7th October 2021
Of course it doesn't end.
Chemotherapy finished. I completed radiation. Today I needed to make an appointment for a bone density scan. I needed to go to the chemist to pick up three different kinds of medication including the first of my monthly needles. Today my skin blistered and broke. When it was suggested that I should pop down to the cancer centre for dressings, my mood changed. It dropped. I sank. Not today. I can't return to that building only one day later.
Everyone wants to celebrate the completion of my treatment with me. I can't possibly drag anyone along further. I've been supported continually. They want this to be over as much as I do. I can't tell them that it hasn't ended. I don't know how to return to normal life and it doesn't feel like I get to anyway.
I missed a swim today. I can't shake the regret from missing it. My breast stings. The hot flushes and sweats are continual. I wipe my face again. I don't know how to feel.
8th October 2021
The sky darkens but I keep walking. The moon is a tiny slither and the stars are starting to shine. Lockdown is ending at the same time as my treatment. I need to rejoin the world at the same time as everyone else. I don't know how.
I get back to my tent, the fly is damp already. I climb in but leave the door wide open so that I can see the stars. The sleeping bag smells like one of the boys used it last. It's not a bad smell, just a boy deoderant smell. I wonder what they're all doing. The wind ruffles the tent, I can hear big kangaroos bounding past with thuds as their feet hit the ground. I'm grateful for the space and the indulgence of solitude.
I try to take my mind off the discomfort of my radiated skin and drift off to sleep. Wind gusts wake me in the night and my thoughts can't move past different stages of treatment. Flashbacks continue all night. In the morning the birds sing and the tent warms. It might take longer for my mind to heal than my body.
9th October 2021
The lightning cracks and lights up the tent. Tonight Erin is with me. She wakes and grips my arm as the next grumble of thunder starts to roar. I want to tell her that this isn't frightening. That there are many worse things in life to fear, but realise a comment like that would be of no help at all. The storm moves out to the east and the rain starts. First gently, and then so loud that it seems more sleep will be impossible. I can smell the water in the air and am in no rush to return to sleep and miss this anyway. I put my arm tightly around Erin and hope I give her some kind of comfort. Her breathing changes, she falls back to sleep, and so do I.
Of course it doesn't end.
Chemotherapy finished. I completed radiation. Today I needed to make an appointment for a bone density scan. I needed to go to the chemist to pick up three different kinds of medication including the first of my monthly needles. Today my skin blistered and broke. When it was suggested that I should pop down to the cancer centre for dressings, my mood changed. It dropped. I sank. Not today. I can't return to that building only one day later.
Everyone wants to celebrate the completion of my treatment with me. I can't possibly drag anyone along further. I've been supported continually. They want this to be over as much as I do. I can't tell them that it hasn't ended. I don't know how to return to normal life and it doesn't feel like I get to anyway.
I missed a swim today. I can't shake the regret from missing it. My breast stings. The hot flushes and sweats are continual. I wipe my face again. I don't know how to feel.
8th October 2021
The sky darkens but I keep walking. The moon is a tiny slither and the stars are starting to shine. Lockdown is ending at the same time as my treatment. I need to rejoin the world at the same time as everyone else. I don't know how.
I get back to my tent, the fly is damp already. I climb in but leave the door wide open so that I can see the stars. The sleeping bag smells like one of the boys used it last. It's not a bad smell, just a boy deoderant smell. I wonder what they're all doing. The wind ruffles the tent, I can hear big kangaroos bounding past with thuds as their feet hit the ground. I'm grateful for the space and the indulgence of solitude.
I try to take my mind off the discomfort of my radiated skin and drift off to sleep. Wind gusts wake me in the night and my thoughts can't move past different stages of treatment. Flashbacks continue all night. In the morning the birds sing and the tent warms. It might take longer for my mind to heal than my body.
9th October 2021
The lightning cracks and lights up the tent. Tonight Erin is with me. She wakes and grips my arm as the next grumble of thunder starts to roar. I want to tell her that this isn't frightening. That there are many worse things in life to fear, but realise a comment like that would be of no help at all. The storm moves out to the east and the rain starts. First gently, and then so loud that it seems more sleep will be impossible. I can smell the water in the air and am in no rush to return to sleep and miss this anyway. I put my arm tightly around Erin and hope I give her some kind of comfort. Her breathing changes, she falls back to sleep, and so do I.
