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.
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.
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.
I’m a bit fragile at the moment. Definitely feeling a little vulnerable. And a bit prickly. I’ve noticed it by having to take a deep breath as I get out my car, or sending Jem into Coles so I don’t have to go, or yesterday when I met my beautiful friends for coffee. I texted to make sure someone was there so I didn’t need to walk in alone. And bald. Yip it’s the bald thing. I know it’s a choice (well yes and no because whilst I hate the wigs, beanies, caps and scarfs all irritate my head too) but shooweee sometimes I just can’t rock it. I suspect it might be due to the allergy I picked up resulting in big swollen red eyes too. Bald head I can do. Bald head and fanny eyes is just too much to ask of anyone. Anyway the eyes are better but a little fragility was left. And sitting having coffee with my friends, a lady I know came over and chatted to us all, and didn’t say anything about me sitting there bald. And we were discussing her new hairstyle, which made it all even more awkward. I got a bit prickly about it afterwards, especially when my friends defended her by saying she probably didn’t know what to say or how to to say it, or whether I would want it to be acknowledged. And I get that. I do. But I really don’t want to be the elephant in the room. The fact that I am out there in the public domain, bald, naked, please acknowledge it. And me. I promise it’s harder for me. I can’t walk away. And it makes me feel better to be seen. Really seen.
So by now some of you may have seen the video B posted of me. It was not a good day but I guess that’s the point. They aren’t good days. They’re the best we can make them days. So whilst I’m so grateful for all the beautiful comments about how wonderful I look, how well I look, they worry me. I don’t want to in anyway trivialise the awfulness, the fear, the yuckiness, the desperateness, the late night bathroom floor moments, the self pitying, the pain, the soreness. It’s hard to share those moments, but it’s easy to share the smiles. It’s not always easy to smile mind you and I think you all see it for what it is, but I just need to make sure you do. A choice. A touch of lipstick, a creamy foundation, some mascara on my fast departing lashes, is my armour to fight the day. I share because I want to give strength to those who are struggling, to show how sometimes a smile, tough though it may be to smile, helps lift the spirit and does give you energy to move forward. That chemo whilst it makes you feel shit, is not something to fear. If even just one person who chose not to do chemo because of fear, fear of being bald, fear of the debilitating side effects, fear driven by others fear, fear driven by others self serving ideologies or conspiracy theories or self healing crap and then leaves it too late sees me and feels hopeful, then fuck it’s been worth it. Healthy living, healthy eating, exercising, reducing stress, being mindful, making the right choices, keeping your system alkaline, living a moderate healthy life are all fucking givens for living. I did it all. I lived it. Yet I got cancer. So, what? Am I a bad person? Do I have many lessons to learn? Fuck yes, we all do. But the one I have learnt is do not fear. It’s what kills you.
I have to admit I’m a little bored. I’m supposed to be packing and I’m sitting here researching the side effects of docetaxel and cyclophosphamide. It’s not what I’m reading that’s boring it’s actually quite interesting. Fascinating even. But nauseating. Truly nauseating for those in the know. It’s the fact that I am reading it that bores me. And that all I think and talk about right now is this insiduous, (I like that word C), fucker. I am bored at being here again. I am bored that my family are here again. Seriously if I need to be the poster child (I uses the term lightly) for anything, did it have to be this? And I don’t mean to be ungrateful, I really do get the goodness that can come from crap. And that crap happens. And what sets us apart is how we handle the crap. And that my determination to be positive (hate that word sometimes, because really what chioce do we have) and my strength to do what I must could help others. And I am so grateful for that. But I’m bored. And yes, probably mildly depressed.
I met my oncologist. She is brilliant by reputation. And I found her delightfully as insightful as she was brilliant. My brilliant insightful oncologist has unfortunately not ruled out chemotherapy. She is mindful of not overtreating nor undertreating me. So I am to be discussed and reviewed further. Love all these brilliant minds being a tad baffled by me. I think. Final decision to be made next Thursday. If you believe that you’ll believe anything. Anyway I’m not scared. It’s awful but I will do whatever I need to. And anyway I need a haircut.
I have to admit I lost the plot a little yesterday. And not because the news is bad but because the news is incomplete. And how could I have forgotten. There is nothing finite about this. We can only deal with each bit of information as it presents itself with care and determination. Well yesterday was a fuck that, what does that mean kind of day. Not much dignity around. Today is a little better. So. It appears I have invasive papillary carcinoma. The word that threw me was invasive. Not what you want on your path report. Actually what you really don’t want is a path report. Anyway. My kind brilliant surgeon is quietly confident he got it all and with safe margins. And I like him. But that damn word again. Invasive. I so wish it was that’s that. Carry on juicing, being positive and eating raw food and we’ll see you next year. Oh and sorry for the divot in your armpit. Okay so maybe today isn’t really a better day. Anyway. Now it’s over to oncology. Apparently I am a little of an enigma third time round. You’re kidding right. So my case will be discussed on Tuesday at a round table with all these brilliant oncological minds and best route foreward discussed. Whilst they do that I have to have a pet scan to see if there is any indication of invasiveness. Any need for more surgery. But my kind brilliant surgeon is quietly confident there won’t be. And I like him. And his gentle positivity. So I’ll hold onto that and retreat into my cocoon for today. Safe in the knowledge once we have all opinions I will make the best decision for me. Because only I can. And that tomorrow I’ll be in a better mood.