Lights out

in my house when I return from the station. My darling girls left tonight for school; one in shy silent homesickness and the other two in doughnut fuelled bubbly chatter. As the underground clattered its way through the Sunday channels under London, I felt the tears prick at my eyes as I thought of them travelling through the dark fields to school...

I put the key in the lock and, on opening the door, the corridor is in darkness. As I fumble for the light, I hesitate in the silence where only two hours earlier were shouts, beeps of games and muddy trainers clumping up and down stairs. Winter has slipped into London when the clocks changed last night and at only 5.30 in the afternoon, darkness has swallowed the city.

Now my mind turns to the journey this body must make. Tomorrow, it is back to school for me, and back to the fight for my body and mind. A week on Wednesday it is back to the chemo , number 3 this time but my doctor did express doubts about whether my white blood cell count would be high enough to take it. With my children here, I didn't worry about having to cook a meal for myself, as I had to cook for them. There is something ironic about the fact that I must lavish love and affection on myself only to ensure that I feel well enough to be poisoned...but I will leave it there...

This week I must show my body the same attention I would show my beloved daughters.

I will eat regularly,
I will go to sleep early
I will take time off if I get too tired...

(but hope I won't need to...)



Minerva

My emotions

are skating through the days. I can see the cracks appearing in the ice but no major tumbles yet. Lines appear in the translucence from my path through my children's fears about going back to school, saying goodbye to me, and the necessary organisation that returning to school engenders. I am tired, not of being a mother, never that, but tired within my bones, and it is so hard to always smile, to always have the patience and calm that my children need.

Tonight, that fine thread snapped and I found myself shouting at them for asking me to wash something at 10.30 at night when they had been given an earlier deadline that day. Seems so pitiful now, so utterly pathetic, and when the tears of hurt started trailing down their cheeks, my anger slipped between the cracks in the floorboards and all I was left was the dank damp patch of guilt. We made up: I explained, and they said that they realised that it showed that I was human. But at what cost? What am I doing to them, to their frailties? They are going through so much at the moment and the one person inflicting this pain on them is the one person who should be helping them through it....

As a parent, I so want them to be blind to my faults but I am so human, so tired and so worn. My emotions are only just hidden by a thin veneer but scrape through the facade carelessly with a stray comment or aside and tears spring into my eyes, a snap lurks behind my lips and a geyser of irritation flickers through my face. What is it? What is it that seems to want to burst through this skin of mine?

I visited a homeopath on Friday and in the course of an emotional discussion, alternately talked and wept about grief; grief for the woman that I was, grief for the hair and the breast that I shall, at some point lose, and the commensurate femininity that I feel is being eroded and worn away. I feel emasculated, controlled by the cancer and the treatment, rather than in control as I was only a week ago. This is the root ball, I think, of molten magma of anger, tiredness and fatigue, that keeps bursting through my fragile crust.

It is a catharsis, but rather like nausea post chemo, please could I just vomit up these emotions and then move on? The constant churning of my feelings, like the seasick churning of my stomach after the chemo just wearies me and slows down this ship and its course. This captain needs a clear sky, following winds and a bold compass to cut through the waves ahead....

Come, pitch up anchor and let us sail free....



Minerva

~Anger~

I am angry today.

Angry at my insomnia. I couldn't sleep until 5am last night because I had slept late in the afternoon and consequently, when I woke up this morning I was in a filthy mood.

Angry at my body. Why do I have to have this? Why, when I was just starting to accept myself, my body and my mind post divorce does this have to happen? Why when my weight has now stabilised, does this constant see saw have to start? Why, when I am finally managing to get somewhere at work, am I sapped constantly by tiredness and fatigue.

Angry at my mind. Why has it disappeared? Why has my power of concentration completly gone? My greatest pleasure of reading has been destroyed because I cannot focus for longer than ten minutes at the most on anything. My work is falling behind because I can't mark it because I can't concentrate long enough on it. Words fail me where thesauri used to...

Angry at my cancer. Why does it have to be me? I did everything right. I breastfed my children, one for over 11 months... I had my children early, first at 26.. I don't have it in my family. Why has it attacked me?

Angry at the timing. I have just started putting my dreams into reality. I have started writing the book I always wanted to write. I decided to have six months off relationships to 'find myself'. This was going to be 'me' time and now it has to be cancer time. Doesn't this thing realise that I have work to do? That I want to leave my mark on this world - How is that going to happen now?

