To blog or not to blog? I’m usually fairly private and prefer to keep my own council. But cancer is a big deal, hacking into so many of our lives. And seeing as writing is one of my greatest joys and this platform is particularly for those of us affected by cancer, perhaps writing about entering this brave new world, will be a positive thing. Like a travel diary perhaps. See I’ve talked myself into it; clearly easily influenced.
Just to warn you though, having just re-read this first post which outlines the beginning of my journey, it’s not as 'uplifting' as I had actually intended! Sorry. I promise to try and weave some cheerier bits into any future posts, because after all, I am now feeling pretty positive 
When I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer a couple of months ago, we were already in the final stages of moving back to Blighty from the Middle East. There was a job offer in the pipeline for hubby and I was super-excited to finally be coming home after having spent years away from my people. After being out of the workforce a few years, I had also just been offered a freelance writing gig. It certainly wasn’t big bucks, but it would afford me flexibility to work around my little boys. So I was excited that on top of moving back home, once again, I would have my own real-life purpose in society, pursuing my dream as a real life writer of sorts.
Anyway, I digress. Without boring you with the finer details, it seems the primary breast cancer was missed a year earlier during a previous check-up, which is how I found myself undergoing various imaging tests which indicated large breast cancer tumours. After stalling at one hospital, a wonderful lady Doctor with her own clinic helped me get a quick biopsy, followed by a scan to determine how far advanced, the probable cancer was.
In hindsight, my mind and time was crammed full of jobs lists, sorting household goods, school and nursery runs and an ongoing headache of other ridiculous issues. Aside from hubby running around here, there and everywhere cancelling visas, contracts and so on, we had what can only be described as a run of bad luck and/or coupled with our own silliness.
To give you a snippet of what I mean, during our last week or so overseas, we sold our two cars which had never before caused us any drama. The day after we sold each of them, both new buyers rang to report various expensive problems and we ended up doling out a ton of money to one of the buyers, primarily to avoid bad karma. We also lost both our bank cards one day after the next. A day or so after, hubby ended up having to smash in the window of the hire car when I accidentally locked in my three year old. This then led to hubby getting a lift with his mate down to A&E for multiple stitches in his wrist. Later that same evening, I had the call from my Doctor to confirm the cancer.
At one point, I (half) jokingly said to hubby, ‘We’re cursed…or maybe the universe is trying to tell us something?’
‘Yes, it’s telling us to die,’ was his reply.
Oh dear.
There was actually one moment when I was hanging out the washing, when I stopped mid-way to take a moment and laugh like a loony to myself. It was so bad, it was almost funny. It was clearly time to leave before I was carted away.
Yet, oddly enough, after the diagnosis, I was still feeling fairly cheery and trotted off to the cancer clinic for the scan. The taxi wove down a long, dusty driveway in the middle of the desert and eventually pulled up to a wide, glass-fronted building. The glossy receptionist instructed me to take a seat in what was possibly the quietest space I have ever entered. The words ‘morgue like’ really did spring to mind.
The expansive waiting room had shelves stacked full of interestingly titled medical books, yet I daren’t risk making a sound walking over to select one. In fact, I doubt they ever got read; which is a bit sad in itself.
Every now and then, someone with either very little hair or a wig would silently drift on past, through the ominous looking double doors headed, ’Radiation.’ I smiled encouragingly at the nervous looking lady waiting next to me, all the while feeling like I myself, didn’t actually belong in there with all those sick-looking people and dreaming of my swift exit. After all, at 37, I am young…ish, felt fine and my frizzy locks had temporarily been tamed and were looking rather shiny. So how bad could it really be?
But after the scan, I was told to wait again until a lovely Scottish nurse led me off to a little room. All of a sudden our cheery chatter evaporated and the atmosphere plummeted as an alpha male doctor, German, maybe Swiss and his blonde, uber-efficient-looking female colleague swept into the room. The alpha male doctor courteously informed me that the cancer had spread to my bones and explained that this would most probably mean that although it is now not curable, it would certainly be treatable. As he then excused himself to take a call, either the Scottish nurse or the lady Doctor, I don’t remember which, kindly asked me if I was okay. I replied with an embarrassing (but thankfully short) mental breakdown. Tissues and hands were pressed onto me whilst I laughingly apologised in that very British way.
Finally, we moved out of our house and into what would normally have been a glorious beachside hotel for our final few days. I told my parents, brother and a few close friends about my diagnosis whilst simultaneously trying to quell my ocd tendencies and not obsessively look up prognosis stats on the web.
Hubby, already drained from everything else that had led us up to that point was even then, still running around the country like a madman tying up the trillions of bureaucratic loose ends of expat life. So with the boys, I carried on our sad little holiday, feeling a new sense of detachment from all the other folk around me, frolicking by the pool, sipping their pina coladas.
But it was after dark, when the kids were finally asleep and I would slip out onto the balcony, nursing a guilty glass of wine with the music of the band below, that the utter lonely weight of uncertainty would hit me. Leaving that place could not come fast enough.
A few days later, after a particularly rocky descent which thankfully the boys thought was all good fun, ‘It’s like a rollercoaster mummy!’ we touched down at Heathrow. I could have happily kissed the wet, grey tarmac of home….
