Most people think of cancer as a journey. I did too. I even wrote it in the tag line for this blog
(should maybe change that!). Most journeys have a beginning, middle and an end.
Although the order may change, most cancer journeys involve similar treatments of radiotherapy, chemotherapy and/or operations to remove tumours. My journey was to be radiotherapy to shrink the tumour so it could be removed, followed by chemotherapy to mop up any residual cancer cells lurking about. Then I would be ‘cured’ and the
journey would come to an end, right? Life,
having been in suspended animation of a cancer patient, would then go back to
normal. So way back in March last year when I was told this, I did the sums and
worked out that all going to plan, this hell would be over in 12 months. That’s not
so long, I thought to myself, I can totally deal with this. I can be strong, I
can fight it, because however horrific the treatment is, however sick I feel,
however much pain I am in, I can get through it because it will all be over in
a year. I will get better. Life will go back to normal. I will plan that trip to New York with my
good friend to have something to look forward to ‘when I’m better’...
But what happens when the journey has no end? When there is no
coming out the other side? No return to normal? When stage 1 becomes stage 4
and there is no ‘cure’. No getting
better. Then what?
The last few months, since the scans in September that
confirmed the lung metastases had grown, I have been panicked by this idea of there
being no end in sight, or not one I am happy with or willing to accept
anyway. Definitely more so than when I
was first diagnosed because then there was a plan and an end. The future is now so uncertain, and I’m
finding it very hard to get my head around the uncertainty. The only thing
that’s certain is that it will involve ongoing treatment of some form or
another but even what that will entail is totally up in the air. I liked having a plan and ‘We can try this
and that, if that and this doesn’t work’ is not quite so reassuring.
I’m seeing a counsellor from St. Cuthbert’s Hospice in
Durham (you should check out all the great work that they do) and after explaining all these fears to her she said, ‘You have cancer, but you are still you’, it was a huge
revelation. Of course I am, I know that,
but it’s so very easy to get caught up in the medical circus and the mind set
of, ‘when I’m better…’ that you forget about who you are. I am still me. Wow! And then she added, 'You just need to find your new normal'.
And that same day I realised I had
been putting off going back to work. For a number of reasons, mainly that I’m exhausted but also it’s a daunting prospect having been off for so long (I was on maternity leave
when I was diagnosed so it has been a year and a half) and so much easier to
maintain the status quo. On the other hand, I loved my job and got a huge sense
of achievement from doing it. I have begun to think that the lack of
routine is unsettling, and returning to work will hopefully bring about some
much needed sense of security, routine and that word, normality. Seeing
colleagues (friends!) who know me best in work mode will be liberating. No need
to talk about babies or cancer, if I don’t want to! I can return to work as me,
the same as the day I left, and return home at the end of the day with something
that is ‘just for me’ too, regaining my sense of self.
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| Who wouldn't want to go back to hanging out on a saltmarsh... |
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| ...and water sampling! |
So whilst everyone is trying to keep to New Year’s
resolutions and counting down the days until dry January ends, I am finding our
new normal. Starting with going back to
work…
And any tips on how to speak to adults about important
work-related issues, when your brain is fried from chemotherapy (yes,
chemo-brain is a thing!) would be much appreciated!
