About lianne cawood

I am a woman, a daughter, a wife, a mother and a friend. I am married to B and have two wonderful daughters Kate and Jem. I have some new worlds to explore, those of being a cancer survivor, an immigrant, and a stay at home mom. I still struggle to say all of those words, let alone accept them. I have so much to be thankful for, yet I don't always see it. None of us do. So, inspired by Hailey of 365Grateful I started this blog. The goal, to find one thing every day to be grateful for. Not always the obvious. But sometimes. And to write about it. To put myself out there. And now it has become more. Not sure what yet, but I'll let you know when I know.

hiding

I think I’ve been hiding. Well not really hiding but maybe licking my wounds so to speak. Reflecting. And not aloud. Trying to get my head around last year. As in, what the fuck was that? Building strength and in particular replenishing those inner reserves so I can keep on keeping on. I realised in January there were just none left. In fact I never even realised it. B did. And my friends. Who wanted to know where I had gone. And not only physically. But my presence had gone quiet. And they were worried about me. Its well documented how consciously fighting, dealing with your reality, treating it, makes you feel like you are doing something positive. Something conscious. Something noble to help yourself heal. And unconscious too, by being present in the everyday and just willing your best self to show up at each and every shitty little moment. And sharing with you all, made sure the best person was there, with the presence of you. Truth be told, I wasn’t worried about me, in fact I was that caught up in my inner being, I never even realised how far in I had gone. I think its called regrouping. So, its been a year and a month since my life as I knew it turned out to be a big fat lie.  Well part of it. And I hate lies.  Despite my thinking otherwise I’m only now truly accepting of it all.  Not of the lie, but of the big beautiful truth. The truth of how blessed we all are. How blessed I am. How life is about suffering and illness and beauty and ugliness and lies and truth and fucked up ness and exquisiteness and what makes us unique is not how fabulous our lives are but how we don’t let the fabulousness or lack thereof define us but rather teach us, and help us find a new way of being. That isn’t rooted in ignorance, because as much as we think it is, ignorance ain’t bliss. We are all scared to know because then we can’t hide. I knew I couldn’t be guaranteed of being cancer free, but I chose to believe I was, to hold onto the words I wanted to hold onto, whilst deep down I knew this would always be my story. And whilst I said it, I never accepted it. So, now I really do know, and I’m living my life knowingly.  Accepting that life and it’s difficulties are not battles to be won or lost because how then do we excuse ourselves if we lose no matter how hard we fought? Did we not fight hard enough? Were we not worthy of surviving? Bull crap. We are all worthy, we all just have a different story. And mine is no worse or better than yours, its just mine.  And I’m going to live it the best way I can, because only I can. Fuck cancer, fuck everything that is shit in the world, and the best way to do it is to reframe it into our own unique stories that make us grow up and be grateful for every little moment. I hate the always positive shite as you know, I think I’m too much of a realist, although sometimes I don’t want to hear sad stories, because it breaks me inside a little more each time. And no, its not called denial its called acceptance. Stuff exists I can’t fix. Stuff exists I abhor. Platitudes piss me off. But truth and love and being present. Being honest. Being there. Just showing up and sharing the suckiness that life is sometimes, is what matters. It really just is what it is.

So, what is my current reality? I remain NED. I see my oncologist and my cancer surgeon every three months interchangeably. I’m still not mad about her but hey she’s good. I continue on my meds for the foreseeable future. I have surgery ahead of me to remove my right breast in totality. I need to schedule that because as with anything we are the ones who decide. No one else. And I will do it. I’m just liking being me for a bit. Stuff will be dealt with. And that’s so not hiding.

period

So I went and saw my oncologist last week for another lets see how things are going visit. I’m liking her a tad less every visit. It’s that emotionally unavailable bit. And I get it. But I just need her to see me. Me. Not a cancer patient. Anyhooo I am trundling along, my bloodwork was good, my fatigue is lessening, I’m starting to make peace with and accept the side effects of the Aromasin. It just becomes your new normal. I have changed my mood stabilising meds, see what I did there, and psychobitch seems to be making fewer appearances, although my family might disagree.  I am delaying decisions re future treatment until next year.  2016 has done enough. I am finally getting at fifty that life is a series of commas. There are no full stops. And especially with cancer. It is not over. It never was over. I will never be able to say with certainty I am cancer free. So what am I you ask?  I am officially in remission, which is defined as ‘a temporary diminution of the severity of disease or pain’. Yay me. No seriously. It’s as good as it gets. There is no evidence of disease. For now. I am feeling more like me than I have in a very long time, psychobitch and my inabilty to remember anything vaguely important aside. But there is the reality of the ‘for now’. And all that does is remind me, and you I fucking hope, that it is all bloody temporary, the good and the bad. It will all pass. So celebrate every little good and seek it out, see it, and deal with the bad with as much grace and dignity as you can muster, because it is just a comma. Not a period. Period.

