23 June There is always something to be involved in here, whether a 20km walk for breast cancer, a theatre offering, a triathlon, a food festival, a jazz festival, a literary offering, a surfing festival, a debate, a degustation dinner. And then some. I am grateful for where we live, for all it offers, for the wonderful selfless people that the world depends upon, for friends who make getting up at 5am in the dark fun. And for a reason to have champers at 10am.
I thought quite seriously about getting a tattoo at one point. To celebrate life. A flower chain on my wrist that I would add to every year since I finished treatment. I thought about it seriously for a minute. Naah. One, tattoos are not for me. And two, I was so determined not to be defined by this, not to be Lianne Cawood, cancer survivor. And that tattoo would help me do that. And I do so like to define myself in concrete ways. Which is not a good thing. And anyway, it’s there whether I like it or not. The cancer survivor thing. But it’s only a little part of me. You see, yesterday was not only our anniversary it was also the anniversary of my mastectomy. 5 year anniversary. And that’s the reason I am so glad I never got that tattoo, because that is all that would matter. Every day. But yesterday we mattered, not it. Now I love the sudden reminder, the wow can you believe it was 5 years ago feeling. That was then, this is now. I’m writing about it because it was a wow moment and I love that, and hopefully someone will get hope from our ability to smile now. And also because I realised I haven’t quite put this tattoo thing to bed yet.
I was recently asked if I was happy with my breasts. So, here’s the thing, my left breast was removed completely, nipple and areola too, and I had an autologous reconstruction , which is using my own flesh, via a latissimus dorsi flap, so part of my lat muscle and back skin was removed and whilst still attached moulded into a breast mound. They had to use my own flesh for various reasons but mostly because I had previously had radiation and a prosthesis does not very successfully adhere to radiated flesh. Because my cancer was close to the skin they took that too, so I also have some back skin on my breast. That was stage one. Stage two was to add a prosthesis as my new boob once healed was hardly a boob compared to my other one. Stage three was to add a nipple. Apparently the best flesh to use for a nipple is your vulva. Same silky feel. How fucking hilarious. No bloody way. Bad enough I have to lose my breast and my nipple which was very important to me as a woman, nudge nudge, but no fucking way were they going to fiddle with that part too. I like that part of me just as it is. I mean really, could you imagine knowingly walking around with your fanny on your boob? So instead they used the skin around my caesar scar, dipped it in tattoo dye to approximate my nipple and areola colour and shaped it to form a nipple. Actually for those of you who haven’t seen it it is quite amazing. I just feel absolutely nothing. In fact sometimes I’ll walk too close to a wall and wonder whats blocking me, and realise its my own boob. Oh and I know some women, in fact most women have hair that grows on the areola. Well, every now and agin I spot a hair, but it looks a tad short and curly to me. Giggle. Oh and I have another party trick … if I flex my lat, my boob responds. Finally my right boob has been surgically altered to match the left. A prosthesis added and the nipple moved in alignment. So, they look sort of similar bar the scars and those other little details already mentioned, they’re bigger than I’m used to, and one is completely numb, but I just love them. So, yes, I am happy with my breasts. Very happy.
I am very grateful to my niece Georgia who is doing an assignment on life changing experiences and is using me. I am grateful not because I think I’m worthy, but because it sent me on a trip down memory lane as I had to source photos for her. And it reminded me especially oh how much I love and am grateful for my never straight never curly hair, my not quite as thick as they were eyebrows, my sparse eyelashes. Oh, and my health. Thanks Georgie for reminding me how much I still take for granted and how much I have to be grateful for. And that includes you.
I read a fabulous blog today that brought so much stuff flooding back, stuff in my need to plough ahead in my life I avoid thinking about. Not deny ever happened but simply avoid. I’m sure by now I’ve mentioned often my recently acknowledged life strategy to you, that of avoidance?? The blog, her current journey with cancer and emotions associated are so familiar to me. So real. Yet so far away. But today they were right here. I now acknowledge how much time I’ve lost. Or gained. I lived, I was there, I was so very there, but also somewhere else. There was so much I hadn’t signed up for or hadn’t realised I’d signed up for. So much that I lost and gained, that I had to redefine myself in inordinate ways. Redefine probably isn’t the right word, but rediscover. Actually probably not rediscover either, but discover. Discover me. But before I could even take a breath from my last treatment, we relocated to another country. To no-one and nothing. I had to start again without even knowing who I was anymore. I’m starting to understand why I adopted avoidance as a strategy. It was just less painful. It’s four years now to the day (we arrived in Australia on 16 May 2008) and I’m still faltering. Still discovering. But I’ve decided, I’m no longer avoiding. But I’m also not ploughing ahead. I’m just on pause. And actually, that’s ok.
