One of the toughest experiences was the day my hair started falling out. I cried for 2 hours. How does cancer become a reality only once hair starts falling? Was the red devil chemo poured down a tube into my arm not enough of a reality check? Apparently not!
Vanity takes a major blow. I was determined not to look like a chemo patient! I missed my eyebrows and eyelashes more than my hair. I could cover my head with funky scarves and I eventually learnt to draw in my eyebrows so that it looked kind of real (thank you to my Mac angel). The day arrived when I gave up this silly quest of not looking like a chemo patient. I remember saying..."What the hell! I am a chemo patient! and that's ok!"
My hair, eyebrows and eyelashes have made a re-appearance since.
3 surgeries + 12 chemo sessions + 30 radiation sessions later and I am on the mend (slower than I would like though) with cancer in the rear-view mirror!
Monday 30 January 2012
That day in May
My state of mind right now can be described as a mish mash of jumbled thoughts. The past year has been very challenging and sometimes I am truly amazed that I survived it. This is the first time in a very long time that I am able to pour my thoughts onto my screen
Cancer has defined me for the past 8 months since that day in May, last year.
Parts of that day are crystal clear in my memory. I had 3 painful biopsies the day before and went home with the surgeon's words ringing in my head.. "8 out of 10, it is cancer and the only reason I've watered it down from 9, is that there is only one tumour in your breast". My mantra all the way home to my husband was...'2 out of 10, it's not cancer" but those odds were hard to ignore and my conscious denial was not very effective.
We set off for the hospital that day with words of encouragement and prayers bouncing inside my skull. Little did I know that I would be a frequent guest at that very hospital over the next few months. I had not hoped for anything in all my life as much as I hoped for it not to be the big C (why do they call it that? it somehow gives it too much power... this is the last time that I will refer to it in those terms).
Extremely anxious is an understated description of how I felt while waiting to see the doctor. I ran to the loo and encountered the woman who cleans the toilets. She was complaining about how people don't clean up after themselves and was wondering if they were as messy in their own homes. She told me that she prayed everyday for people to be more considerate and hygienic so that she wouldn't have to clean the toilets on that floor so many times a day. I asked her if it worked and she replied NOPE. The conversation was so comical in a grave situation. She made me laugh at a time when I needed it most.
Jenny broke the news very calmly... "I really wish that I could give you a different result, but I'm afraid, it's cancer."
I don't know how I felt. Maybe numb is the right word.
It took 20 minutes for me to react. In a waiting room full of people while waiting for x-rays and ultrasounds to check if the cancer had spread. I felt like I was trying to cry while being strangled ... that's the best description I can think of. The scans and checks are a total blur. All the medical staff I encountered on that day were amazing. I remember a very compassionate radiographer telling me how well her mother was doing after survivng breast cancer and that I would be ok. Then I was sent off for blood tests and the nurse told me that she was a breast cancer survivor and amidst all the chaos in my head, a flicker of hope was ignited.
The toughest part of that day was breaking the news to my children and my parents. I calmed myself during the drive home and rehearsed my lines. My parents and the kids were waiting in the lounge and I walked in with a smile and the classic... ''I have good news and bad news'' line. My dad asked for the bad news first. And I replied "ít's cancer, but they caught it early and there is lots they can do to cure me." I didn't believe much of what I was saying to them, but I said it convincingly and I asked them to be positive for me. And they were!
My husband was at my side that day and he figuratively has not left my side since.
I no longer want cancer to define me. It is not who I am. It is not truly me.
Cancer has defined me for the past 8 months since that day in May, last year.
Parts of that day are crystal clear in my memory. I had 3 painful biopsies the day before and went home with the surgeon's words ringing in my head.. "8 out of 10, it is cancer and the only reason I've watered it down from 9, is that there is only one tumour in your breast". My mantra all the way home to my husband was...'2 out of 10, it's not cancer" but those odds were hard to ignore and my conscious denial was not very effective.
We set off for the hospital that day with words of encouragement and prayers bouncing inside my skull. Little did I know that I would be a frequent guest at that very hospital over the next few months. I had not hoped for anything in all my life as much as I hoped for it not to be the big C (why do they call it that? it somehow gives it too much power... this is the last time that I will refer to it in those terms).
Extremely anxious is an understated description of how I felt while waiting to see the doctor. I ran to the loo and encountered the woman who cleans the toilets. She was complaining about how people don't clean up after themselves and was wondering if they were as messy in their own homes. She told me that she prayed everyday for people to be more considerate and hygienic so that she wouldn't have to clean the toilets on that floor so many times a day. I asked her if it worked and she replied NOPE. The conversation was so comical in a grave situation. She made me laugh at a time when I needed it most.
Jenny broke the news very calmly... "I really wish that I could give you a different result, but I'm afraid, it's cancer."
I don't know how I felt. Maybe numb is the right word.
It took 20 minutes for me to react. In a waiting room full of people while waiting for x-rays and ultrasounds to check if the cancer had spread. I felt like I was trying to cry while being strangled ... that's the best description I can think of. The scans and checks are a total blur. All the medical staff I encountered on that day were amazing. I remember a very compassionate radiographer telling me how well her mother was doing after survivng breast cancer and that I would be ok. Then I was sent off for blood tests and the nurse told me that she was a breast cancer survivor and amidst all the chaos in my head, a flicker of hope was ignited.
The toughest part of that day was breaking the news to my children and my parents. I calmed myself during the drive home and rehearsed my lines. My parents and the kids were waiting in the lounge and I walked in with a smile and the classic... ''I have good news and bad news'' line. My dad asked for the bad news first. And I replied "ít's cancer, but they caught it early and there is lots they can do to cure me." I didn't believe much of what I was saying to them, but I said it convincingly and I asked them to be positive for me. And they were!
My husband was at my side that day and he figuratively has not left my side since.
I no longer want cancer to define me. It is not who I am. It is not truly me.
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