Memo
I have to keep reminding myself that I don't have cancer - how bizarre is that? Tonight I drove past a Centre which is being built next to my hospital for people who are living with cancer. Just one week ago I was talking to a counsellor about being a regular visitor there and about telling my children that I had secondary cancer.
Just a week ago, I was having the CT scan which has changed my life. I have never had a day like Friday where, suddenly, the world's worries were completely lifted from my shoulders. I completely understand how someone on Death Row feels after a pardon, because I truly felt that I was really alive, that I had my life back, and that the world lies open to me.
The thing is that cancer has constantly been at my elbow for nearly two and a half years. It has haunted my dreams, it has sabotaged my plans and it has been the first thing I think of in the morning and the last thing I have slipped away from at night. Preparing for the next visit, the next scan, the next bombshell has been my entire focus and now, that's all gone.
I have holidays to plan, I can think about doing everything I want to with no constrictions or boundaries, and best of all, supreme above all other things, I have hope that I will see my gorgeous daughters blossom and grow into the fine adults I know they will be.
Minerva
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Questions.
Questions.
So how does that happen? How do I get diagnosed with secondary cancer in my thymus and right axilla in September and then cancer free in January? Let's review the evidence;
September: CT scan which reveals that thymus gland is enlarged. Could be as a result of chemo but Prof wants to check with a PET scan.
Late September: PET scan which reveals cancer around the thymus and under the right axilla.
October: Needles put into right armpit to try and take out some cancer cells for analysis. No cancer cells found.
December: PET scan reveals that cancer has spread from thymus and right armpit into the neck as well. Doctor reluctant to start treatment based on PET scan as still so new and high rate of false positives so he orders a CT scan for early January. (Thank goodness - I could be having chemo right now otherwise!)
January: CT scan comes back completely, utterly clear. The thymus enlargement in August was clearly just a result of chemo and the PET scans were false positives.
Next check up due in two months. We are going to forget scans and go by feel. After all, knowing it is back doesn't help at all until we have (excuse the pun) something solid to deal with.
So this means that after all that pain and heartbreak, it never actually was secondary. It never metastasized after all. I have been clear all this time and I am currently.
Of course there are the requisite questions going round my head, I mean, after all that means that the CT scan could be a false negative which it could. But second guessing, anger, and distress are, I feel, a waste of time. Yes, I have been through unnecessary grief, yes, I have been to the end of the earth and back, but you know what? I CAN do it. I can look death in the eyes and prepare for it; I can deal with secondary cancer and continue to live my life. I do not blame my doctors at all: it is better to have doctors who look after and out for you than neglectful ones.
I am so damn lucky: I still cannot come to terms with it. I woke up this morning and the first thought was the same as I have had for the past two years: Oh, I have cancer, and then came in the flow of joy, No I don't!
When I was under the illusion that I was under Cancer's shadow, I kept writing about snatching every moment, but I didn't really feel it. Today, I feel it. Today, every shade of green in the garden, every grey in the sky, every smile on my daughters, every monotonous household task has a joy all of its very own.
I am back to being ordinary and I love it.
Minerva
So how does that happen? How do I get diagnosed with secondary cancer in my thymus and right axilla in September and then cancer free in January? Let's review the evidence;
September: CT scan which reveals that thymus gland is enlarged. Could be as a result of chemo but Prof wants to check with a PET scan.
Late September: PET scan which reveals cancer around the thymus and under the right axilla.
October: Needles put into right armpit to try and take out some cancer cells for analysis. No cancer cells found.
December: PET scan reveals that cancer has spread from thymus and right armpit into the neck as well. Doctor reluctant to start treatment based on PET scan as still so new and high rate of false positives so he orders a CT scan for early January. (Thank goodness - I could be having chemo right now otherwise!)
January: CT scan comes back completely, utterly clear. The thymus enlargement in August was clearly just a result of chemo and the PET scans were false positives.
Next check up due in two months. We are going to forget scans and go by feel. After all, knowing it is back doesn't help at all until we have (excuse the pun) something solid to deal with.
So this means that after all that pain and heartbreak, it never actually was secondary. It never metastasized after all. I have been clear all this time and I am currently.
Of course there are the requisite questions going round my head, I mean, after all that means that the CT scan could be a false negative which it could. But second guessing, anger, and distress are, I feel, a waste of time. Yes, I have been through unnecessary grief, yes, I have been to the end of the earth and back, but you know what? I CAN do it. I can look death in the eyes and prepare for it; I can deal with secondary cancer and continue to live my life. I do not blame my doctors at all: it is better to have doctors who look after and out for you than neglectful ones.
