Something very odd is happening. I feel well. Too well?? I’m back to me. Up with the lark, darting around the place, scuttling from one job to another. Busy, busy, busy and loving it. A full sunny day lies ahead of me as I look out of my kitchen french doors onto fields of green and gold and a garden adorn with two rabbits busy trying to find the sweeter roots of the grass for breakfast.
The kitchen has just been decorated so the scent of emulsion hangs lightly in the air. It feels clean and fresh.
A bit like me now. And then the dread hits hard. Right in the pit of my stomach. What if this is the calm before a very turbulent storm? Why am I feeling so well despite having breast cancer and chemotherapy 11 days ago? I feel energized. I don’t think of having cancer. We have all but stopped mentioning it in every bloody sentence. I hate that but as a family, worried and scared, we can’t help it. But right now, as a family we are normal again and I know that is only happening because I am well, occupied with my regular life. I don’t look or act ill so therefore I am not. So we revert back to ‘Lester Life’ and it feels fabulous. I’m not sure you”ll ever understand what I am saying unless you have had this or a similar experience.
This could get worse and then some. This could be the last few days until the second cycle joins the first and they charge at me – all toxins blazing. I may never feel this good again throughout this treatment. Does every cycle make you feel worse – build up – screw you over? Do you react the same each time? Is it worse? What if I do too much now and help the chemo wreck my immune system? I’ve noticed my hair hasn’t fallen out for a few days. I have pulled at it – run it through my fingers – pretending to put a ponytail in it – and nothing. Empty hands. I have just ordered a bloody wig that has cost me a small fortune. What if it doesn’t come out? Oh my God. I am confused. That debilitating feeling of helplessness scorches my skin. I have absolutely no idea what will happen to me after July 1st at 12 noon. My second cycle of chemo. I’m pretty sure I am going to feel OK up until then – so I have to plan. I have to make the most of the next 10 days.
My busy mind grabs a pen, my diary and a brew. The pen lets me down. It can’t keep up with the pace of my racing crazy head.
As the list becomes greater, so does my anxiety. How the hell am I going to get all this done in between being a counsellor, a Mum and a wife?
I have to write the annual report for the college’s counselling service (I like doing this kind of stuff) – and a scheme of work for my new counselling course in September. I’ve got clients to see and interviews to carry out for prospective student candidates for both of the courses I teach on. As well as a whole bunch of marking to complete that has stacked up since I was diagnosed.
Lost in thought – the cat walks in and announces himself by rubbing his face on my ankles. He throws himself down and I reach to tickle his curly grey and white belly. He holds my gaze and his eyes are like oval ponds of green glass. These windows to his soul search to mine. When people are sad or worried, they furrow their brow, making their eyes appear smaller. I widen mine and my cat can’t help but join in. He is an amazing companion and his love is always welcomed and returned. He never turns his head at my chemo breath. He loves to sit cuddled up on your chest – as close as you’ll let him and sleep. All five of us adore him. We stare each other out – his curly belly exposed to my anxious and somewhat flat mood.
If I told you in 10 days time you are going to be ill……….
………that you will feel sick, tired and anxious. You will lie down a lot, can’t work, can’t feed your cat or put the washing in the machine. Other people will bring you water. You will feel the smallest of bones ache and pull. You’ll smell. Your taste buds won’t work and you will only eat toast in case you vomit. You’ll have to sip your water and breathe through the moments you can’t stand up. You won’t trust your body. At all. You’ll question every second and want to go to sleep at 8pm at night but will fight it until 9pm. You’ll clock watch as the world goes by oblivious. You’ll take tablets to stop you being sick, to make you go to the toilet, to make you sleep. You’ll take injections to boost your immune system.
You’ll check your phone regularly to see who has been thinking about you. To see who cares. They all do – but trust me – it’s the chemo effect on the brain playing tricks with you. You’ll answer with ‘Yeah fine’ more times than you can imagine because you just don’t want to keep feeding the anxiety you’ll have about feeling unwell.
You’ll search for something that will distract you, knowing it’s a fruitless activity because you don’t have the motivation to match. You’ll wake up wishing it was bedtime and dread every moment in between.
WHAT WOULD YOU DO RIGHT NOW THEN?
Well I can tell you what I did. I grabbed the cat for a cwtch. I snuggled his bouncy soft furry face and let rip with a happy smile. I can not do anything about what happens after 12pm on 01/07. But I can enjoy every f***ing second RIGHT NOW.
So, I open the doors and the windows, giving VIP tickets to the sun to come in and join me – put the kettle on and a bottle of wine in the fridge. It has to be 5 ‘0 clock somewhere!!