It’s not like me not to bounce out of bed and get on with my day. But the quilt has concrete in it this morning. I’m reminded of the dog. When it’s cold or wet he stands at the door sniffing the air. Not sure why he does that? I’m doing the same – I sniff to see what the day feels like and whether or not I go in to it. I search my bones and attachments for anxiety. Yep. It’s in situ. But not sure where it is. Feels very odd. I don’t feel right and I can’t give you the feeling. My breast feels heavy – full – but I know that’s the cyst – keeping the tumor company.
A long day ahead. I’m tying up loose ends with my role as the college counsellor. I’m just making sure I’ve done what I need to as I’m looking at only taking a week off max. I aim to check in with all of my clients next Tuesday. Sadly, a ‘you might not be able to’ thought slithers down my throat. I cough it out. Don’t want to know.
I’m quiet all day – busy little beaver at my desk, marking work, email sending and receiving. Getting stuff done.
My last Level 3 class tonight. We are finishing a week early so I can cross the line with them. 13 students – 30 weeks – they have all passed the course. I’ve still got some marking to do but that’s my focus once I know what chemo has in store for me first. We have had to meet in an online classroom since COVID arrived. So this teaching experience has been very unique anyway. Trainee counsellors are built to be reflective. So, as you’d expect, tonight was about us looking at the distance traveled since the course began. As I log in at 16:45 my ‘space’ is tinged in sadness. I did not want to be ending with this group on the eve of my first chemotherapy session thank you. It’s only been 15 days since diagnosis and my ‘normal’ is continuing to fade from reach. I am not sure what is actually left of it now. These 15 days have been on the whole ‘OK’. From 02/06 – I accepted my fate and was grateful for it. Although the news hits you daily and the information runs through you 24/7 – you have breast cancer – you need chemo – it did actually settle for me. I really need to remember that when it gets tougher. I have really been quite surprised at how my crazy little brain has done what it has done with this sequence of events. I just hope I am not being stupid or deluding myself.
I come back to facts – it’s not invaded anywhere else – it’s at this moment treatable – it’s going to be tough for the rest of the year – I’m going to lose every hair on my body – and I am going to beat this evil and inconsiderate disease.
I’m told you will have good and bad days. Today isn’t the best mentally or emotionally. By the time the class comes to it’s close, and we have all reflected and contemplated on their achievements and experiences, my eyes are stinging with tears. I have been choking them down all evening to be honest. Good job there is a screen as my shield – it does hide the finer detail of the facial expressions. I feel very sombre yet radiated by the deep kindness and care that comes from 13 tiny squares on my laptop screen.
I didn’t want to make our last class about my boob. I wanted to make it about them. But as I summarise my experience, my gratitude at their energy, commitment and dedication over the last 30 weeks; I lose the battle NOT to make it about me too. This ending tonight isn’t just about our class, our course finishing. This ending is also about me saying goodbye to the life I’ve had up to now. The life where cancer and chemo were only ever happening to other people. Not me.
I have no idea what I will feel like in 24 hours from now as the toxins do what they are paid to do. Destroy fast and healthy cells in my body, and that is very very scary.
My last supper is lasagne. I really make an effort to taste the food as I have been told that may not happen during treatment. We sit as a family with the uncertainty dancing quietly in the corner of the room. I’m drinking wine and check in with myself. I feel better. “It”s a dose of medicine every 3 weeks to make you feel better” – this manufactured reality comes encased in calm and a weird feeling of ‘OK-ness’. I feel I can manage this. Yet 2 hours earlier, I felt I was not equipped to even get dressed in the morning let alone willingly put myself in a position where there’s an almost certain chance that I’ll be quite unwell.
You don’t ‘plan’ for illness do you? You don’t know you’re going to get COVID 19 in 4 days, so get stocked up on the meds, water, food, and the ventilators you’re going to need do you? See. I know. I have a countdown ticking away and I’ve now literally got less than 24 hours left of feeling and being me.
As if they’ve read my mind, my family present me with a gift I would never have asked for. This was never on my Christmas list. A chemo kit. And a card. Shit. I well up. Vitamins, mints, mini fan, lip balm, anti-sickness bands, baldy head warming caps, magazines, tissues, and a bell to ring to get their attention. I read the card – tears burst out of me. Again. Fair play to you cancer. You’re bloody skilled at keeping cheeks wet and noses running.
We hug as a group and in that very moment I feel my family’s strength and admiration for me. They really do believe in me don’t they? This messed up, often loud, northern woman has around her now a ring of love and respect. I am loved. I’ve never felt it so strong in all my life.