11th October 2021
The doctor opens the packet containing the zoladex injection. The needle is far bigger than I expected. We read through the instructions together and she explains how to do it. I've read the information sheet, it said it 'won't hurt much'. It doesn't.
My eyes get heavy while I sit waiting for my bone density scan. They'll keep an eye on my bone health while I'm having the injections and taking the hormone suppressing medication. The news on the TV in the waiting area reports that today is Freedom Day. The day NSW is released from lockdown. I feel like I'm no closer to freedom at all.
I go through the questions and feel my face heat up as a flush comes on. I find it hard to breathe and ask if I can take my mask off. Even though he's at least three metres away he says no. I lie down and look at the ceiling. It takes all my concentration not to cry when I look up at the square air vent. This is still my life, lying down and looking at air vents. The machine takes photos of my hips and legs and then I'm free to go.
The doctor opens the packet containing the zoladex injection. The needle is far bigger than I expected. We read through the instructions together and she explains how to do it. I've read the information sheet, it said it 'won't hurt much'. It doesn't.
My eyes get heavy while I sit waiting for my bone density scan. They'll keep an eye on my bone health while I'm having the injections and taking the hormone suppressing medication. The news on the TV in the waiting area reports that today is Freedom Day. The day NSW is released from lockdown. I feel like I'm no closer to freedom at all.
I go through the questions and feel my face heat up as a flush comes on. I find it hard to breathe and ask if I can take my mask off. Even though he's at least three metres away he says no. I lie down and look at the ceiling. It takes all my concentration not to cry when I look up at the square air vent. This is still my life, lying down and looking at air vents. The machine takes photos of my hips and legs and then I'm free to go.
12th October 2021
My hair growing back is making me itchy. I'm irritable. I'm sad. My continually changing emotions are hard to deal with. I don't feel like doing anything. I consider missing my swim but thankfully, out of habit, I go.
I'm knee deep in the water and the rain starts. I listen to the pitter patter on my swimming cap and watch the droplets make rings on the surface of the water. There are so many fish that they cover the bottom of the river for more than half of my swim. I've protected my peeling skin with a waterproof dressing. It sticks securely under my swimmers and my wetsuit and allows me to forget about it. When I'm in the water I'm okay. When I leave it the uncertainty returns.
I get changed and take off the dressing. It takes another layer of skin with it.
People continue to congratulate me for finishing treatment. I don't know whether just to say thank you and pretend that I'm excited, or tell them that I'm on an emotional roller coaster. A ride that is taking me into dark sunken tunnels where it slows and I don't know the way out.
I'm sad. I'm uncomfortably overweight. My patience level has dropped. I can't concentrate. My family shouldn't have to put up with this. Somehow I need to overcome it.
My hair growing back is making me itchy. I'm irritable. I'm sad. My continually changing emotions are hard to deal with. I don't feel like doing anything. I consider missing my swim but thankfully, out of habit, I go.
I'm knee deep in the water and the rain starts. I listen to the pitter patter on my swimming cap and watch the droplets make rings on the surface of the water. There are so many fish that they cover the bottom of the river for more than half of my swim. I've protected my peeling skin with a waterproof dressing. It sticks securely under my swimmers and my wetsuit and allows me to forget about it. When I'm in the water I'm okay. When I leave it the uncertainty returns.
I get changed and take off the dressing. It takes another layer of skin with it.
People continue to congratulate me for finishing treatment. I don't know whether just to say thank you and pretend that I'm excited, or tell them that I'm on an emotional roller coaster. A ride that is taking me into dark sunken tunnels where it slows and I don't know the way out.
I'm sad. I'm uncomfortably overweight. My patience level has dropped. I can't concentrate. My family shouldn't have to put up with this. Somehow I need to overcome it.
