It’s been a good long while since I’ve updated this blog. This wasn’t a conscious decision, but I think as there was a slow down in new information I was naturally less inclined to sit down and spill my guts in a thousand words or less. (Who am I kidding, it’s always more than a thousand words. Sorry everyone!) I have found that, usually, there were two reasons for which I might write a post; to inform loved ones about what was happening with my treatment plan, or because I was really f*cking pissed off about something. Both are rather motivating reasons, and luckily I suppose, they seem to have been occurring much less. The obvious question that you might be asking at this point is, “Hey Emma, for what reason are you writing this post today?” and my answer would be, “Well reader, a little bit of both!”

I’ll start by saying that sometimes I get really sick of talking or writing about cancer. I feel like people might be bored of hearing about it, too. I wonder if people sometimes think, “We get it… you have cancer! No need to show off!” And I would honestly quite like to have something else interesting to talk about. I’d like to feel I have an identity as something other than a cancer patient, but the reality is that the last year and a half of my life has been completely dominated by cancer. And really, not much else is new.

One piece of good news is that last Friday I had my final session of chemotherapy. It was my TWENTIETH time sat in a plushy reclining chair getting all pumped up with poison. It was an odd, joyful, sad day. I doubt I’d be able to count up the hours I’ve spent at my treatment centre, and in a way, it has become a second home, not least of all because the nurses and doctors there are like my extended family. I have felt very loved and taken care of. I have felt valued and understood. These people have laughed with me on my best days and cried with me on my worst. That is not a manner of expression. On one particularly hard day when I was really sick and struggling very much, my nurse simply held my hand and cried with me. How do you thank someone for that level of love?

 

 

Of course, there is an elephant in the room, and his name is Count Coronavirus. He’s a bit of a bastard and he’s totally screwed over everyone’s plans for the year! He also has made it so I’ve had to go to all of my recent appointments and treatments on my own, including my final chemotherapy session. I won’t pretend that this wasn’t hard. I don’t like going to appointments on my own, not least of all because I am always the youngest person in the room and this does, unfortunately, elicit stares of pity which I find upsetting. However, everyone is on their own right now and this makes it a little easier; there’s a sort of ‘in it together’ attitude in which one feels emboldened to give a respectful nod to the poor sod hooked up in the adjacent chair. But, it was a real shame not to have Bret with me for my last infusion. After a year and a half of hurdles, it was lonely to jump the last one on my own. Having said that, I am exceedingly well-loved by my beautiful husband, who put together a book of messages from friends and family to read whilst I was having my chemo. Thank you to everyone who contributed! I also received cards and gifts and letters and flowers and it felt a bit like having a second birthday! Hey, I got away with having two wedding days, why not two birthdays? Maybe Queen Elizabeth II is on to something!

 

 

Anyway, Count Coronavirus is a total shitter and I’m sure we’re all bored of talking about him. I don’t want to write too much about the whole sorry mess, but my gosh, I will say that the cancer patients could not have been more prepared for this situation! We’re already terrified of germs, barely leave the house, obsessively wash our hands, and are always cancelling long-standing plans for fear of infection. Cancer is basically coronavirus Bootcamp! I’ll be honest… when the lockdown orders first went into place, I did feel a little bitter about everyone complaining. It felt a bit like everyone was shitting over the way I’ve had to live my life for the past 18 months. “If only you knew how lucky you are,” I wanted to say. “All you have to do is stay home for a while, and you don’t even have to do it while dealing with constant nausea and crippling bone pain!” But, I know this is unfair. Everyone’s lives are in turmoil. Everyone’s plans and dreams and hopes are on hold. Many people are losing loved ones or are in fear of losing their own life. People don’t know how they’ll pay their rent or their mortgage. But of course, you know all this. The past few months have been a real display of how fragile our existence is. How much we take our happiness for granted. I’d learned those lessons well enough on the day I was diagnosed. I would have just skipped cancer if I’d have known there’d be a make-up test in 2020!

There’s a chance that my final surgery will be rescheduled soon (having been cancelled because of coronavirus) which is great news as I’m anxious to have the reconstruction completed. I am a little apprehensive, as I don’t want to risk being exposed to the virus and I’ll have to go to the hospital on my own, as only patients are allowed inside the building. My treatment plan will be progressing again, as I’m about to start a new drug which I’ll take for a year. It comes in pill form and is supposed to have some nasty side effects. Most people don’t last the full year on it, but I figure it’s worth a shot for any chance to lower my recurrence risk, and I believe myself to be fortunate to have the option of having this new treatment at all. I will continue to go to my cancer centre once a month for my hormone shots, and I’ll have regular follow-ups with my oncologist and surgeon, who are monitoring me closely. Even though chemo is over, it doesn’t feel much like it’s behind me. It doesn’t feel like I am ‘done.’ My life will always have been changed and I’ll always feel like a cancer patient. Maybe that’s OK.

I won’t pretend that I’m not angry about the ‘misplacement’ of this year. I feel it on a very personal and selfish level. I was ready to move forward with my life. I was ready to no longer be held hostage by health. The holiday that Bret and I had planned to Japan to celebrate finishing chemo was cancelled. The charity bike ride I signed up for was called off. A trip to San Francisco was rescheduled. There are no drinks of celebration with my friends. And on my worst mornings, I do wake up and think ‘what is the point in getting out of bed?’ I feel sad and angry and resentful. My brain plays ‘why me?’ on repeat. I always get up anyway, although sometimes a little later than perhaps I should. I have been trying to keep active and keep to a routine. Some days are much better than others, and some days I hold on stubbornly to the pain. It doesn’t feel great, but I think it’s OK. I believe that things will get better soon. I have hope that I’ll be happier when the plans I make start coming to fruition. I remind myself I am lucky in so many ways. As people are so very fond of saying, this too shall pass!

With love and best wishes for everyone’s health,

Emma xxx