I couldn't write yesterday. And when I say I couldn't write, that is exactly what I mean. Words have always been easy for me; they have flowed like ducklings after their mother. They have always lined up in the right order and almost elected themselves for selection. Yesterday, that wasn't the case. Yesterday, I tried to begin my blog post three separate times before giving up in frustration. I was like a practised ballet dancer who suddenly finds that her feet are enemies instead of friends. My words weren't lining up, they weren't articulate messengers of meaning but actively blocking me, getting in the wrong place, and I tripped over them time after time.
That has been a first. I realised yesterday how much I take for granted my ability to manipulate words to express meaning, to organise and arrange them into the best possible order for my purpose. Yesterday, I was hardly capable of writing a sentence and indeed, even talking logically was difficult. Of course, I am sure there are those amongst you who feel that way about women most of the time, but, personally speaking, yesterday was a real shock to my potency.
I recognise today, as I read the scratchy words above me that I am not back to my 'flow' yet. That this prose is hard worked and won and workmanlike rather than elegant and aesthetically pleasing. But it does work, and unlike my body which is currently in the depths of chemo induced languor, it seems fit for purpose.
Speaking of purpose, I went into hospital to have my blood levels checked again and met a wonderful couple there. The subject of my blog came up and I was asked why I felt the need to write about the cancer experience. After all, there is so much information out there, particularly on the subject of breast cancer. I have always felt that whilst there is so much factual information out on the web, in books or in libraries, there is very little which gives the true story of what it is like to face the emotional repercussions of something like this, to understand what it really is like to face one's own mortality for oneself and one's children or the day to day struggles of 'keeping on, keeping on.'.
But beyond those high 'falutin' ambitions, this has always been a place where I write, honestly and openly about the emotions that this disease has engendered in me and where I have been lucky and privileged enough to strike chords in enough people to continue.