I am so damn lucky: I still cannot come to terms with it. I woke up this morning and the first thought was the same as I have had for the past two years: Oh, I have cancer, and then came in the flow of joy, No I don't!
When I was under the illusion that I was under Cancer's shadow, I kept writing about snatching every moment, but I didn't really feel it. Today, I feel it. Today, every shade of green in the garden, every grey in the sky, every smile on my daughters, every monotonous household task has a joy all of its very own.
I am back to being ordinary and I love it.
Minerva
Friday, January 18, 2008
News
News
Brace yourselves, this will be a shock.. As of today, as of this morning, I am cancer free. Yes, you did read that right. The CT scan showed No Sign of Disease otherwise known as NED.
I am crying with relief as I write this. I do not have cancer, but I have a future with my children, I have a career, I have a life.
Back when I have calmed down!
In exultation,
Minerva
Brace yourselves, this will be a shock.. As of today, as of this morning, I am cancer free. Yes, you did read that right. The CT scan showed No Sign of Disease otherwise known as NED.
I am crying with relief as I write this. I do not have cancer, but I have a future with my children, I have a career, I have a life.
Back when I have calmed down!
In exultation,
Minerva
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Frightened
Frightened.
I am so scared that I am physically feeling sick. I keep crying at silly stuff on television and tears spring into my eyes every time I talk to someone I care about. I so want someone to take me away from all this fear.
I keep telling myself that it is either that it is spreading or that it isn't; that this is something that I can be logical about; that the first diagnosis is the worst, and you know what? It isn't working.
What on earth did I do to deserve this? What can I do against such an implacable, fierce enemy that stops at nothing, that plunders and ravages my body without stopping? How can I possibly convey the sheer terror that is making me descend into panic?
It is like it hasn't really hit and it is deciding to tonight. I have no idea how I am going to sleep, eat, and teach through the next 12 hours. I picture myself in the Prof's office tomorrow crying uncontrollably and I really don't know how to handle it, how to reach out for help, how to ask for the hugs and the ears that I need...
I just hope that knowing will be better than uncertainty because otherwise madness can only be a little way behind.
Minerva
I am so scared that I am physically feeling sick. I keep crying at silly stuff on television and tears spring into my eyes every time I talk to someone I care about. I so want someone to take me away from all this fear.
I keep telling myself that it is either that it is spreading or that it isn't; that this is something that I can be logical about; that the first diagnosis is the worst, and you know what? It isn't working.
What on earth did I do to deserve this? What can I do against such an implacable, fierce enemy that stops at nothing, that plunders and ravages my body without stopping? How can I possibly convey the sheer terror that is making me descend into panic?
It is like it hasn't really hit and it is deciding to tonight. I have no idea how I am going to sleep, eat, and teach through the next 12 hours. I picture myself in the Prof's office tomorrow crying uncontrollably and I really don't know how to handle it, how to reach out for help, how to ask for the hugs and the ears that I need...
I just hope that knowing will be better than uncertainty because otherwise madness can only be a little way behind.
Minerva
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Boxes
Boxes
are what my life consists of. On the one hand I have home, family, children, school. I have life, options, plans, careers and a future. I have warmth,love, fun, laughter, enjoyment and fulfillment.
On the one hand, I am the luckiest girl on the planet.
On the other hand, I have Cancer. I have sickness, hospitals, drips, gowns, tests and scans. I have death lurking at my elbow, illness breathing down my neck and disability clinging to my every step. On the other hand, I am hellishly unlucky.
My life at the moment is utterly compartmentalised and to be honest, if that works for me then that should be fine. And, to be fair, in the main, it does. At school and at home I get on with my life. I talk to my friends about appointments or scans in the car to and from work or in coded language and, I can deal with that.
Yesterday though, and this morning, that awful box, the black, barnacled, scaly box kept breaking open. I broke down during break time but managed to garner my reserves back up again. It is tough, this constant struggle, or rather, it is tough sometimes. For, sometimes, it is the easiest path in the world.
I don't think this is denial. I have wondered over and over if it is, if I just can't face it, but I think rather it is measured encounters with something that utterly terrifies me. If I can face it just a tiny aspect at a time then maybe, it will become a smaller and smaller box.
At the moment though, however I try to ignore it, it seems to be growing bigger and bigger at the side of the room. Hopefully, Friday's appointment will serve to lock it down again.