14th October 2021
The buzzy chest pain takes over my thoughts. I have nothing planned today but a swim. I have to remind myself that even though it's a Thursday I don't have chemotherapy. That finished two months ago, but with no other treatment today it has automatically flicked up in my head. I try to reassure myself that it's over. I try to tell myself that I'm capable of the day.
The tide is just about to turn. We try to race it. Try and swim back to the boat ramp before it pushes us back up the river. I only just make it. When I put my feet down I can feel the pull in the opposite direction. I've swum as fast as I can and realise that my best effort is a lot slower than it ever was before. I try to accept it. I try to be kind. I try to feel proud that I can swim any kind of pace at all.
The buzzy chest pain takes over my thoughts. I have nothing planned today but a swim. I have to remind myself that even though it's a Thursday I don't have chemotherapy. That finished two months ago, but with no other treatment today it has automatically flicked up in my head. I try to reassure myself that it's over. I try to tell myself that I'm capable of the day.
The tide is just about to turn. We try to race it. Try and swim back to the boat ramp before it pushes us back up the river. I only just make it. When I put my feet down I can feel the pull in the opposite direction. I've swum as fast as I can and realise that my best effort is a lot slower than it ever was before. I try to accept it. I try to be kind. I try to feel proud that I can swim any kind of pace at all.
15th October 2021
I lean my head back and float in the spa. I watch the international space station glide across the sky as I look up at the moon. I can feel my insignificance in the wide expanse, it makes everything feel like it's back in place. My cancer is no longer a big consuming thing. It's shrinking, but not without bursts of tormenting memories and increasing dread of whatever could be next. I'm confused about who I'm meant to be for me, as well as for everyone else.
I lean my head back and float in the spa. I watch the international space station glide across the sky as I look up at the moon. I can feel my insignificance in the wide expanse, it makes everything feel like it's back in place. My cancer is no longer a big consuming thing. It's shrinking, but not without bursts of tormenting memories and increasing dread of whatever could be next. I'm confused about who I'm meant to be for me, as well as for everyone else.
17th October 2021
I hear the splash of a water dragon as it darts off a rock after we've startled it. This river is fresh water and I'm surrounded in shades of greens and browns rather than the salty blues and yellows.
A bright blue Kingfisher flitters in front of my kayak and then sits in a tree to watch and rest. It's quiet. The only noise is my paddle dipping in and out of the water. I let my arms pause and the others catch up. We fill the air with our chatter as we leisurely make our way downstream. I can't count this as exercise, but it counts as another step forwards, and further away from treatment.
I hear the splash of a water dragon as it darts off a rock after we've startled it. This river is fresh water and I'm surrounded in shades of greens and browns rather than the salty blues and yellows.
A bright blue Kingfisher flitters in front of my kayak and then sits in a tree to watch and rest. It's quiet. The only noise is my paddle dipping in and out of the water. I let my arms pause and the others catch up. We fill the air with our chatter as we leisurely make our way downstream. I can't count this as exercise, but it counts as another step forwards, and further away from treatment.
19th October 2021
The buzz of the hair clippers isn't a foreign noise in our house. Jon runs them over his head every few weeks. I hear the zaps as I move them over my own head. I've decided to try and equal out my different lengths of hair before it gets too long to use the clippers. It feels better when I'm done. Everyone is talking about their post lockdown haircuts and now I've had one too.
I can't help but hope that this is the last time I will ever shave my head. I like the practicality of short hair, but I don't want there to be any reason that I have to shave it again. I don't want to look like the cancer mum anymore. I just want to blend in. I want to go unnoticed. I want to quietly step away into the background and heal.
The buzz of the hair clippers isn't a foreign noise in our house. Jon runs them over his head every few weeks. I hear the zaps as I move them over my own head. I've decided to try and equal out my different lengths of hair before it gets too long to use the clippers. It feels better when I'm done. Everyone is talking about their post lockdown haircuts and now I've had one too.
I can't help but hope that this is the last time I will ever shave my head. I like the practicality of short hair, but I don't want there to be any reason that I have to shave it again. I don't want to look like the cancer mum anymore. I just want to blend in. I want to go unnoticed. I want to quietly step away into the background and heal.
