Trigger warning: there’ll be mentions of death in this post.
I’ve mentioned in previous posts that it’s a little hard to write about everything in one go, but I’m going to make my first attempt to talk about some of the emotions and things that went through my head when I was first diagnosed – especially that gap between diagnosis and my treatment plan being formalised. I don’t expect this to make sense, I certainly don’t expect it to be well structured, but I think it also reflects what was going on for me at the time.
Continuing my story about my cancer diagnosis and treatment. Click here if you want to read my previous blog.
“What will it be like once I’m gone?”
When I think back to that period, I go back to standing in the garden in the late spring sunshine with my husband, my son playing and helping with his smaller tools. I’m looking around at all the plants in bloom, some which I’ve never seen flower and wondering if I’ll see them next year. My eyes well up, I feel a wave of grief, sorrow, regret and guilt. I stand there quietly as thick tears roll down my face, watching my husband and son work in the garden. I wonder if that’s what they’ll be like when I’m gone. I feel detached, like I’m watching them through a window. After a moment, my husband turns round to ask me a question. He stops when he sees me. His shoulders drop a little. He puts down his tools and hugs me. He doesn’t say anything, we’ve been through it so much over the past few weeks. I finally start to sob, gasping for breath.
The garden incident wasn’t an isolated time. I felt the same for seeing film trailers, watching TV and playing games. Will I be around when it comes out? Will I find out what happens? Will I be here for the sequel? That whole thought process went round and round. I tried to stop it. I tried to distract myself. Eventually, it just became background noise. I’d have waves of such deep sorrow that would stop me in my track. I learnt to feel it, accept it and try to let it pass.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t want to die.”
I’ve lost track of how many times I said that, either out loud to him or in my head as I’ve been watching him do something round the house. It was only ever really him that I spoke to about how I really felt. I’m close to my sisters and family, but lockdown meant that we couldn’t see each other physically and this didn’t feel like something I could do over the phone or video chat. What’s more, part of me felt that they had enough on their plate dealing with the potential loss of their youngest sibling or daughter and didn’t need my crap on top of that. I want to say that this absolutely came from me and I know that if I’d have needed to, I could have gone to any of them at any point, but I just didn’t want to burden them further.
“I’ve got cancer”
I was exhausted mentally and physically, but as soon as I lay my head on this pillow, this thought just ran through my head constantly. It danced through my head like the worst ever carnival parade on loop. I was so utterly drained, the whole “cancer carnival” occuring behind my eyelids was emotionless, it was just the stark reality on repeat. I invested in a pair of sleep headphones so I could at least lie comfortably, and watched gaming streams until I fell into a fitful, broken sleep.
And now? Despite being given the “all clear”, I still get these moments though slightly different and a little further between. I sometimes watch my husband and son through that window and I feel sorrow, the pain from the past year or so as well as gratitude that, for now, I’m still here. Every so often, the “I had cancer” carnival attempts to re-establish its parade routes through my mind as I’m dropping off. The sleep headphones remain charged on the bedside table.
Life After Cancer 