There have been so many times I have wanted to write more about my husband's cancer experience but things change almost on a daily basis post treatment and it's difficult to comprehend one state before moving onto another. It's all logged in my brain somewhere - hopefully, although much of the onslaught I wish to forget.
September 2013 saw us being collected by the laundry machine of the wonderful NHS and told we needed to be washed and treated for throat cancer. That time seems light years ago now although the terror of the moment is something that still lives with me now.
Hubby and I were scooped up and tossed into the machine. The door closed upon us and for a while the outside world was only viewed through the distorted thick glass door - the muffled sounds of our other life in the far off distance, the lives of our family and friends went on without us, as we held on tight together, preparing for the wash of our lives. We clung like mad to each other, only being separated for the odd moment during the fastest of spins. The turbulence was unbearable at times - round and round and round we went. A couple of occasions we found ourselves almost drowning but with the help of decades of a great marriage behind us we survived the cruel and powerful laundry cycle. It was terrifying and without compare.
The door was opened and out we tumbled - twisted and crumpled, onto the floor. The cycle was finally finished. We were battered and bruised, shaken up. But we still had one another and we were still wrapped in each others arms. We were going to survive after all - we thought. I still had my husband and I still had my marriage. The most important parts of my life.
So they sent us on our way - off to be line dried, out in the sunshine. How we both marvelled at the wonderful feeling of the gentle breeze of freedom, the warmth of the cure and the generosity of our lives.
We started to dare think ahead, to think and talk about the spring and the summer. For a while all of our ducks were in a row. How stupid was I.
That has all changed now. The news isn't good. They've found another stain. Only this time we don't know what it is. We don't know if we have to return to the laundry room. We've been hauled back to September. Only this time we are not so strong. We're waiting, waiting, waiting. More tests, more tests.
Hubby feels rubbish. I feel rubbish because he does. I feel so angry. I've been tearful but can't tell him. I'm his flight attendant. One look at my face gives him the security he needs. We're going to be fine sweetheart, we are not going to crash land. We're going to get through this in the same way we did last time.
The pressure is enormous as a carer. I take my hat off to all those who devote their time and energies to someone they love. I feel like I have multiple personalities and operate at different levels depending on the individual circumstances of the moment. It's exhausting though. The constant reassuring is draining. The worry is overwhelming. The fear starts in the back of my throat and makes its painful way to my aching heart. The black thoughts that come and go, even whilst I'm smiling.
All my married life I have looked after my family, kept them from harm, juggled all the demands of a home, a family and work. Had open house to friends and family .I've always been in charge.
Well cancer is in charge at the moment and it stinks. What does cancer know about me and my life? Barging its way in and telling me to do this and do that. I hate cancer with every fibre of my being.
I have an overwhelming sense of sadness now. I only hope I am wrong, wrong, wrong.
Someone said to me today "Life's crap". Well how wrong are they?
It's cancer that is crap, life is sweet and beautiful and all things wonderful. I want my life and I want it with my husband. My darling, darling man.
And so the fight goes on.