Angry at my first doctor. Why didn't he spot it right away? Why do 'I' have to be the 'test' case? Why is it up to me to complain and get annoyed...

Angry at my heart. Why am I not loved? What is wrong with me that I get cancer and am alone to get through it. I know I have friends, but why does love escape me? Why do men find me intimidating? Why was I born clever when to be stupid and pretty would be easier?

Angry at my appearance. All my life I have struggled with weight and body image issues. Finally, when I am fit, good looking and happy with my looks, they are devastated by cancer and chemotherapy. This is UNFAIR!

Angry at my motherhood. Why did I have three girls when I am now handing them a poisoned cup?

Frustrated, angry, hurt, vulnerable, disappointed, sorrowful, tearful, guilty, detoxing in words,

shouting in whispers...

Minerva

Of skin and Samson...

I have always prided myself on feeling good in who I am. As the French say, 'bien dans sa peau' - comfortable in your skin. Recently, with the move from abroad, the search for job, house and friends, I have felt more and more confident in who and what I am or purport to be. In myself as a woman, as a professional and as a mother.

One of the worst things about this cancer is the fact that the treatment seems to be stripping away that self-confidence. I don't know who I am at the moment. I look in the mirror and I don't recognise the woman looking back at me. Instead of my flowing mane, the pride of my current life, I have a few wisps of hair through which my scalp shows. I feel defeminised, deMinerva-ised and like Samson. My strength, like his, has been stripped.

I went out yesterday in a hat for the first time and it felt so strange. I kept catching sight of myself in shop windows and doing a double take. Was that really me? I see myself as ugly, misshapen, a freak of nature. I know inside that it is temporary but that doesn't stop the feelings. I no longer want to take care of myself, wear makeup or dress well. I just want to slip into slovenly clothes that reflect my lack of confidence and happiness in my appearance...

This is so unlike me. I am normally such a vital, lively, assertive, sexual being, and all that has been temporarily put in a suitcase. I don't, though, just want to take it out in six months time, I want to get used to this new Minerva, to celebrate her loss, her fight and see my lack of hair as a badge, a scar of courage, a sign of a war that is being won.

But that will take time...

Minerva

Magic and its existence...

I never believed in fairies when I was little. Most girls my age did but I was gazing at books about shark bites or reading of long voyages across dangerous seas or climbs into baddie infested mountains.

So it is a bit of a shock to realise at the tender age of 39 that fairies do exist. Late at night on a Sunday, my door bell rings and at the door is a family to wish me well and drop off an entire deep freezer full of food from a friend who read my blog and cooked it all for me the same day. At 10am on a Friday after a friend has just seen a doctor who clears her of having breast cancer she drops off a shepherd's pie, and then some! Late on Monday, returning from doing some shopping with my darling daughters, a tied up plastic bag on my door step yields the most delicious chicken casserole... all different and all organised, in their turn, by yet another fairy.

The dog barks and together with the usual bills from the postman comes a parcel full of books on cancer 'that I thought you might need'. A friend of my mother's who has suffered from breast cancer offers to talk to them 'to give them hope'. One particular fairy comes every day to take my dog out for long walks knowing that this is beyond me. Fairies this week ring my doorbell and take my girls out during the day and for lunch to 'give you a rest.'

This is real, true magic. This isn't just fairies pattering around the garden talking to butterflies kind of magic which I always felt was a complete waste of time. This is practical magic, magic that allows me to rest so that I am on better form for my children, magic that creates a better enemy for my cancer, and magic that aids me to be a better patient.

Thank you, to each and every one of you, both real and virtual that have helped take up wands, charms and spells against this enemy. Together, we shall win....

Minerva

Friends, family and foreigners....

I am very bad at keeping in touch. When I face the great decider after this life of mine, he will weigh up all my good points against the one major one, that when I move, when I leave one place I tend to leave all contacts behind.

I am not sure whether this is laziness or low self esteem. (good excuse huh?) I worry that when I am not in day to day contact with people, that they will find me uninteresting, that we shall have nothing in common, that they will want to invite me over, and as my house is small, I am rubbish at cooking, that they will find me rude when I don't invite them back...