psychobitch

That’s what Kate said I was yesterday. And the funny or not so funny thing is, I was. And I am. In fact I am completely unplayable. I also always have been. A bit.  It’s what makes you love or hate me. I have always ignited quickly. And often irrationally. And I can be a real bitch. But I had learnt to breathe a bit. But all this fucking around with my hormones has just sent me off the charts. It was already happening before this last recurrence due to Femara, my previous aromatase inhibitor, and my ‘mood stabilising’ meds no longer being effective. But now with all the new crap we have serious lift off. I react to everything with absolute venom and anger. There is no momentary recognition, ok this is annoying but really nothing to react to, there is just simply ape shit fucking hell hath no fury like a woman on Aromasin angry. The thing that really pisses me off though is not that I’m not given some slack for not being me.  Or for being the worst version of me. Nor even that I have to humiliate myself by constantly saying, seriously guys cut me some slack here, I mean cancer. Even I’m bored by that. And the eye rolls indicate so are they. As we all are. The thing that actually pisses me off is that we are even having to be in this space. I have to be on this medication. It makes me impossible. Okay, more impossible. And I know I’m being impossible. But knowing doesn’t change a damn thing, psychobitch cares less. Then I think maybe you can stop doing what you’re doing that makes me become psychobitch even if it doesn’t seem fair. Because fuck it, none of this seems fair. But why should you. And who knows whats going to set me off.  So I feel squarely fucked. I have to be on these meds.  I knew the side effects were going to be beyond challenging. I never really thought they would create a chasm between me and those nearest to me. They are prescribed to give me more time before the next recurrrence and to reduce the risk of new cancer. And I like time. But if we all end up hating each other, is the time worth it. And then there’s all the other shit rattling around in my brain. Psychobitch feeds off that shit. Anyhow before you all wonder if you need to call for help, I’ve recognised I need to. I need to dump all my anger, grief, disappointment, stress, insecurity, unworthiness, uncertainty on someone. Someone who doesn’t love me and really couldn’t give a fuck what I say or do or think or believe. It won’t help me not be psychobitch, I need more meds for that. But it might make her a tad more tolerable. In the meantime, you have been warned. Psychobitch coming through.

loved

I witnessed an outpouring of emotion in B this week that reminded me how it is so not all about me. Before you comment I really do know it’s not. But we make it about ourselves to protect everyone. And ourselves. If I’m coping or seen to be coping then they can cope too. It never ever is only about us but the one thing I know for sure, cancer, facing one’s mortality head on again and again and again, is a truly lonely reality. One that can’t be shared in its entirety. Not even with those who love you. Sometimes especially not even with those who love you. Not even with those who’ve been there and are still here. Because it’s just so bloody unique. We are. The circumstances are. Your realities are. You are. There is noone, as much as they wish to be there, with you in your head. Which for me is where the battle is won and lost. Your acceptance and willingness and determination to do battle is alone. You dig deep alone. And you hold yourself together. Because you must. Because if you start to cry, you fear you will never stop. I did what I must and do what I have to to carry on. But the depth of despair in those who can’t show you how deeply it hurts and how damaged they are at having to witness you suffer is beyond comprehension. By you not showing your vulnerability because you just can’t, doesn’t allow them to show theirs, which is just immense. To hold someone up, while helping them hold themselves up, by not sharing their real fear, so you can’t share yours is all kinds of fucked up. But all kinds of necessary. For some. Certainly for me. But sometimes the brave face we wear and force on others is so very unfair because whilst it is about us and our survival, it is about so much more. And yet I do still believe, be there in whatever form your loved one needs and when the time is right, let your guard down and show them your truth. Acceptance is a battle well and truly fought alone but within the safety of your presence one gets there a little less scarred. Pun intended.

