Five things I've learned in the last six months

Today is 12 May - six months since D for Diagnosis Day, 12 November 2020. Six months which seem both an age and an eye blink. And a moment to look back and share a few thoughts on this cancer journey so far.

So - in traditional blog list format - here are Five Things I've Learned.

1. Everyone is nice to you when you've got cancer

It's true, and I've said it before, so many people - both good friends and others I don't know as well - have just been so fantastically supportive. That has really made a difference these last months. 

But here I'm thinking about something else which happens with people I don't know at all. 

There have been a few situations when I've had to mention that I have cancer to complete strangers - for example, people on the other end of the phone in a call centre. And the moment I do, there's a change in the tone of voice. An inflection, a sympathy overlay. Probably people do it without realising. It's really noticeable and I totally wasn't expecting it.

I'm probably being unnecessarily harsh, but I find it rather patronising and it annoys me. What is it about cancer that makes people respond like this? Would I get the same if I said I had long term depression?

Aside - the only exception to this was the customer services person at Brittany Ferries when I rang to cancel our (delayed from last summer) ferry booking to Spain. I guess she'd just had too many cancellations...

I've read about people who faked a cancer diagnosis and used it to raise money or get attention. I could never really understand why anyone would do this before - but now I can understand the seduction of the kind of attention you can get just by saying you have cancer...  It's weird.

2. Things go on as normal

It's obvious but somehow I wasn't expecting this one either. Life goes on. Things still have to be done. 

From the immediate and small-scale to the international and far-reaching - life doesn't stop.

At home meals are cooked and eaten. Food runs out and needs to be bought. Bathrooms need to be cleaned. Floors need to be hoovered. My younger son's computer stopped working and took months to get fixed. We had to get new passports. The washing machine broke down. Bulbs I planted have come up in the garden. I've worked a bit. My son had his birthday and I made a cake and we had takeaway. 

When something momentous happens to you, it's easy to expect the world to come to a halt. But it doesn't. In some ways this is great because the everyday stuff keeps me going and getting up in the morning. But in other ways it gives the illusion that everything is the same, when really it isn't.

Sometimes I think this is why...

3. I still don't believe it (sometimes)

When I wrote my first blog post a week after diagnosis, I said 'It still feels unreal'. Well six months on, it still feels unreal. Of course thanks to Covid it's been an unreal six months for everyone.

Particularly when I'm feeling pretty well, I sometimes catch myself thinking that actually the whole thing must be a mistake, that the doctors are going to get in touch soon and tell me that they got it wrong and I'm actually fine.

Then of course there are the days when it feels all too real.When the pain is a bit worse than usual (it has been getting better but I still need some pain relief), or if I feel some random twinge, or if chemo side effects are hitting, then the reality that I'm probably not going to be around in a couple of years hits home. 

Like grief, my feelings about the diagnosis come in cycles. There are days when everything is fine, and days when it's not. Sometimes I'm not sure which is better, the denial or the pain. I think the only answer is to take things one day at a time.

4. The weather makes a difference

It's so obvious and so very true. It is easier to feel positive and optimistic when the sun is shining.

There were dark cold days in January and February which were really hard. Now it's May, one of my favourite months, and it's light in the mornings and evenings, and the hedges and fields are green and sometimes the sun is even shining! Even when I feel low, I can sit in the garden or the conservatory and feel the warmth. Life is better in the sunshine.

5. Look up, look out

The last thing I've learned is that sometimes you have to keep looking up and looking out. It's pretty tempting to focus just on myself and my feelings, but it really doesn't help much.

The last few months have taken us through Lent and then Easter. I always find the changing of the church seasons helpful - having times of deliberately focusing on sadness, grief and pain help to counterbalance the times of joy and positivity. This year I set myself the challenge of taking a few minutes for prayer and reflection each day during Lent, and I found this really useful.

Perhaps not surprisingly, Easter was quite a challenge. How do I process the message that death has been overcome, when I'm facing premature death myself? (Another blog there maybe).

But I came across these lines in a prayer poem 'Lord of the Morning' by Kate McIlhagga in her book 'The Green Heart of the Snowdrop' which was given to me by a friend last year. (These are just the last few lines - if you want to read the rest, go and buy the book!)

By the power of your resurrection...
bring us from darkness to light,
help us to chose hope.

Jesus says, 'Pick up your bed and walk', so:
pick up the bed of your sorrows and fears,
pick up the bed of your grief and your sin,
pick up your life, and come, come follow him.

It made me realise that the real message of Easter demands a response from us. It isn't passive or superficial. It is about new life - not just a 'chicks and bunnies' kind of new life - but new life with a deep purpose and meaning. It's a call to pick up your life, look up and look out, and get on with the business of living.

And that to me right now is good news.

*****

Finally, a bit of an update. Tomorrow I'm going for chemo treatment number 9, out of a probable twelve. As with the last two treatments, I'm just having two of the drugs as we agreed to drop oxaliplatin which seemed to be causing numbness in my face. However, despite this, I'm still getting the numbness and the last couple of weeks I've had it in my hands and feet as well. This is a bit of a mystery and I'm being investigated... But meanwhile, on with chemo for as long as I can manage it.

This blog is dedicated to everyone living with long term health problems - especially if they don't get the automatic sympathy overlay...