Actually, to be honest, I don't know why I do it but I do, and that is one reason why having this cancer is a blessing in disguise. In one fell swoop, I am back in touch with my greatest friends from Hong Kong, I have had phone calls expressing concern from across the world, and only when I have heard the familiar voices sweeping down a long distance line, does my heart swell and my eyes tear up. I have so missed you, missed your calls, missed your laughs and your warmth....

What is more, it isn't just from Hong Kong. To all of you, friends on the net that I have never met, family in England who call me, friends who get back in touch from university, from school, and from places and times in my past, thank you.

There are so many of you, and I thank you from the bottom of my rather tired body for getting back in touch. One up on me, but I promise, here and now, I shall never be so casual about friendships again...

Another unforeseen advantage of having cancer folks... As the waiter said in the restaurant, 'quiet ma'am, or everyone will want one...'

Minerva

Of children, hair, and luck.

They noticed immediately. At the train station one of the twins started weeping because my hair looked 'like an old person's '. The other pointed out the bald patch just by my parting and my eldest, trying to be diplomatic said that she thought it was 'different'. They are so wonderful, so very brave and true. I told them last night. I gave them supper, and then whilst we were sitting in front of the television, they asked me to put on the Nintendo. It was whilst I was bending down that twin number 1 said, you really are going bald Mummy, and I knew. I knew then that if we continued on, I was going to lie to them and I didn't want to do that. Yes, I had fudged it at the train station but I didn't want them feeling uncomfortable about their anger and their grief in the middle of rush hour in a draughty, busy rail station in the centre of London.

So I sat them down and told them. I told them I had cancer, that breast cancer in general and my cancer in particular is curable. I told them that there was no guarantee I could give them that I would live but the current situation was that the doctor was going to cure me and if that changed, I would tell them. I told them that I was going to lose my hair, be very tired, and feel sick and they could do things to help. I told them that there was no reason for this cancer, that it wasn't because of diet, smoking or anything else, just luck bad or otherwise. I told them that it was absolutely nothing to do with them that I had cancer. I told them that if I wasn't around, then they would always be looked after and loved by their father and step-mother as well as my family. I told them that it was an incredibly scary idea to come to terms with and that we must share all our fears, that it wasn't to be hidden, unless they wanted it to be and they could tell anyone they liked.

They wept, and as they did, I urged them to express their fears. One said that she would be embarrassed to see me bald, one that Christmas would never be the same, that I would die, that I would look odd and wierd one breasted, that all their friends would notice... And one by one, we went through each fear, we pegged each frightening idea out on the floor in front of us, pinned it down and examined it in detail. We agreed that losing hair was scary, that having a bald mother would be wierd, we played with the hats and decided to call the wig, 'Wiggy'. They agreed that the thought of losing a mother was scary but that being lied to was worse.

We laughed, we cried, and we held each other.

Tonight, before bed, my children said to me, 'Cancer isn't such a scary word now'.

I am a very lucky mother....

Minerva

And rises....

Back up to sanity, to daylight and sunshine. Back up to the realisation that my beloved children are due to touch down in less than two hours and will be in my arms. I can't wait for their restorative chatter, their touch and their groundedness. Awful word, perhaps, but I couldn't think of another way to put it. Children have a marvelous way of poohpoohing grown up fears. Of course, they will have plenty to express of their own and we shall do that together. I am strong, and with them, I am stronger.

I am so very lucky to have such three special reasons to continue this fight.

Minerva

The roller coaster sinks....

I feel awful. I have been sick yet again despite being on double doses of steroids to avoid it. I am crippled by the nausea which stops me wanting to eat, which increases the nausea. But when I do eat, I feel better temporarily, and then throw it all up - WHAT IS THE POINT??!!

I then called my wonderful doctor who was about to call me to check up on me; he is marvellous. And then he tells me that he has got a research grant to investigate cancer at another hospital. I am so pleased for him..and distraught for myself. I will miss him terribly. He is the man who told me we would have this licked, he is the man who comes out himself to get me for appointments and spends forty-five minutes at a time with me. I will beat this still, but I will always be indebted to him for his care.

And the hair...God, the hair. I meet my children from their train tomorrow evening and my hair is thinning rapidly. It is vital that they don't notice so that I can tell them, as planned, on Saturday but the strain is getting to me... I scratch my head and a clump falls. All around my pillow are hairs curling across the bed like tiny snakes, hair by my bedside, hair on the floor, hair in my glass and even, earlier, in my mouth... When I got up this morning, I had to spend five full minutes picking up all the hair, piece by piece to put in the bin...

