Post 445: Special. You are special.
In all my recent posts I’ve concentrated on myself (as usual), My Darling and her bruised calf, and Mr Vicious, who is slowly becoming an older gentleman rather than the irascible cat he once was.
The heat has been one thing, but time keeps dragging us all through the ups and downs of ordinary life whether we’re ready or not.
As the days fly by I find myself worrying about life and love, family and friends, the living and the dead.
But time keeps ticking.
Like the clock during a football match, it never stops.
The thing is, I don’t really want to talk about me today.
I want to talk about someone else.
Someone standing at the very beginning of a journey I know only too well.
They’re right at the start of the cancer pathway.
The tests have started.
The waiting has begun.
The questions have arrived.
And there are far more questions than answers.
It took me straight back to those first weeks when I wanted someone—anyone—to explain what was happening.
Would the tablets work?
What happens next?
When will someone actually tell me?
Why does everything seem to take so long?
I remember those feelings so clearly.
So I found myself saying something very simple.
“You are special.”
I meant every word.
Not special because of illness.
Special because there has never been another person quite like you.
Which means your treatment shouldn’t be exactly like anyone else’s either.
Your doctors aren’t making a plan.
They’re making your plan.
That takes time.
Scans have to be reported.
Blood tests checked.
Specialists meet together.
Opinions are shared.
Every piece of information helps build the picture.
It can feel like nothing is happening.
In truth, an awful lot is happening behind the scenes.
I remember waiting for that first proper face-to-face appointment.
I wondered whether the next phone call would tell me everything.
It didn’t.
The important conversations happened later, when all the information had been gathered.
Looking back now, that made perfect sense.
At the time it was unbelievably frustrating.
Waiting is one of the hardest parts of this whole business.
If I could offer one piece of advice to anyone standing where my friend is standing today, it would be this.
Take someone with you.
Take a notebook.
Write your questions down before you go.
Don’t be frightened to ask for something to be explained again.
It’s your appointment.
Your treatment.
Your future.
Go at your own pace.
Remember…
You are special.
There is nobody else quite like you.
That’s why your care is personal.
That’s why it takes time.
That’s why your plan is built around you.
I hope my friend knows that, even while they’re waiting.
I hope they know they have people standing quietly behind them, cheering them on before treatment has even begun.
Nobody should ever feel alone at the start of this journey.
We all begin somewhere.
Those of us a little further along the road can always leave a light on for the next person.
Perhaps that’s one of the most important things we can do.
Good night.
Take care.
Don’t turn off your light.