Minerva
**** Update***
I have finally after so many years decided to thank you all for your comments by commenting myself. Thank you to each and every one of you that make the effort to visit me.. I will return the favour when I can!
are what my life consists of. On the one hand I have home, family, children, school. I have life, options, plans, careers and a future. I have warmth,love, fun, laughter, enjoyment and fulfillment.
On the one hand, I am the luckiest girl on the planet.
On the other hand, I have Cancer. I have sickness, hospitals, drips, gowns, tests and scans. I have death lurking at my elbow, illness breathing down my neck and disability clinging to my every step. On the other hand, I am hellishly unlucky.
My life at the moment is utterly compartmentalised and to be honest, if that works for me then that should be fine. And, to be fair, in the main, it does. At school and at home I get on with my life. I talk to my friends about appointments or scans in the car to and from work or in coded language and, I can deal with that.
Yesterday though, and this morning, that awful box, the black, barnacled, scaly box kept breaking open. I broke down during break time but managed to garner my reserves back up again. It is tough, this constant struggle, or rather, it is tough sometimes. For, sometimes, it is the easiest path in the world.
I don't think this is denial. I have wondered over and over if it is, if I just can't face it, but I think rather it is measured encounters with something that utterly terrifies me. If I can face it just a tiny aspect at a time then maybe, it will become a smaller and smaller box.
At the moment though, however I try to ignore it, it seems to be growing bigger and bigger at the side of the room. Hopefully, Friday's appointment will serve to lock it down again.
Minerva
**** Update***
I have finally after so many years decided to thank you all for your comments by commenting myself. Thank you to each and every one of you that make the effort to visit me.. I will return the favour when I can!
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Big "Week.
Big Week
There is a lot on this week. My CT scan is tomorrow afternoon and the results on Friday. A CT scan to double check the results of my PET scan before Christmas.
I have to say that I have completely submerged my Cancer reality somewhere below the Titanic's resting place at the moment. There is, in my current life, no time, no space and no place for illness, disease and debilitation. I am writing lesson plans like there is no tomorrow, furiously scribbling to-do lists and organising my three children as well as trying to plan a holiday in the summer. Additionally our headmaster is doing on the spot observations of our lessons for the next two weeks and I am nervous as I so want to prove that I can still do it.
It isn't as effortless as it used to be. I feel the arthritis in my bones when I move around the classroom and my boys watch me limp across for the first few steps and their questions are always full of concern. I am currently teaching 'Two Weeks With the Queen' by Morris Gleitzman which is about cancer. Strange as I remember teaching it when I was first diagnosed and having to walk out of the classroom as tears pricked at my eyes. Now, it seems a world, a galaxy, a life time away and tomorrow will be a hard shock as I land back into planet hospital.
Because of my bubble reality I had put off thinking about Friday when I receive the results. My brother, unfortunately, can't come on Friday and I wasn't particularly worried. But, as I drove home Friday evening, I started thinking, really considering the possible implications, and I know that I need someone. I am much braver when I am with someone else: it helps me to focus and to de-emotionalise myself. The English teacher is shuddering with distaste at her desecration of the language but that is how I feel. I talk as though I am looking down on this person who is being told about her cancer, and I don't feel anything.
Luckily, for me, my dear friend V is free and will come with me. I hope for a fairly easy decision either way. I am wondering, actually, whether I really ought to have treatment. Docetaxol really killed me in the summer and for what? For three lousy months without Cancer before it returned but I don't know if I have the courage to ask about my prognosis. To ask and be told a finite number no matter how long or short it is is too much I think. I am already quite pessimistic and to be told a certain number, which after all, whilst a majority statistic, need not apply to me is very limiting...
We shall see if I survive to Friday!
Minerva
**** Update***
I have finally after so many years decided to thank you all for your comments by commenting myself. Thank you to each and every one of you that make the effort to visit me.. I will return the favour when I can!
There is a lot on this week. My CT scan is tomorrow afternoon and the results on Friday. A CT scan to double check the results of my PET scan before Christmas.
I have to say that I have completely submerged my Cancer reality somewhere below the Titanic's resting place at the moment. There is, in my current life, no time, no space and no place for illness, disease and debilitation. I am writing lesson plans like there is no tomorrow, furiously scribbling to-do lists and organising my three children as well as trying to plan a holiday in the summer. Additionally our headmaster is doing on the spot observations of our lessons for the next two weeks and I am nervous as I so want to prove that I can still do it.