And my children. They need me to be strong, to be courageous and forward looking. At the moment, I am anything but. I feel utterly miserable. I can't stop crying and I feel weak and tired. I am sitting here writing with tears pouring down my face and I don't feel brave, or strong or anything else. Just frail, and very mortal. All the positives which I normally think (two down, four to go) are just meaningless to me at the moment... I don't feel I have any strength to be positive or courageous...

I hate this process, I hate this cancer....

Minerva

Hey you....yes, you....

Can you hear that noise? Can you hear that vague drumming in the background? That noise that sounds like thumping, like feet dancing, like..dare I say, celebration? Cancer, can you hear that? Because I can. It is ringing in my ears and foreshadowing your demise...

I had my treatment today. Yes, a day I was dreading but guess what happened when I was measured? Hey, Cancer, you listening? Thought your attention was slipping... Well, he got out his tape measure and yes, it is an imprecise science but you, yes, you are shrinking. Did you hear that? You are getting SMALLER.... and that is only after ONE treatment...

I can barely keep the grin off my face. I am eyeing up my dancing shoes and looking at the ra ra skirts because you have so picked the wrong person for this. They told me to expect some progress after 4 treatments, but after only ONE you are withdrawing... Now, I am not going to get into specific measurements (indications are that it has shrunk by 20% so far) but the thing is that it is shrinking. It doesn't matter if it is one millimetre or ten, what matters is that the scale shows downward movement...

So everybody, don't get out the champagne yet because the nausea is still around and I don't want to miss a good bottle *grin* but just spare a thought for the poor cancer cells whose party has been well and truly dampened...

And listen to the sound of the victory dance. It is coming closer....

Minerva

I DON'T want to.....

I don't want to go today. I don't want to undress again, I don't want to be injected and I don't want to be sick. I don't want to feel ill for the next five days, I don't want to cause pain and see my children's faces crumple with sadness. I don't want to go into the cycle of tiredness again, and I don't want a sore mouth and to continue losing my hair...

I don't want to... I can already feel my foot twitching to stamp a tantrum and my bottom lip longing to stick out. I want to slam doors, thump up the stairs and throw myself onto my bed in misery. I really want someone to stroke my head (gently so as not to bring out any more hair) and tell me that I don't have to, that this is all an awful dream and that I really have to wake up and get on with my life...

Sadly, I am no longer a child, sadly, no one can rub out this mistake and sadly, I do have to face this. And you know what? I am going to do it and I am going to do it brilliantly....

But I don't want to....

Minerva

The day before...

Battle starts tomorrow. I know, now, a little of what those soldiers of old must have felt. Lying in their tents, the day before the battle. Hearing the creak of guns, the neigh of horses, the excited chatter of men who, tired of lassitude, strain for action, for glory, for running free at the enemy.

Tomorrow, my fight starts again. Tomorrow, I go, once more, to the sixth floor where my body is pumped full of poison. I am ready, but not as exhilarated as I was the first time. The first time, I was longing to start fighting this awful pestilence. Now, I am more resigned. I realise that this is going to be a long battle and that I am going to need my strength the whole way along. I am not good at that. I am superb at being inspirational for 5 seconds, brilliant for a flash of time, but the tedious monotony that is at the heart of having cancer is the thing, I believe, the hardest thing about having the whole, dratted disease. It is constant, constant battering at one's self esteem, at one's energy levels and at one's mind. I have hair everywhere, on my pillows, on the floor, on the books that I mark, on my keyboard, on my shoulders as an ever present reminder. My tiredness at the end of the day heavies my legs, drags my arms and slows my mind.

All I must remember is that it isn't the chemo that is doing this to me, it is the cancer.

And I must find my sick bowl ready for tomorrow....

Minerva

The second Real Cancer, Real Lives Carnival is now on. A brainwave of Cary Miller and his wife Lori Miller who herself has cancer, it aims to show cancer as it affects real people rather than as glossed in the media.

Please go and show your support especially as one of my pieces is under review!

This item will stay at the top all week. Please scroll down to see the latest post...

Minerva
Real Cancer Real Lives

The Nature of Bravery...

I don't feel brave, yet I seem to be acknowledged as such by so many of you. I feel scared, frightened, especially at night when I look the fear of death in the eyes, flinch and look away.

