It’s been a while – over two years, to be precise. But here I am again. Here IT is again.
Silly me! I thought I could just get on with my life, forgetting about Mr C, avoiding all the BC networks and blogs lest they dominate my thoughts. I struggled with the term ‘Breast Cancer Survivor.’ In fact, I hated it – and still do. But, dear Susan, this is part of your reality. I suppose the trick lies within that simple little word, PART.
Should I congratulate myself for being almost three years cancer-free? Yes, of course I should. Did I still think myself invincible after all I’ve been through with Mr C? I guess I’m a slow learner in some things and also, mighty stubborn! My cancer will not define me! No, I refuse. No. Non. Niet. Nein. Ochi, etc. That was the message I ended my last blog with two years ago. I felt strong and proud. I was moving on from all this cancer talk.
But here’s the thing. Cancer is no respecter of its prey's wishes, desires or decisions. It moves with stealth, following its own trajectory and determination. We can do our best to dodge its path, but it holds the cards close to its chest. Now, there’s an interesting metaphor for breast cancer! Does cancer have a chest? Is it a gameplayer sitting at the table hiding the Aces in his breast pocket?
Back to reality, Susan! I have a new early-stage Primary breast cancer in the ‘good breast.’ The one that still gave a semblance of pert perfection (at least to me.) I will not be 100% certain until December 10th, but the scans and examinations are virtually conclusive. What we don’t know is its subtype and grade. I hope Mr C has given me a low-denomination card, not a high number that aggressively seeks others to conjoin. I must learn to be thankful for small things.
How do I feel? I’ve spent the past ten days processing the increasing flow of information about this latest assault. I’ve gone from despair, anger, confusion, anxiety and sadness to one of slowly coming to terms with what might lie ahead. It is like a mourning process before the actual death. I don’t mean my death. Rather, a second death of an intimate part of my body that has always been inextricably linked to my femininity and sense of being a sexual and desirable woman. (I know it’s not the same for everyone. But it is for me.) My earlier blogs paint this in technicolour.
As everyone who has ever had cancer knows, one of the worst things is waiting. We wait to see a doctor if we’ve had symptoms. We wait for the diagnostic tests. Then we wait for the results, which don’t always come in one neat package. A further wait for surgery and the results of the surgery. Then, the varieties of post-operative treatments. But perhaps the worst wait is the one we try to push to the back of the queue. The wait to see if Mr C will make a return call – either as a completely new visitation or, worse, to continue the work of his earlier presence in our bodies. So far, I am lucky. This is a new visit – perhaps by a relative of Mr C?
On a more positive note, I’m learning a lot about myself. Initially, I decided not to tell anyone. I could deal with all the sh**show playing out in my head by myself. Invincible Susan, as ever! What utter foolishness. No, Madness!
I was anxious about how to tell my son in Cyprus. He had some musical performances lined up through January, and I was desperate not to hijack his life. I live alone and was trying to work out some additional help for myself post-surgery. Last time, I had a tough time with several complications. I couldn’t have done it on my own. My son came over and was with me during that period and again when I had radiotherapy. I didn’t want to do it to him again. I even contemplated not telling him until it was all over. And instead, finding a part-time carer to stay in the house with me. Then I realised I was taking away his agency. He has the power to make decisions as an adult son.
I’m so glad I spoke to him on the phone last night. He informed me that his coming here to support me through this is non-negotiable. He was astonished that I would waste energy thinking about not upsetting his plans rather than focusing on my own needs. He felt sadness for me, but hopeful for the future. Similarly, the responses from a couple of close friends have been supportive and generous.
Surprise, surprise! This has calmed me and allowed me to think through what must be done without worrying about how I will cope practically or emotionally – all by myself.
My take-home learning is that it’s okay to be vulnerable and to show it. To quote the oft-seen slogan, It’s OK not to be OK!
Let’s see what next week brings with the histology results.
In the meantime, I am hopeful.
Ta-da for now!
Susan
5th December 2024
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