It isn't as effortless as it used to be. I feel the arthritis in my bones when I move around the classroom and my boys watch me limp across for the first few steps and their questions are always full of concern. I am currently teaching 'Two Weeks With the Queen' by Morris Gleitzman which is about cancer. Strange as I remember teaching it when I was first diagnosed and having to walk out of the classroom as tears pricked at my eyes. Now, it seems a world, a galaxy, a life time away and tomorrow will be a hard shock as I land back into planet hospital.
Because of my bubble reality I had put off thinking about Friday when I receive the results. My brother, unfortunately, can't come on Friday and I wasn't particularly worried. But, as I drove home Friday evening, I started thinking, really considering the possible implications, and I know that I need someone. I am much braver when I am with someone else: it helps me to focus and to de-emotionalise myself. The English teacher is shuddering with distaste at her desecration of the language but that is how I feel. I talk as though I am looking down on this person who is being told about her cancer, and I don't feel anything.
Luckily, for me, my dear friend V is free and will come with me. I hope for a fairly easy decision either way. I am wondering, actually, whether I really ought to have treatment. Docetaxol really killed me in the summer and for what? For three lousy months without Cancer before it returned but I don't know if I have the courage to ask about my prognosis. To ask and be told a finite number no matter how long or short it is is too much I think. I am already quite pessimistic and to be told a certain number, which after all, whilst a majority statistic, need not apply to me is very limiting...
We shall see if I survive to Friday!
Minerva
**** Update***
I have finally after so many years decided to thank you all for your comments by commenting myself. Thank you to each and every one of you that make the effort to visit me.. I will return the favour when I can!
Friday, January 11, 2008
Sick and Tired.
Sick and Tired.
I am fed up of this cancer lark. I can't deny that all the attention was fun in the beginning but it really is beginning to be a bit of a drag, I mean, all these scans and doctors. I mean, anyone would think I was actually sick because I certainly don't feel it! I supposedly have cancer now in three places: thymus; right armpit and now, the left side of my neck. But do I feel ill?
The hell I do. I am decidedly stressed because of school. I have so much to do still, get my book written, maybe get this blog published, write diaries for the girls, plan my lessons for next week, and see my friends who I have been neglecting of late, I just don't have the time to be sick as well. I mean - honestly!
Maybe whoever controls this C stuff could send me a bit of a sniffle instead? A headache perhaps or even a bout of flu - I wouldn't mind that I think because at least then I would feel ill. I could lie in bed and sniff occasionally and look wan and terribly feminine. That would be quite fun I think. Strange how when one is slightly ill you stay in bed and take time off work but when you are reallly seriously ill, one grabs life with both hands. I pride myself on how I still get up in the morning, still get dressed, still worry that I am going to be late for work, and still obsess over my lesson plans.
You see, mentally, I think I have a future. I have so much I still want to do that the thought of dying hasn't really, physically crossed my horizon yet. It can't, in order to continue with the life that I have. If I gave in for one minute - oh I can't pick up my children, I have Cancer. I can't go into school - I have Cancer, then, for me, it will have won. It will have beaten me and I absolutely refuse to let it do that whilst I still have the strength to carry on.
But, my goodness, I am tired!
Minerva
I am fed up of this cancer lark. I can't deny that all the attention was fun in the beginning but it really is beginning to be a bit of a drag, I mean, all these scans and doctors. I mean, anyone would think I was actually sick because I certainly don't feel it! I supposedly have cancer now in three places: thymus; right armpit and now, the left side of my neck. But do I feel ill?
The hell I do. I am decidedly stressed because of school. I have so much to do still, get my book written, maybe get this blog published, write diaries for the girls, plan my lessons for next week, and see my friends who I have been neglecting of late, I just don't have the time to be sick as well. I mean - honestly!
Maybe whoever controls this C stuff could send me a bit of a sniffle instead? A headache perhaps or even a bout of flu - I wouldn't mind that I think because at least then I would feel ill. I could lie in bed and sniff occasionally and look wan and terribly feminine. That would be quite fun I think. Strange how when one is slightly ill you stay in bed and take time off work but when you are reallly seriously ill, one grabs life with both hands. I pride myself on how I still get up in the morning, still get dressed, still worry that I am going to be late for work, and still obsess over my lesson plans.
You see, mentally, I think I have a future. I have so much I still want to do that the thought of dying hasn't really, physically crossed my horizon yet. It can't, in order to continue with the life that I have. If I gave in for one minute - oh I can't pick up my children, I have Cancer. I can't go into school - I have Cancer, then, for me, it will have won. It will have beaten me and I absolutely refuse to let it do that whilst I still have the strength to carry on.