21st October 2021
A group of teenagers have nothing on nine months of cancer treatment. What could they possibly do that could come close. I keep telling myself that. Reassuring myself that I can easily walk back into a role that I haven't played in years, hoping that four sessions of archery just fall out of my mouth without me having to think.
It happens. The words come out. I teach them the skills. My confidence grows. "How is your health?" I get asked by and adult who knows my family. I'm smacked instantly with a reminder that I had cancer. I try not to let it unsettle me and I answer politely. Right now I'm not the cancer victim. I'm an Outdoor Education instructor and for today that's all I want to be. The day gives me confidence for the next day, and the day after that.
A group of teenagers have nothing on nine months of cancer treatment. What could they possibly do that could come close. I keep telling myself that. Reassuring myself that I can easily walk back into a role that I haven't played in years, hoping that four sessions of archery just fall out of my mouth without me having to think.
It happens. The words come out. I teach them the skills. My confidence grows. "How is your health?" I get asked by and adult who knows my family. I'm smacked instantly with a reminder that I had cancer. I try not to let it unsettle me and I answer politely. Right now I'm not the cancer victim. I'm an Outdoor Education instructor and for today that's all I want to be. The day gives me confidence for the next day, and the day after that.
23rd October 2021
I pop the tablet out of the blister pack and stare at it. The rough plan is that I'll be taking these for the next ten years. Ten years is a long time. I'll have adult children by then. I put it in my mouth and swallow it. The fear of what life will dish up between now and then is too much to contemplate. I remind myself that I only have to do today. The highs of finishing cancer treatment mixed with the lows of enduring it in the first place continue throughout my days. When the five of us are together and laughing it's almost too hard to contain the joy in my chest. I feel like I might burst. It changes to concern and the knowledge that five people aren't happy and well all of the time. We can't stay like this. They're will be hurt and pain and tears and I don't feel like I have the strength for them.
I pop the tablet out of the blister pack and stare at it. The rough plan is that I'll be taking these for the next ten years. Ten years is a long time. I'll have adult children by then. I put it in my mouth and swallow it. The fear of what life will dish up between now and then is too much to contemplate. I remind myself that I only have to do today. The highs of finishing cancer treatment mixed with the lows of enduring it in the first place continue throughout my days. When the five of us are together and laughing it's almost too hard to contain the joy in my chest. I feel like I might burst. It changes to concern and the knowledge that five people aren't happy and well all of the time. We can't stay like this. They're will be hurt and pain and tears and I don't feel like I have the strength for them.
24th October 2021
My legs burn and I'm puffing. I fall behind the group as we walk up the hill. I wonder if I'll be able to keep up in the swim. We wander down the other side through the cemetery. The certainty of death is far more real for me now. I look up and see a headstone that finishes by saying 'aged 44 years'. I'm faced with the 'what ifs'. What if my treatment hadn't have been successful. What if I had to battle it for another two years. What if then my family had to prepare a grave for me. What if my headstone said 'aged 44 years'.
Instead of facing death, I'm facing a two kilometre swim around the headland from Boat Harbour to Werri Beach. I'm very much alive and well.
I have to ask someone that I don't know to zip up my wetsuit. I want to reassure them that even though I don't look fit and trim like the rest of them, I can swim, they're not going to have to rescue me.
The water is full of particles and the swell builds as we leave the harbour. I can keep the pace even when the waves throw me around. There are certain spots where the leaders stop and wait for the back of the pack to catch up. I stop and tread water and wait, grateful for the rest. As soon as the last person arrives we're off again. There's no rest for the people who arrive last. The swell surges and I suck in water instead of air. I cough it out without having to stop. I feel my arms tire and the distance increases between me and the person that I've been swimming next to. We round the point but keep swimming. My body is lifted up and then plunges down with each rolling wave. The water is deep but I have no fears out here. The pace that I set is now my own and I could keep it up for hours.