I am scared of dying. I am scared of leaving my children alone, without me, without their mother. I am scared of not seeing them grow up, get their GCSEs, get their first boyfriends, fall in love for the first time, the glow of their faces on Christmas morning, the patter of footsteps outside my door as they make me breakfast in bed and try to be quiet, rattling and spilling the cereal bowl. I am scared of not being able to touch them when they cry, of being somewhere in the ether above them and unable to touch, unable to speak, unable to wrap my arms around them and kiss the hurt goodbye.

I keep wondering if I am really facing up to cancer, if I am really looking it straight in the eyes, or if, by working and moving forward with my life, I am actually looking away in its intense glare. Is the persistence I have to work a huge sand dune for this ostrich or just a coping mechanism? One could say that as long as it helps me, does it matter? For me it does. I must face down this disease; I must eye it long enough to make out the target on its forehead, to aim my rifle steady, to keep hitting and to keep it down always.

Minerva

Back to Basics...

Forgive me but so many people have been asking about chemo, about when my children arrive and what they can do that I thought I would post here....

Facts.

I have a three centimetre large tumour in my left breast and swollen lymph nodes under my arm. The cancer is Grade III which means the cells are aggressive in terms of their reproduction and they are ER positive and HER2 negative. (They won't respond to Herceptin, the new wonder drug). Having said that, being HER2 negative is a good thing as these cancers tend to be less aggressive and being ER positive is good because it means that it will respond to hormone therapy and new drugs such as Tamoxifen....

I am somewhere between Stage II and Stage III which they won't be able to narrow down exactly until I have had surgery. The prognosis for Stage II patients is currently around 85% and the prognosis for Stage III patients is just over 50%. These percentages are for 5 year survival rates. Remember, though, before you panic (and yes, I am talking to myself,) this data is historical and includes ALL women with the disease of all ages.....

Treatment.
I am following a FEC regime of chemo. My second one is on Wednesday 19th October and I will expect to throw up most of the evening when I return. The following four days I will feel sick and eat very little... I will have 6 cycles of chemo and will be measure after four to see if it is working. If it isn't then I will have a different set of drugs. The reason that I am having it before surgery, is to make sure that we catch any sets of cancer cells floating around my body thinking of setting up home in a comfy lung or accomodating liver and to reduce the chance of mastectomy.

I will then have surgery and after that radiotherapy followed by hormone therapy to prevent recurrence.

Side Effects.
The most debilitating for me personally, are the tiredness which wears me out. The nausea and sickness irritate me and the ulcers in my mouth are a constant reminder.


Hair loss
As my regular readers know, I am slowly but surely losing my hair. Clumps, for the first time on my pillow this morning. I have been told by my doctor that I will DEFINITELY lose it despite it being so thick. I have a wig on order, hats galore and may just shave it and go commando... *grin* But I cannot shave it off until my children arrive back next Friday so they can see their mother fairly normal....

Children
My children don't know YET. I am planning on telling them next Saturday as I don't want to tell them the first evening they are back...

Current worries...
Picking up my children next Friday when I will be in constant sickness mode... I won't be able to drive as the motion makes me ill but how do I make everything look normal to them that evening?

Practical life for the first part of half term. I can't face food or smells after chemo and I will have three children to feed! If you are reading this and you can make an extra dish or two for me to put in the fridge or freezer then THANK YOU....

I have wonderful friends who are willing to take my children on for a day over half term and for that I thank you... I will be in touch with potential days...

I cannot thank you all enough. A difficult journey is only bearable with friends to hold your hand...

Minerva

Bad taste and black humour....

Do not read any further if you are sensitive or delicate. Do not read any further if you have cancer and take it terribly seriously because today's post is all about the really bad comments that I or friends of mine have made that have made me laugh. Believe me, black is the new humour and I have been laughing a great deal....

In pub man lights up next to me first asking if I mind. "No, " I say, " I already have cancer."

In pub, my glass is empty. I push it to a friend whom I have already bought a drink and say, "give to breast cancer, buy me a drink."

In staffroom someone brings in doughnuts. " You shouldn't eat those," I say, " they are carcinogenic" and help myself to one grinning.

Talking about my used to be huge libido to friend saying that all I want now is to curl up and sleep in someone' s arms. She says that that is how ALL women feel normally - welcome to the female race....

Self pity phase with brother and we talk of meeting up next week. He says not worth it as " you won't be here..."
Made me laugh....

