I cried last night for the first time since having the tests and being diagnosed with cancer. People had been telling me that it was alright to cry for a while, but I just hadn’t seen the point, or the need to cry. I thought “what will crying achieve?” and to an extent I’m still not sure what it has achieved. The tumour is still there, I still am daunted by the prospect of chemotherapy and losing my hair and constant sickness and fatigue, I will still have to undergo surgery to remove the tumour and in essence the tears have not taken the cancer away.
I go through stages of crying and not crying. I was certain that the cancer would be a ‘not crying’ event, but I was wrong. I cry frequently when I am depressed, not suicidally depressed; then I just sit and stare at the walls, but at that slightly miserable, feeling sorry for myself stage. Cancer is much, much worse than a bit of self-pitying, but then it feeds into that self-pitying nature. I have cancer therefore I can feel sorry for myself. No, I can’t, because there are people out there who have terminal cancer and are going to die from the rotten illness, I have a fighting chance of survival.
The odds for me look good. Chemo, followed by limb-sparing surgery, possibly followed by more chemo, and as the boyfriend pointed out last night, at the rate they are talking about treatment I could be in remission by the end of the year. There are options with my cancer. If 4 cycles of chemo don’t work, then they’ll complete more. If they can’t take the tumour out then they’ll amputate my leg below the knee. Amputation scares the hell out of me and a few weeks ago I was convinced that amputation would be worse the death because in my vanity obsessed eyes I would rather die than have to limp around with a prothestic leg. Then I discovered the Macmillan Share Boards, an online discussion forum run by the Macmillan Cancer Charity, and I sat and thought the statistics through. There is a topic thread on the share boards dedicated to memorials for those who have died from cancer, it kind of puts things into perspective.
Apparently, according to the NHS Direct website, 1 in 4 people in the UK will die from cancer. That is a very scary statistic. Next time you are on a bus, or the Tube, or a train, or even just walking down the road, look at 3 people around you; out of those 4 people, 1 of you will suffer from terminal cancer. Macmillan tells me that 1 in 3 people in their lifetime will be diagnosed with cancer, an even more shocking statistic. The same website says that 32% of people with cancer feel that their relationships are put under strain by the illness, and it is this statistic which bothers me the most at present.
The boyfriend has been incredibly supportive through my foot injury, subsequent operation, discovery of the tumour, biopsies, scans and the news that the treatment is chemo and surgery. However, I find out today that, quite obviously, he has been devastated by the news. I don’t blame him for this, I am currently sitting at home where I think my parents and close friends have reacted more badly to the news than I have. The problem I have with his reaction is that he hasn’t told me how much it has impacted on him. He keeps pretending that everything is OK, that he can cope and be supportive, whilst falling apart on the inside. He unfortunately was on holiday when I received the diagnosis, but was kind enough to spend what will probably be a small fortune texting me. I told him I was sorry and he told me to “fuck off with being sorry, it’s not your fault” (or words to that effect).
It isn’t my fault. It is no one’s fault. As he so eloquently put it, I played a game of statistics and lost. I am gambler in life. Everything to me is a competition or a game. I like playing the odds, it gives me a bit of a thrill… will I win, will I lose? I will bet on anything I can, not in monetary terms, save a few flutters on horses when I went to the races, but almost an internal bet in my head. However, these statistics I don’t like and I can’t make a jovial bet out of them.
I went through the statistic initially of there only being a 1 in 10 chance that the tumour was cancerous, and I clung onto the 90% hope of benignity. Then I was told that there was a 1 in 4 chance that the tumour wasn’t cancerous, and I ignored that 1 in 4 chance of malignancy. In essence, I was stupid with the statistics. As soon as there was a 75% chance I had cancer, then I should have started to realise that the odds were slightly against me. I decided to stick my head in the sand and ignore the fact that all the tests and scans were for cancer. I sat looking at the name badge on the Macmillan Nurse thinking “I’ve never even given money to Macmillan before”. I had never thought that cancer would directly affect me.
I have known people with cancer. The mother of one of my best friends at school had breast cancer. As did my music teacher in the 6th form. Hell, even my grandmother had cancer. The problem was, all these people died. Maybe not from the cancer; my friends Mum had a pulmonary embolism, my grandmother died from massive blood poisoning and I don’t know what my music teacher died from, but I know it was cancer related. I don’t know any cancer ‘survivors’ and I hate that word. You can survive anything if you want to fit yourself into that mould.
Personally, I don’t particularly like that whole ‘victim’ and ‘survivor’ mould and I have never wanted to be either. I my eyes I am a cancer patient, and when I cease being a patient I will have recovered, end of. However, there are stories of cancer survivors and they grace the pages of glossy magazines, or trashy newspapers frequently. Just look at this one I saw yesterday where TV amateur agony aunt Trisha Goddard has cut off her trademark brunette bob and dyed her hair a very shocking shade of peroxide prior to undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer. If that is her way of dealing with it then good for her, I am sure that there are many people who change their hair colour before chemo. I even mentioned to the boyfriend on Monday night that I was thinking of having my hair cut prior to my chemo starting, but this is merely for practical reasons. I moult like nothing on Earth anyway. I brush my hand through my hair and I lose about 7 hairs. I wash my hair and a whole clump comes out. I am used to losing my hair when I brush it or wash it. I am used to waking up in the morning and having hairs stuck to the pillow. In this respect chemo doesn’t bother me as I shed my hair rather frequently. What does bother me is that it has taken 5 years for me to grow my hair back down to chin level from having it all cut off in a fit of anger when I had my breakdown in the first year of uni. 5 years because my hair doesn’t grow fast and I have no persistance in life. I’m not sure if I can see that all drop out, so the jury is still out on the haircut. However, I do need a fringe trim before I look like a Highland Cow!
This morning I am feeling more pragmatic again. My leg is hurting and aching, particularly at night so I debating tootling off to see the GP for some advice on this. I have numerous appointments next week. The Macmillan Nurse, the psychiatrist, the psychologist and the phlebotomist (aka vampire) to make sure I can undergo chemo. I also have a job to go back to. In this respect apparently I am dealing with cancer more like a man, and burying myself in my ‘normal’ life. Again, that is a term I hate. My life isn’t normal at the moment, I have cancer and nothing is going to change that and it doesn wreck normality. However, I can continue as best I can because the moment I start to give into this illness is the moment I have given into life.
Some people have emailed me and left comments telling me I am brave. I am not brave. Bravery is much more that having to get through cancer treatment. Bravery goes beyond have a great supportive network of friends and relations. Bravery is when you have people dependent on you, like children. Bravery is knowing that nothing can be done anf yet still living life to the full. Bravery is not accepting an illness and going through the recommended course of treatment. I am not brave, as the boyfriend said “I just played a game of statistics, and lost”.
Ruth
Fighting The Urge 