 

be

I thought I’d let things fall where they needed to this past month or so. Heeding the advice of many that whilst things feel like they’re falling apart they’re not. They’re just falling into something different. And ain’t that the truth. Bugger is I was quite happy with the before. But growth is something I welcome and change something I’ve learnt to. And we do grow and even transform when we have huge obstacles to overcome. Into something new. But I just can’t quite settle into the new me yet so I’m still letting things fall in to place. Or further apart. And then hopefully back together again. All I do know is, I am not who I was. But dammit, this new me needs to get her shit together soon. I’m feeling far more vulnerable now than when I was kicking cancer’s ass. I was focussed. I was determined. I was a warrior. I had a purpose. I had an army. I was positive. I was not needy. I was not uncertain. I am not fearful, nor am I negative.  And I am so very grateful. But just a little hesistant. A little uncomfortable. A little do I just carry on like nothing happened. Like everything is not different. Forever. Do I live every day like its my last. Do I bother. Do I doubt it all. Do I celebrate it all. Do I just be. Do I love the different me that looks back at me. Obviously I know the answers and hopefully I’ll do exactly that once things all fall into place. And they will. And then they won’t. But universe, no more growing needed. I’m all grown up now.

dump

I had a little meltdown two days ago. Well not really a meltdown but a little emotional dumping of stuff. All over my girlfriends. My family and B. Mostly to do with my inability to move. My desire to get up and go has got up and gone. And I just can’t fucking find it. And then lots of other stuff too that I thought I had so dealt with but um clearly not. I am not perfect. I know you know it. And I know it. But I have to be. I know I don’t really. But its what I do.   I’ve been the perfect cancer survivor. The example of how to be. The person friends say, don’t worry look at Lianne, she’s survived. And look I mean really look how well I’ve handled my third recurrence too. Look at me. But actually don’t. Because then you’ll see how less than perfect I am. How scared I am. How I’ve never really known how to be. How being perfect is how I hide the imperfection that is my fear. My truth. And all our realities. Beause we are all imperfect. Which is just beautifully perfect. Anyway. I don’t know how to be perfect at this new phase. And I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like it. Not one bit. I don’t like how I feel. I don’t like how I think. I don’t like how I look. I don’t like feeling so frustrated by it all. I don’t like how its all changed. I don’t like feeling like it was a lie. I don’t like not being a survivor. And yet I always hated that word.  I don’t like it one little bit that its owning me. I don’t know how to be me right now. I don’t like feeling so self pitying and self indulgent. Me me me.  I know how damn lucky I am. And I am so very grateful for it all. And I know its all to be expected, and all in the realm of normal for what is my new normal. Thank fuck for my friends, family and B for allowing me to spew. For loving my imperfections,  because they all know what a fuck up I really am.  We all are. For knowing I’m really not dealing well with this. How I’m struggling knowing what I thought was, never was. How dark it is in my head sometimes. But dumping keeps it real. Sharing lets me see what I think. And gain perspective. And perspective is a beautful thing. And yes I am perfect. Perfectly imperfect. Or imperfectly perfect. Oh fuck who cares, i just want to get up and go.

moment

So the dust has settled two months post my aborted fourth chemo session. It wasn’t as magical as I had hoped. Or as miraculous. I’m no more able to digest nor make decisions about tomorrow. So I’m sticking with today. I saw my brilliant insightful oncologist on Monday. I had decided I wasn’t liking her as much as I thought I was, but I’m realising its more to do with her lack of emotion than her counsel. She smiles a lot but her eyes don’t twinkle. Its got to be tough dealing with disease and death daily. So I feel for her, and I decided to cut her some slack. So whilst Im still not really liking her, I do admire her. Hugely. I was frustrated that I wasn’t feeling significntly stronger than the last time I saw her. How constantly fatigued I am. How sore I am. How there is no feeling in my fingertips. How sluggish I feel. How sluggish my mind feels. How podgy I am. She reminded me of the trauma my body, never mind my mind, had been through and continues to go through. Extreme fatigue is a reality for 3-6 months post treatment, and I’m not even there yet.  Never mind the extreme reaction I had to the taxotere. I mentioned I wanted to move forward. I wanted to be me again. I wanted to do everything I needed to do this year, so next year could be a better one. She said no. Well, not so bluntly, but basically told me to go away and not rush anything. This is a long term plan. We are managing a long term reality. My ovaries have shut down so an oophorectomy is not necessary. Removing my right breast is a decision I need to make, but right now there is no survival benefit. Had to write that down. No survival benefit.  More concerning is the recurrence we’re dealing with appearing in other organs than a new cancer in my healthy breast. No survival benefit in my current reality. More risk, given the trauma my body has been through. I’m not really responding well to the language she is using. So the instruction to me, continue with the lovely Aromasin, monitor the side effects closely, get beyond the fatigue before making harsh calls, see my kind brilliant cancer surgeon in October and her again in November. With numerous blood tests in between. The reminder we are managing a long term reality. Living with cancer. And managing it. Luvverly. So we celebrate NED. We celebrate magic but not miracles. And we move forward. Moment by moment.