My legs burn and I'm puffing. I fall behind the group as we walk up the hill. I wonder if I'll be able to keep up in the swim. We wander down the other side through the cemetery. The certainty of death is far more real for me now. I look up and see a headstone that finishes by saying 'aged 44 years'. I'm faced with the 'what ifs'. What if my treatment hadn't have been successful. What if I had to battle it for another two years. What if then my family had to prepare a grave for me. What if my headstone said 'aged 44 years'.
Instead of facing death, I'm facing a two kilometre swim around the headland from Boat Harbour to Werri Beach. I'm very much alive and well.
I have to ask someone that I don't know to zip up my wetsuit. I want to reassure them that even though I don't look fit and trim like the rest of them, I can swim, they're not going to have to rescue me.
The water is full of particles and the swell builds as we leave the harbour. I can keep the pace even when the waves throw me around. There are certain spots where the leaders stop and wait for the back of the pack to catch up. I stop and tread water and wait, grateful for the rest. As soon as the last person arrives we're off again. There's no rest for the people who arrive last. The swell surges and I suck in water instead of air. I cough it out without having to stop. I feel my arms tire and the distance increases between me and the person that I've been swimming next to. We round the point but keep swimming. My body is lifted up and then plunges down with each rolling wave. The water is deep but I have no fears out here. The pace that I set is now my own and I could keep it up for hours.
25th October 2021
I walked out of the aquatic centre last year for the Christmas break, I didn't know it would be ten months before I would be able to start my employment there again. Ten months and an experience that will change me forever.
I feel good in my uniform. I feel like I have purpose. I feel like I belong. I walk out to the kitchen and Erin's eyes widen "are you working at the pool today mum?" "Yep" I say. She smiles brightly. I guess it's another step towards normal for her too.
The bad days after cancer treatment are lower than low but the good days have higher highs. I look up from the lesson and see Polly walk in through the automatic doors. She must be five by now. Her face lights up when she sees me in the water. I wave at her and she waves back. The genuine joy in her face to see her swimming teacher back in the pool gives me reassurance that I'm right where I should be today.
I walked out of the aquatic centre last year for the Christmas break, I didn't know it would be ten months before I would be able to start my employment there again. Ten months and an experience that will change me forever.
I feel good in my uniform. I feel like I have purpose. I feel like I belong. I walk out to the kitchen and Erin's eyes widen "are you working at the pool today mum?" "Yep" I say. She smiles brightly. I guess it's another step towards normal for her too.
The bad days after cancer treatment are lower than low but the good days have higher highs. I look up from the lesson and see Polly walk in through the automatic doors. She must be five by now. Her face lights up when she sees me in the water. I wave at her and she waves back. The genuine joy in her face to see her swimming teacher back in the pool gives me reassurance that I'm right where I should be today.
28th October 2021
The salty air smells like holidays. It reminds me of wellness. A wellness that seems out of my grasp today. I can feel the breeze in my soft short hair. I've taken my bandana off even though both Erin and Liam advised me not to. I think my hair is long enough to walk around in public, but I don't want to make them embarrassed or uncomfortable. No one can see me here anyway. No one can see me. No one can hear me. There are very few people in my circle who know about the aftermath of cancer and its treatment. I don't understand it. I don't know how to deal with it myself.
The salty air smells like holidays. It reminds me of wellness. A wellness that seems out of my grasp today. I can feel the breeze in my soft short hair. I've taken my bandana off even though both Erin and Liam advised me not to. I think my hair is long enough to walk around in public, but I don't want to make them embarrassed or uncomfortable. No one can see me here anyway. No one can see me. No one can hear me. There are very few people in my circle who know about the aftermath of cancer and its treatment. I don't understand it. I don't know how to deal with it myself.
31st October 2021
I have to do it. Not for any reason but my own. Erin realises what I'm doing and says "No mum, no. Please no". I do it anyway. I explain to her that it's something that I need to do. I need to feel like I'm a person who will be accepted whatever my hair looks like. I need to know that I'm strong enough to walk around and feel comfortable even though I don't like how I look.
A few people compliment me. It eases my nerves. I have bouts of panic where I reach for my bandana, but I talk myself through it and leave it in my pocket.
There are a lot of firsts to get through. None of them are easy.