But, my goodness, I am tired!
Minerva
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Stress
Stress
My path has turned uphill recently and I am finding the road hard. It is full of stones which keep making me falter and the steep gradient and twisted signs mean I keep getting lost and disheartened. Actually talking or trying to face the situation that I am in makes tears prick at my eyelids and the sheer effort of getting up in the mornings for work, is, for the first time in four years, hard. I ache constantly in my hips and my knees and standing after sitting for any period of time means my muscles contract and I limp for the first few paces.
I am tired, so very tired. Sleep is constantly just beyond my fingers' grasp, and when I do finally succumb, I sleep the sleep of the blessed, no dreams, no turning, just blind darkness which doesn't seem to refresh me. In everyday life, we, all of us, carry a bubble which helps bounce comments or events which hurdle our path. My resistence is non existent. I take every word personally, I feel those ever present tears in my eyes and become irritable at any kind of demand made upon me.
Life with cancer is hard. It isn't 'fighting' or 'heroic'. It is just one step after another where each foot becomes harder to raise and to lower, where the least little thing once so taken for granted becomes a conscious effort.
I am so very tired,
Minerva
My path has turned uphill recently and I am finding the road hard. It is full of stones which keep making me falter and the steep gradient and twisted signs mean I keep getting lost and disheartened. Actually talking or trying to face the situation that I am in makes tears prick at my eyelids and the sheer effort of getting up in the mornings for work, is, for the first time in four years, hard. I ache constantly in my hips and my knees and standing after sitting for any period of time means my muscles contract and I limp for the first few paces.
I am tired, so very tired. Sleep is constantly just beyond my fingers' grasp, and when I do finally succumb, I sleep the sleep of the blessed, no dreams, no turning, just blind darkness which doesn't seem to refresh me. In everyday life, we, all of us, carry a bubble which helps bounce comments or events which hurdle our path. My resistence is non existent. I take every word personally, I feel those ever present tears in my eyes and become irritable at any kind of demand made upon me.
Life with cancer is hard. It isn't 'fighting' or 'heroic'. It is just one step after another where each foot becomes harder to raise and to lower, where the least little thing once so taken for granted becomes a conscious effort.
I am so very tired,
Minerva
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
2008
2008
2007 is waving goodbye: its pale fingers just disappearing over the horizon as 2008 blazes into view. I am thrilled to be saying goodbye. 2007 was a horrid year for me marked by docetaxel, disability and dread. 2007 wasn't just stained by cancer, it was soaked by it, drenched in it and even though I face 2008 with the same diagnosis, I feel more accepting of the future.
A New Year still holds a thrill, even after all the years I have seen come and go. The white blank page of those days waiting in front still hold a fascination. Who will remember us this year? What world will await us in December having started with such high hopes in January? Outside, in London the days are still short, grey and gloomy but in this heart, at least, hope of change, hope of simply hope burns like a candle in a windless room.
I want to revel in my family and friends this year. I don't want to take any more of my life for granted than I have already and those habits which I have, which induce guilt and shame are things I want to change and break this year. I won't pretend to be perfect, brave or courageous this year but simply deal with the obstacles as they break, like waves, before my bare feet. It may be a wonderful year: it may be a dreadful year, but for now, the future is entirely unwritten. It is a page yet to be filled with dreams.
My hand, and my pen, are ready.
Minerva
2007 is waving goodbye: its pale fingers just disappearing over the horizon as 2008 blazes into view. I am thrilled to be saying goodbye. 2007 was a horrid year for me marked by docetaxel, disability and dread. 2007 wasn't just stained by cancer, it was soaked by it, drenched in it and even though I face 2008 with the same diagnosis, I feel more accepting of the future.
A New Year still holds a thrill, even after all the years I have seen come and go. The white blank page of those days waiting in front still hold a fascination. Who will remember us this year? What world will await us in December having started with such high hopes in January? Outside, in London the days are still short, grey and gloomy but in this heart, at least, hope of change, hope of simply hope burns like a candle in a windless room.
I want to revel in my family and friends this year. I don't want to take any more of my life for granted than I have already and those habits which I have, which induce guilt and shame are things I want to change and break this year. I won't pretend to be perfect, brave or courageous this year but simply deal with the obstacles as they break, like waves, before my bare feet. It may be a wonderful year: it may be a dreadful year, but for now, the future is entirely unwritten. It is a page yet to be filled with dreams.
My hand, and my pen, are ready.
Minerva
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