Quite seriously though, it is very hard indeed to be scared by something one can laugh at.... Can you think of a sick joke?

(Oh, and if you found this all in extremely bad taste, you are absolutely right and normal service will be resumed sometime...)

Minerva

My hair

is coming out in clumps now. You know when you lift up the plug in the bath and see the plughole lightly clustered with hair. Enough to stick in there but not enough to block the light? Every time I run my hands through my hair, that amount clings on to my fingers. I have hair all over my clothes, the desk in front of me and sticking to my jumper. As I moved around the class today, hairs were left on the desks as I bent over working boys. When they noticed, I just moved it, apologised and moved on. The kids at work know that I have cancer, so they are aware of it. They are actually being very mature about it too, no silly 'ughs' at the hair, just blowing it off or picking it off....

Now it is clumping out, reality is setting in. What am I going to wear to work after half term in two weeks? I really don't see myself fiddling around with a wig, although I will try it, but the overt, in your face nature of baldness fills me with apprehension. At that, I am surprised. I thought that attention junkie that I am, I would have probably enjoyed it but I think part of that must be vanity too. I don't mind turning heads with gorgeous, waist length thick hair, but turning heads because I am a hairless girl, a freak of nature frightens me. I keep telling myself not to be so vain, but the doubts persist.

Together with the thoughts about hair, come the reality that I will have to tell my glorious children about their mother. That my daughters, who currently sleep safe and secure in their worlds will have their foundations shaken by my news and that my girls, whom I would die to keep safe, happy, warm and loved, will be profoundly upset by the one person who should be protecting them. Still better to err on the side of truth rather than euphemism I think, but I still have tears in my eyes at the thought of telling them.

To everyone who reads this blog, whether blogfriend, outside friend, family or unintentional drifter from the blogosphere path, thank you. Thank you for your comments, thank you for your emails - it is truly a gift to be so appreciated...

Minerva

It is starting...

Every time I put my fingers through my hair, a few more strands cling to my hands. They fall, noiseless, onto my shoulders and attach themselves to my chair and to the back of my car seat. It is beginning, the cycle of chemo has started. My hair, my femininity is starting to erode - the cycle that begins with my hair and ends with my breast has started. I feel strangely calm, almost excited that the chemo is clearly working because if it does this to healthy, fighting cells, what is it doing to evil, twisted, abnormal cells?

The journey has begun in earnest. Ahead of me lie the valleys of fatigue, the mountains of having surgery and radiotherapy, the up hill roads of wigs, hats and scarves until finally, the road opens and I see before me the glorious dappled ocean of All Clear.

I have my bag on my back, a handkerchief on my head and my sunglasses on. Let's go....

Minerva

Carnival Time

This week is Carnival week. Over on Cary Miller's cancer news blog, he is hosting the first ever Real Cancer, Real lives Carnival. One of the posts that he has highlighted is my Reasons to thank Cancer and there are several from other patients too. Please go over and have a look.

And me?

This is hard.. I am finding this really difficult at the moment. Nearly in tears three times today and my mouth is sore from the chemo making it difficult to eat. I crawled into bed as soon as I got home from work and just put the phone off. I find it really difficult to talk at the moment and extend myself. If you do know me, please just text or email at the moment as that is much easier and I can write back when I am full of energy.

I just don't know what to do. Do I continue working where I do come home tired or do I stay at home and just feel self-indulgent and miserable? I am so worried about the work piling up at school, about the way my tutor group seem more unsettled when I am not there, and the amount of marking I have... Yet, I miss it terribly when I am not there, and can't find anything to really occupy either my mind or my body when I am at home apart from lying in bed resting...

I feel so frustrated, so angry with the limitations of my body and my energy....

Minerva

A dichotomy...

Can no one else see it? The same day as scientists come out with a cervical cancer vaccine, the Nobel Peace Prize is given to the President of the International Atomic Energy Agency.

So, let me see if I have this right. On the one hand we have scientists working as hard as they can to enrich the lives of every woman on this planet to come because, believe it or not, that is what the vaccine will do. It will prevent women having to go through the hell of cervical cancer at the prime of their lives and will stop the trauma and expense of major surgery. A wonderful, worthwhile goal that I, as a mother of three gorgeous girls, cannot help but applaud. Indeed, if I was the mother of three gorgeous boys, I would applaud it. It is laudable.