I have to do it. Not for any reason but my own. Erin realises what I'm doing and says "No mum, no. Please no". I do it anyway. I explain to her that it's something that I need to do. I need to feel like I'm a person who will be accepted whatever my hair looks like. I need to know that I'm strong enough to walk around and feel comfortable even though I don't like how I look.
A few people compliment me. It eases my nerves. I have bouts of panic where I reach for my bandana, but I talk myself through it and leave it in my pocket.
There are a lot of firsts to get through. None of them are easy.
2nd November 2021
I don't want to need an appointment with the cancer centre's psychologist. I cancelled it. And then I booked it again. The isolation. The fear of cancer returning. The unknown of the future. The expectations of others. But mostly the expectations of myself, are too high. The hospital treatment is over and I'm realising, so is my pre-cancer life.
I stop and brush my teeth in front of the mirror and see my tiny radiation tattoo. It'll always be there. I wonder if it will always shock me with the way it can take me out of the present and throw me straight back into the memories of cancer treatment.
There were dolphins today, the water was glimmering, and the temperature perfect, but all I could do was look at it with numbness. While purposely trying to block out the bad, I've managed to block out the good too. Others see me and assume my physical wellness means that I'm better. I wish it was that easy.
I don't want to need an appointment with the cancer centre's psychologist. I cancelled it. And then I booked it again. The isolation. The fear of cancer returning. The unknown of the future. The expectations of others. But mostly the expectations of myself, are too high. The hospital treatment is over and I'm realising, so is my pre-cancer life.
I stop and brush my teeth in front of the mirror and see my tiny radiation tattoo. It'll always be there. I wonder if it will always shock me with the way it can take me out of the present and throw me straight back into the memories of cancer treatment.
There were dolphins today, the water was glimmering, and the temperature perfect, but all I could do was look at it with numbness. While purposely trying to block out the bad, I've managed to block out the good too. Others see me and assume my physical wellness means that I'm better. I wish it was that easy.
3rd November 2021
I'm completely broken in every single way. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Aesthetically.
There is no way to be fixed. I'm trapped in the fear of more trauma. Caged in responsibilities and self doubt. Tasks take longer, or end up being discarded in frustration of not being achieved at all. My skin releases continuous beads of shiney sweat that I try to mop up with my tshirt or bandana before anyone makes a comment. My head bows and I look to the ground trying to avoid eye contact when my face flushes bright red. I have no control over it. I can't make it stop. Medication to ease the side effects creates more side effects of its own.
If I wear my bandana, the heat is worse and it continues to make me look like a cancer victim. I don't have cancer, I don't belong in that space anymore. If I don't wear my bandana, my short hair raises questions of my identity.
The back of my shoulder is numb. There's no feeling half way down my side. The ringing in my ears turns on and off whenever it pleases. My scars make irregularities on my skin. My breast is painful. I wake again and again through the night. There is no peace.
I'm completely broken in every single way. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Aesthetically.
There is no way to be fixed. I'm trapped in the fear of more trauma. Caged in responsibilities and self doubt. Tasks take longer, or end up being discarded in frustration of not being achieved at all. My skin releases continuous beads of shiney sweat that I try to mop up with my tshirt or bandana before anyone makes a comment. My head bows and I look to the ground trying to avoid eye contact when my face flushes bright red. I have no control over it. I can't make it stop. Medication to ease the side effects creates more side effects of its own.
If I wear my bandana, the heat is worse and it continues to make me look like a cancer victim. I don't have cancer, I don't belong in that space anymore. If I don't wear my bandana, my short hair raises questions of my identity.
The back of my shoulder is numb. There's no feeling half way down my side. The ringing in my ears turns on and off whenever it pleases. My scars make irregularities on my skin. My breast is painful. I wake again and again through the night. There is no peace.
4th November 2021
I kick hard. I need this. The tide has already turned, I'm swimming against it and I'm glad. I want to swim strongly. I swim hard and fast. I can't relax or the water will push me backwards out towards the ocean. My back is sore, my arms hurt but I keep fighting it. It takes nearly twice as long to swim our usual distance. When I turn around, the swim back requires less effort. I go home and crawl into bed. My usual post swim high is missing. I can't live like this. I look at the box of tablets. They've been prescribed to ease the hot flushes but they're also anti depressants. I don't want to take them. They'll help, but their main side effect is weight gain. I have to take them. I have to stop fighting, turn around with the tide, and take them.
