do with a specific diet I’m following (I’m not following any diet to be honest, we’ll talk about that little hornet’s nest another time) it’s because I have eggs for breakfast nearly every day, even when the chemo nausea is peaking. I battle with the hubby about how to load the dishwasher, I battle with the eldest about how many sweets he shouldn’t be eating and I battle with the youngest about who’s actually in charge. My battles are day to day, like anyone else’s, my battles are not specific to my diagnosis.
So what's my point? Do you know, I haven’t a clue. Normally I spend the few days leading up to blog writing by forming the ideas and words in my head but this time I haven’t. I’ve been far too busy on holiday in Croyde having a lovely time. Which reminds me of something and the reason this was the blog idea in the first place.
Whenever we go on holiday we always absolutely must have access to a swimming pool. We stayed at the Unison Holiday Resort at Croyde with some very dear friends and apart from us it was pretty quiet. I’d been slightly on the anxious side about the swimming for a couple of reasons. Firstly I hadn’t swum since my surgery in December and was worried about how the new boob would hold up. Secondly because I was going to be swimming as a baldy. I armed myself with a rather splendid new purple polka dot swimming costume and sucked up the nerves, after all, my boys couldn’t give a monkeys so why should I?
We swam every day of our holiday and saw various people we didn’t know while we did. Before each visit to the pool I took a deep breath before exposing the baldiness, but it was fine. Of course people noticed but no one treated me remotely differently and children didn’t appear to be scared either!
On the last day I thought about the memories we’d made for the boys. None of them were heart-stopping or momentous or dramatic, but in their own way they might have helped shape how the boys deal with their own challenges in the future. I hope that maybe, just maybe, the boys remember the holiday as the one where mummy was bald – but it didn’t matter.
So don’t come at me with your brave fight fighter fighting victim beating battle cries.
I am none of these things.
https://www.justgiving.com/baldys-buddies
ps - the song has no relevance - it's just a bit of feelgood!