I’m going to kick start this portion with a picture of me in a tree.
This was taken Christmas Day at Waverley Abbey. Past Gerry doesn’t know it yet but she is soon going to miss sitting comfortably. You enjoy that perch Past Gerry. Revel in the Christmassy moment.
Three days after the picture was taken (and luckily because I can count I make that the 28th December) another letter landed on my doormat. Future Gerry will get used to these. It had on it a medical stamp (Future Gerry will get used to this also) and I realised that it was very likely to be my colposcopy results. I’ll admit my pulse picked up at how quickly they had arrived and the cuntsoltant, sorry, I mean consultant’s words wafted through my mind. ‘If there is anything to be concerned about then you will receive the results letter nearer the two-week mark.’ It was two and a half. With a break for Christmas.
You don’t get told you have cancer via letter. You get invited to an appointment where they tell you that you have cancer. The appointment letter isn’t so much of a request as an urgent request with no information other than your consultant’s name. If, like me, you have access to modern technology (what did we ever do before Googling was a thing?!) you will look up your consultant’s name and find that he specialises in: –
I chose a pretty image to soften the blow the second time around. But do you want to know how I reacted initially?
Well…
Calm. I was definitely calm and am in no way lying to you.
It was at this point my partner and I diverged in our approaches to this scheduled future appointment. My partner was, in keeping with his personality, calm and rational. He refused to think of the worst-case scenario because the worst-case scenario hadn’t happened yet and, in his mind, may not ever happen so what was the point in counting something as a certainty?
I believe he borrowed from the philosophy of Newt Scamander (of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them) …
My approach borrowed from the philosophy of that well-established organisation I was once part of (of course I was, have you met me?) …. The Girl Guides.
At this point I was thinking to myself, ‘if they do diagnose me with cancer, I got this. I totally got this.’
Yeah.
I will tell you now that I had/ still have moments where I think the above and then there were/ are moments where I think, ‘I haven’t got this. I totally haven’t got this.’ And the fun part of that game is that your brain will just choose what it wants to decide at any given moment on any given day.
The night before the diagnosis felt like a rather perverse, twisted Christmas Eve (ooh I have an image for that!)
You wait in anticipation for something but the thing you are waiting for is Not Good. Part of you never wants it to come, but the other part of you knows something is coming and so you just want to get it over with, regardless of the eventual outcome.
Six days later (on the 3rd January… counting again) I found myself back in that irritating ante-natal/ gynaecology waiting room where I got gawped at by more pregnant couples sitting in the wrong area. Had any obnoxiously chirpy nurse approached me asking about a scan that time round I probably would have gone three rounds on their ass.
Luckily because I had a face like a thunder-arsehole (is that even a thing? I’m going to make that a thing) no one was perky and no one approached me aside from the nurse whose job it was to call me from the waiting room into the consultation room.
On route I passed three rather serious looking medical professionals (turns out they for me) before I was left alone for a few minutes. Those few minutes were the longest in my life. A strategically placed box of tissues on the table was my first big clue that something was amiss and my second big clue was the conversation being held by the three serious medical professionals that stood outside a not-quite-properly-closed-door; it went a little something like this: –
Nurse: Does she know why she’s here?
Consultant: No. We’re telling her today.
‘She,’ sorry I, sat alone in a consultation room for about a minute knowing that I had cancer but without knowing that I had cancer. Turns out I was wrong before. The previous few minutes were not the longest in my life. That minute of not-knowing knowing was. I get to own that minute though. That minute is locked in my box of life experiences.
I don’t really know how to describe the actual moment I was told I had cancer in any particularly humorous way so I am sorry if it falls massively flat.
The conversation itself was bizarre and I have no clue if this is how it goes down for everyone but I feel like they stick to a formula: –
During any part of the above you may or not take a minute to cry. I did between steps 2 and 3 and then found myself apologising profusely to the nurses and consultant for doing so. Like what the actual f*ck?! I have clearly been trained by The Very British Organisation of Receiving Devastating News but Should Still Always Retain One’s Britishness.
Gerry’s Hot Tip on how to respond to your cancer diagnosis if you ever one: –
Nope. Nothing. I have a whole bunch of nothing to give you. You’ve just got to absorb the news and let it run whatever course you and your mind chooses. It does, in a way, become another ‘choose your own adventure’ except the adventure is pretty f*cking sh*t.
If you ever receive such news there is no right or wrong way of dealing or feeling and the way that you think you’re going to respond is probably not the actual way that you will respond. The human creature is funny like that.
Maybe, just maybe, if it had been a different cancer or if I was told that it was at a later stage then my reaction might have been different. Or not. I don’t know. Shock has a lot to answer for at this stage.
First off I am a huge crier. These are some things that have made me cry for a variety of reasons, some good and some not so good: –
As I am a massive crier I thought that is how I would respond. I was pretty certain. But aside from the small cry I had between steps 2 and 3 my next response got a little bizarre….
After step 5 (above) I was asked if I had anyone with me. Because I am a lucky girl and have someone who loves me enough to come with me to these crappy things my response was ‘yes, my partner is in the waiting room.’
The nurse then said that they would bring him in. This is when I responded in horror and waved my hands about in an overly dramatic way. ‘No, no, no!’ I told her, ‘you don’t need to get him, you see he’s looking after my coat!’
They assured me that he could bring the coat with him.
What followed was the nurses taking all details they could possibly take from me, plus explaining the situation to my partner in a very friendly and calming manner whilst I spent the time worrying about the health and well-being of my coat. ‘Did you bring it with you?’ ‘I’m nipping to the loo, make sure you keep hold of the coat.’ ‘My coat is on the floor, I don’t want it touching the floor.’ ‘We need to go and get my blood taken now, have you got the coat?’ ‘They’re sticking me with a needle now, is that coat doing ok?’
The coat is the oldest coat in the history of coats. I just don’t even know. It has about three used tissues, some crumbled up polos, and old train tickets in the pockets but from the way I was reacting you’d think I’d found the Heart of the Ocean or something. This lady has it…
What happens next is a lot of paperwork. Oh, and blood being taken. You get used to that. Both the paperwork (get yourself a special cancer file) and the blood. I swear the NHS is a secret cover for an organisation of pseudo-friendly vampires because the amount of blood that would get taken from me during the whole process overall seemed excessive.
When it’s all done and they send you on your way with a promise to call you ASAP you just walk out the same front doors of the hospital you entered except it all feels a bit different. You feel a bit different. You’re not entirely sure what’s just happened to you and you’re not entirely too sure what’s going to happen to you but you know it’s Not Good.
I turned to my partner yesterday and simply said to him, ‘I wish I never got diagnosed. I wish I never had cancer. I wish I could just be exactly the person I was before any of this happened.’
The thing is wishing changes nothing at all. With all that you have you need to focus on getting that fucker out. That’s the most important thing and that’s what I said to the nurse at the time. Get the fucker out.
So off you go, unto the breach.