I kick hard. I need this. The tide has already turned, I'm swimming against it and I'm glad. I want to swim strongly. I swim hard and fast. I can't relax or the water will push me backwards out towards the ocean. My back is sore, my arms hurt but I keep fighting it. It takes nearly twice as long to swim our usual distance. When I turn around, the swim back requires less effort. I go home and crawl into bed. My usual post swim high is missing. I can't live like this. I look at the box of tablets. They've been prescribed to ease the hot flushes but they're also anti depressants. I don't want to take them. They'll help, but their main side effect is weight gain. I have to take them. I have to stop fighting, turn around with the tide, and take them.
7th November 2021
My lower back and hips ache. My elbows hurt so much that it's painful to hold a glass of water. I look at our bed and sigh. Instead of it looking comfortable and inviting, it makes me dread another night of little sleep. Another night of podcasts from 2am to try and stop my thoughts from snowballing. Another night of rotating around and around trying to get comfortable. The side effects of the medications are settling in.
8th November 2021
"I didn't know swimming could be this much fun" I hear a little girl tell her mum as she hops out of my swimming lessons. Working with pre-schoolers takes all of my concentration. When I'm in the water with them it feels like the last year of my life didn't even happen at all.
And then I get out. And I see my reflection. My short hair instantly reminding me again. I see vulnerability. My colleagues don't see what I see. They see strength, and they see courage.
9th November 2021
The water is streaming in through the river mouth. I need it's help today. I'm aching. It doubles my speed. It's in a rush to fill up the river and meet the creeks that are flowing in the opposite direction. It's like a conveyer belt, and I have to make sure that I get off it at the right time or it will sweep me up towards the bridge. I put my feet down but get dragged further until I swim into the shallower water.
My phone rings. My appointments are still not in person. The oncologist says I can stop taking the letrozole which is giving me the bone pain and I can try something else. Just like that.
Half an hour later I speak to the radiation oncologist who makes another appointment to see me next August, six months after the surgeon sees me again.
I won't ever return to my pre cancer life. This is part of me now. Whether there are cancerous cells in my body or not, it's something that I have lived through that has changed me forever. It won't become my identity. I'm not the wife, the mum, the daughter or the sister with cancer. I'm just me.
My lower back and hips ache. My elbows hurt so much that it's painful to hold a glass of water. I look at our bed and sigh. Instead of it looking comfortable and inviting, it makes me dread another night of little sleep. Another night of podcasts from 2am to try and stop my thoughts from snowballing. Another night of rotating around and around trying to get comfortable. The side effects of the medications are settling in.
8th November 2021
"I didn't know swimming could be this much fun" I hear a little girl tell her mum as she hops out of my swimming lessons. Working with pre-schoolers takes all of my concentration. When I'm in the water with them it feels like the last year of my life didn't even happen at all.
And then I get out. And I see my reflection. My short hair instantly reminding me again. I see vulnerability. My colleagues don't see what I see. They see strength, and they see courage.
9th November 2021
The water is streaming in through the river mouth. I need it's help today. I'm aching. It doubles my speed. It's in a rush to fill up the river and meet the creeks that are flowing in the opposite direction. It's like a conveyer belt, and I have to make sure that I get off it at the right time or it will sweep me up towards the bridge. I put my feet down but get dragged further until I swim into the shallower water.
My phone rings. My appointments are still not in person. The oncologist says I can stop taking the letrozole which is giving me the bone pain and I can try something else. Just like that.
Half an hour later I speak to the radiation oncologist who makes another appointment to see me next August, six months after the surgeon sees me again.
I won't ever return to my pre cancer life. This is part of me now. Whether there are cancerous cells in my body or not, it's something that I have lived through that has changed me forever. It won't become my identity. I'm not the wife, the mum, the daughter or the sister with cancer. I'm just me.