And then we have the peace prize given to the IAEA. No less laudable an aim I give you. Reducing the threat over the world from tyrants with nuclear weapons is a task like that of Sisyphus and his ever rolling stone, but the contrast between scientists is what startles me. On the one hand, we have scientists toiling away to bring us something that will enhance all of womankind, and on the other? We have scientists working to bring about the end of the world, to enhance the militaristic regime of some junta, some small minority of people with a selfish aim.

Why doesn't the study of science have a Hippocratic oath rather like doctors? Wouldn't that solve the problem or at least contain it? Sure we would still have the Dr Crippens of this world but that really would be minor compared with the potential of nuclear weapons. Half the world is starving, 20, 000 have died in Pakistan - that is 20 times the toll in New Orleans, and we need scientists to help mankind, not exterminate it; to prolong our lives, not shorten them, to glorify science for a greater good, not contribute to the evil that men do.


Minerva

Bad day today...

I am lonely, I am sad and bedraggled like a wet puppy out in the rain. I feel really sad and I can't stop crying.. I know that I am tired after my week at work, but I don't really feel that this is physical 'downness' just mental. I can't raise the smile today, I can't look on the bright side today and I can't be positive. I should be at the prime of my life, and look at me, I am alone, at the weekend with an awful disease which might kill me... I mean, HEY, no wonder I am low, right?

I thought that exercising or seeing my family would make me feel better but you know what? It did temporarily and now? Now, I am home alone and the loneliness is back...

All I want is someone to hug me close, to be there when I go to sleep and when I wake up....To remind me that I am alive, that I have lived and that I will live a lot more....

Today is a bad day....

Minerva

The GREAT things about having Cancer....

Am I mad? Strangely, not at all. I have discovered so many wonderful things about myself and the world around me through this disease. It is still a foul tumour that doesn't deserve to be pandered by the cells around it, but I have had my life enriched by its existence and learnt to count my blessings.

Here they are, in no particular order.

1. I have got back in touch with friends I have not seen for years and years. My oldest daughter's godmother whom I have not seen since my daughter's christening is back in touch and this was one of my closest friends at university.

2. My family have been amazing. I have had calls every day. My mother has cooked me meals on days when I have been too tired and my brother has accompanied me to every appointment so that I know I have his full support.

3. I have stopped procrastinating on things that are important. I have stopped smoking, I have started eating healthier foods and I have started scrutinising labels. It may have taken cancer but I have realised that my body is special and worth taking care over...

4. That friends really matter, that friends really make a difference and that friends are everywhere. They are on the net, they are at work, they are the friends from school, from university, from places, relationships and seasons in our past. That when something really awful strikes, that a friend is everywhere.

5. That small things really make a difference. The time a boy at school carried my bag when I was too tired. The doctor who sat before chemo to talk to my mother and myself. The nurse who rang me to check I was ok. The wig man who went through all the different choices for ages with me. The nurse who got a blanket for me during chemo as I was cold. The boss at work who fetched my laptop because I was afraid I had left it out and was worried about it getting stolen. The really sick friend at work who called when she was ill herself to find out how I was....


6. I have always thought of myself as not being worth very much. I think that I am lazy and don't make enough effort with quite a few of my friends. I know that I exaggerate and I can't tell a joke to save my life. But, fundamentally, I really don't or rather, didn't, like myself very much but that is changing. Thanks to this cancer, I am seeing myself as someone rather different. I am seeing strength, where once I only saw weakness; I am seeing a heroine, where once I only saw a victim, and I am seeing bravery, where once, I only saw cowardice. That is a major thing for me. I am so used to thinking so little of myself, of blaming myself for my failed marriage, my laziness, my lack of sociability and suddenly, I realise that I may be responsible for these things, but that I have the strength both of mind, body and spirit to change if I want to. I have realised that I can do pretty much anything and everything I want to do......

7. That I want to live. That everything, money, possessions, fame, career means nothing compared with the hug of a child, the touch of lips against skin and a kind, heart soaring word. I once thought I didn't want to live and was eager to let life slip between my toes like sand, to flow like flour between my fingers, but now, my fingers are wet and grasping tight hold of that flour and I am never going to let it go willingly. I have a lot of baking, a lot of consuming and a lot of giving still to do...

