I think anyone who’s going through a cancer diagnosis can accept that we’ll go through an entire spectrum of emotions as we prepare for the long road ahead. Treatment or death…ultimately this is what you’re faced with…then the worry that you’ll be faced with both of these things. In an attempt to organise the mess inside my head, perhaps I could start by describing it. Putting it into piles so that I can figure it out.
Breast cancer, a bad knee flare-up, a chest infection, shaky mental health at best – I don’t want to list all my ailments, but I swear if you could pick me up and shake me, I’d rattle. Being a human punch bag these last few weeks just isn’t me. I get on with things….right? Maybe.
The internal battle of self-pity; I’m not immune to it at times. Maybe that’s OK.
If you know me personally, you know that my sense of humour is either filth incarnate, or incredibly dark. These last few weeks my dark humour has helped me cope.
I have amused myself with silly Spotify playlists, comments about my new boobs picking up satellite and jibes about how rich Chris will be without me. Behind the scenes, I’ve actually spoken to a solicitor about my options, freaking out and worrying about Chris and Mollie’s future.
Like I just did then. Only with more swears.
Ahh, that’s just my life now. We don’t even know if it’s truly localised in the breast – for all I know, it could be in my bones, liver, lungs….god knows what today’s CT scan will reveal. I’m sat here, planning for Dreamforce, when I don’t even know if I’ll be well enough to go. I don’t know how long I’ll have to spend off work (which is a big deal for me – keeping busy and working hard is basically who I am). I don’t know how nasty the chemo is likely to be. I don’t know if the insurance company will even cover me to have both breasts removed and reconstructed. Uncertainty breeds stress and negative feelings.
I met with the plastic surgeon earlier this week to talk about reconstruction. He talked me through 3 options, 2 of which didn’t sound ideal. The trade-off is that the third option, whilst appearing to be the best in the long term, is a huge operation requiring 3 surgeons, a whole working day in surgery, followed by 8 weeks of pain and recovery. Then probably chemo (which means losing my hair again – right at the point where I was happy with it!) and heavier hormone therapy. That basically scuppers my plans for more children. It’s a lot to deal with, so it’s hard not to melt down sometimes.
If you’re reading this, I’ve been trying to balance the positive and the negative, because I don’t want my blog to suddenly turn into all doom and gloom. I have to try and acknowledge it though; god knows how many other young women in my position are feeling. If even 1 of those comes across this and thinks…”Yes, that’s me too!” then a relationship has started. At difficult times like this, we need all the strong relationships we can get.
Thank you, reader.
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