That didn’t happen.
Five years ago, when my sons were barely over the threshold of adulthood,
I was diagnosed with secondary cancer and I was afraid I would die and that I
would not be around to see them complete their education, start work and
relationships and move into their own homes.
That didn’t happen either.
But a couple of weeks ago, I was given the news by my consultant
oncologist, who I know so well by now that we’re practically friends, that the
tumour in my neck had grown. I was shocked - literally speechless, which as
anyone who knows me will testify, is almost unheard of. The medication
(Faslodex) which had been injected into both my buttocks every month for two-and-a-half
years wasn’t working any more. I needed to switch to something else (Tamoxifen)
immediately. I didn’t manage to ask any questions, except the ‘big’ one: what
did this development mean for my overall prognosis? The consultant was doggedly
optimistic. She reckons I’ll still be trudging to the hospital long after she’s
retired.
I’m a little more cautious. Almost exactly a year ago, I’d been told I
was in stable remission and I feel like I let myself be lulled into a false
sense of security. Why else had I stopped taking the long list of supplementary
and herbal medicines I’d taken for years? Why else had I sauntered into the
clinic alone to get the CT and bone scan results? I go to hospital so often -
sometimes for other, less pressing health problems - that I always go alone unless I’m waiting for
test and/or scan results. I’m heartily sick of the place myself - excuse the
awful pun - so I save up the favours I
ask of family and friends.
I loathe the combat metaphors that are so often applied to cancer, with
its so-called brave, battle-scarred survivors and fallen soldiers. I don’t want
to battle through life. I want to live it. And I’ve been ‘living with cancer’
for so long, I suppose I should be used to it. To a certain extent, I am. I
have learned to pace myself and I choose my activities - professional and
social - within the constraints of my levels of stress and fatigue. I have
learned to cope with the symptoms and with the side-effects of the treatment. I’ve
moved past the compulsive touching of my body’s scars and ‘lumps’ and worrying
that every ache or pain is a progression of the disease. And I don’t look ill,
so I am used to the surprised tone of voice and facial expression that people
have when they observe that, far from looking like a wasted bag of bones, I
look so well.
I’ve ‘raced for life’ and I make a monthly contribution to Cancer
Research UK, but I’m not really a fan of pink ribbons and bows, and I’ve never been
a member of any hospital or community support groups or online forums. I have a
small, but supportive family and circle of friends and over the years, I’ve
made full use of the complementary therapies on offer through The Haven,
Cancerkin and Macmillan - and even the activities offered by Sail4Cancer and
Odyssey. But these organisations mainly direct their services to newly- or
recently-diagnosed cancer patients - and rightly so. I understand that they do
not have the money and resources to support someone living with cancer
long-term, but that didn’t stop me bursting into tears this morning, when the
Macmillan volunteer told me I couldn’t have any more massage treatments.
As I sat on the tube on the way home, sobbing into a soggy tissue and
feeling sorry for myself, I realised that since I saw the consultant two weeks
ago, I’ve been numb with shock - and carrying on as normal with my writing and teaching.
But yesterday, I had to have yet another CT scan to see if the cancer has
spread to my skull. And, heaven help me, I am knackered! I am fed up to the
back teeth of pulling myself together. Trying to be positive is getting on my
tits - and this time, I don’t even care about the bad pun!
Of course, no one knows exactly when they’re going to die. Everyone
lives with this uncertainty and in the end, everyone has to face up to their
own mortality. And in a weird way, that is one of the positives of any
life-threatening diagnosis. Living with cancer has influenced many of the
life-decisions I’ve made - ranging from stopping smoking to stopping full-time
teaching and becoming a part-time, self-employed writer, and from travelling
and spending all my money on holidays instead of saving for a rainy day - but only
after I’d pre-paid my funeral expenses, of course.
But today, all I can think of is that cancer scares people - including
me. I’m scared that I will die and that I won’t get to dance at my oldest son’s
wedding or my youngest son - or my 9 year-old nephew’s.... Today, all I can do
is hope that when the time comes, I’ll still be around to say:
That didn’t happen!