I never thought I would say this but thank you Cancer, thank you for showing me how rich life really is, for showing me the things that really matter, and thank you, in advance perhaps, for now disappearing and letting me get on with all that wonderful, splendiferous, halotastic living that I still have to do.....

Minerva

So tired,

I have had twins, been on my feet all day and still never felt this tired. My bones ache with tiredness and weariness. I can feel my blood flow, like lead, to my feet and hands making them so heavy to raise, to do anything. I keep yawning, desperate for oxygen and my eyes keep shutting. I am weary, bone-weary, run over by a truck - weary.

I was told this was going to be the worst time - 8 - 10 days after chemo which the doctor said 'might be marked by a little extra tiredness.' A little extra tiredness? That is like describing Katrina as a storm or the Tsunami as a wave. This tiredness, like that storm, or that wave, actually breaks out of the word's constraints, creaks open the letters and spills over the top. The meaning is simply too great, too huge for its container.

I have climbed the stairs twice tonight. I don't normally count but tonight, each step is like a flight of stairs, each move I make like a mile's jog, and each movement requires premediation and planning. This entry is my overture to my night's work when I lay myself down and finally, longingly, stretchingly and lovingly, lay my tired limbs to rest....

Minerva

I just

wanted to clarify something. I was thinking yesterday when I mentioned that it was Breast Cancer Month that maybe I should do something like a blogroll of specific cancer resources, or a flckr show of hands wearing pink bracelets or even display my boobs for breast cancer and then I stopped.

It is really important to me to clarify that I am Minerva, I am NOT cancer. I am defined by who I am, a mother, a child, a sister, a writer, a teacher, a friend and a woman. I am NOT a disease. No, this disease is something that has temporarily taken over my horizons but it is something I, Minerva, have, not that I Minerva, am. So lest you think that I am uncaring, spoilt or anything else, please be assured that I am not. I would help anyone. I believe that I am actually on my own personal quest to show people that we get better from cancer, that cancer is not a word to be feared but a chronic annoyance along the lines of rheumatism, or even athlete's foot.

Just in case you were wondering....

Minerva

YES! Chocolate and gyms....

Today has been a breakthrough. Got up and guess what, NO NAUSEA! I can't believe it.. I can see my stomach sitting in its armchair talking to my liver, saying you will never guess, up this morning and I felt normal. That is what I feel like and never, never have I been so grateful. Breakfast this morning was not the normal dry cracker that pastes to the top of my mouth but an eensy weensy bit of dairy milk chocolate and, you have no idea, how delicious it was as it melted in my mouth, dropped down my throat and slipped into my stomach with no cramps, no pooling of saliva and no dry heaves. Please DON'T get at me for not eating my macrobiotic dark chocolate ok? I HAD my garlic supplements, my omega oil supplements, my vitamin tablet and my 5 a day smoothie TOO....*grrrrr*

What else? I dressed..yes folks, I put clothes on. My pyjamas were thrown to the side, I put on clothes, my normal sloppy sunday joes and then I walked to the local gym and signed up. Apparently according to research, cycling for half an hour raises your white blood cell count and there is no way I am missing my next dose of chemo. (Am I mad?) *manic laugh*

I feel so exhilarated - this thing so doesn't have a chance with me and all of your support....

Minerva

Oh, and incidentally, this month is Breast Cancer Awareness month - just spread the news, touch, look and check - TLC.... frequently...


And if you really want to go the whole hog, expose your breasts, men and women, for cancer here.

Minerva

Bored now...

Right, this has gone on quite long enough. I have laid in bed for hours, pretended to get up and felt tired again.. I have tried to eat, in fact, today was the first ingestion of fresh food for five days, some lettuce, tomatoes and cheese in a sandwich but the ever present nausea just hangs around my mouth like the smell of a rotting drain. Excess saliva constantly pools and keeps my mind hanging around my mouth and stomach when I really want to get on with living now... I keep thinking 'I should' do something or other and when I actually try to do the initial step, my body fails and I feel terribly dejected.

A walk, I thought, today and opened up my cupboard to get some clothes on. A quick perusal and the complete lack of inspiration meant that I retired to my bed again.

I have said that I will meet some friends of mine tonight - less than two hours away. I am glad that I have said that but don't know what I will want to wear, wonder if this awful metallic taste in my mouth will disappear at any point, wonder if I can drive or if I will feel too sick but the prospect of taking my sick bowl on public transport really is humiliating....

When will I get my life back?

Minerva