Chemotherapy hit again on Wednesday and I was relatively quiet until Saturday when the worst side effect of all this treatment kicked in: self pity. I was festering, culturing it. Why me? Why was I at home feeling grumpy, tired, depressed, low and angry and in pain when everyone else my age is out enjoying themselves, planning their next holiday, their next career move, their next outing with their children?
It was an effort for me to move off the sofa, to get out of bed and even put my clothes on. I feel utterly fed up with this disease, with the infiltration of my tissues and the subsequent poisoning of my system and my body.
I feel so boring at the moment. My life is entirely tenured by illness, by my physical and mental restrictions. A woman just forty, I talk of my ailments like a octogenarian, and actually, I daresay, they are a lot less body bound then I am. Sometimes, I look around me, I feel my inner life moving out of my body and looking at me wondering if this really is my life? Who is this woman because she certainly isn't the carefree 38 year old she was just a year and a half ago.
Now I wonder if I shall ever be able to return to my career, if my illness history will prejudice every work record I have, if I shall ever finish my qualifying year in teaching to advance up the scale and learn every day I have left. Will I be the mother I want to be for my daughters or will they learn about illness, debilitative disease and a woman who just can't summon up the energy for the tasks they long to do?
But today? Today my personal daffodils are peeking their heads through the snowdrifts. I managed to walk once, very slowly, around the park with my darling daughters and our laughter highlighted the flashes of spring amongst the winter mud. There is most certainly a future and whilst, there is still a long way to go, that is enough of a thought to hang on to for the moment.