4 April. I woke to a glorious sunrise, coffee on the patio overlooking the vlaktes, with only the turtle doves for company. I knew it was going to be a good day. This afternoon I got my all over body PET scan results. My final results. I was told I am well, very very well. I loved and am grateful for the look of joy on my oncologist’s face. Roll on 5 years.
I had the worst day yesterday. I saw my oncologist, my breast cancer surgeon, my radiologist, my gynaecologist. I had a mammogram, an ultrasound, a bone density check, blood tests, a gynaecological internal and then some, I was examined, prodded and pricked from head to toe. I sat for three hours amongst all the new and existing chemo patients at the Donald Gordon, filled with compassion and a desire to tell them all it would be alright, even though for some it wouldn’t be and what they should know, and then filled with nausea at the smells and the memories, the tears and the fear. I sat in virtually the very same chair that I remember B said he saw the realisation of what had happened and was going to happen finally dawn on me. As I waited for my first taste of adriamycin, aka the red devil, the penny dropped and I nearly ran for my life. I would have if he hadn’t put a steadying hand on me. I sat there yesterday, overwhelmed by it all. I saw all these people sitting with their support teams, but you can immediately see who is in treatment, just by their eyes. It is a lonely journey. I wish everyone who is on it the inner strength to see it through and the ability to see the love that is around them. I had the worst day, but also the best day, because I felt different. I felt like an observer.
I was given so many books to read during my initial cancer treatment, mostly very uplifting and motivational. It will give you some insight into my feelings at the time that the only one I related to was titled … “It’s not like that, actually“. By Kate Carr. As in, it’s not the best thing that ever happened to me. It was not a blessing as it forced me to re-evaluate things. It was not my aha moment. It’s not something you want to chat to your kids about. And if another person or book told me that I think I would scream. I wasn’t feeling it. And I felt guilty that I wasn’t feeling it. This lady was the only one who seemed to really get it, get me. It’s not like that actually. It’s bloody awful, bloody unfair, bloody lonely, bloody scary, bloody confronting, bloody terrible for children, family and friends…. it just is. Well. It just was for me. And for Kate Carr. But writing why me? a few days ago, I realised that now, 4 ish years later I’m finally getting what they meant. By the blessing. But I’m also getting how much of a strategy for living, avoidance is for me. I thought about this a lot at tennis today. We were talking about mortality and how unexpected tragedies, especially involving loved ones, suddenly makes you face your own. And how most of us would rather never have to. And how being forced to can actually be a blessing. Because you have to acknowledge the impermanence of it all. The reality of what is and what will be. The beauty of what we have right now. And not to take it for granted. To hug a little tighter, to love that much more, to tell everyone how you feel more often, to be kinder, to be more grateful. To stop playing avoidance. And to find the time to discuss that will.
I’ve been a bit of a grump the past couple of days. I think it’s because our trip home is now only a week away. And whilst I know that should excite me, and it does, and remains one of my gratefuls, it still unnerves me. As it does every year. Because of what it holds. It means I can’t so effectively play avoidance anymore. I can’t pretend I am not fearful of what my doctors might find. I can’t pretend I’m not hopeful that they might tell me all is clear, and no further treatment required. And to be honest, I think that scares me the most of all, no, not the most, but a lot. Because then I will be on my own. Thinking about the possibility of not having someone there checking me all the time feels a little scary. No medication, no implants, no blood tests, no CT scans, no ultrasounds, no three monthly examinations and chats. I know I should be yahoo at the prospect, and I probably will be, eventually. But right now I feel unnerved. And a bit of a fraud too, because I like to believe it’s all up to me, that I am on the right path now. But suddenly, I’m feeling a lot less certain.
Why me? Actually why not me? I’m big on taking responsibility at the moment. Sometimes life is cruel. But it is not someones else’s fault or responsibility. It just is. And the responsibility is with you. We all have a choice. In how we respond. And to learn from it. And to change. To be the change. I am also very much about moderation. Some might call it fence sitting. Well, thats them. For me, its keeping an open mind, and not being absolute about anything. I often envy those who believe so absolutely in something, that for them there is no other way. I am thinking a lot about this especially in relation to cancer. Not only because I’m heading home soon for a reality check, but also because a friend of B’s is suffering. His partner has no time left. She has throat cancer that they treated themselves by attacking the acidic/alkaline ratio in her body. Some would say it was stupid, some would say it was brave. We are not here to judge but to learn. But it is very very sad. I threw everything at my cancer. I was too scared not to. Well, first time round I refused to accept it. I went for opinion after opinion after opinion until I got the opinion I was able to deal with. My holy grail. It was all about control driven by fear. But, I didn’t give up. I also didn’t learn. Second time round I decided not to fight so hard, because the very thing I fought against first time round came to be. And then some. So, second time round, I chose to accept and do what was required. I still didn’t give up, but definitely relinquished a bit of control. But I still didn’t learn. I can only now be thankful that the opportunity to move here came at a time when I wanted it least but needed it most. And I can only now be thankful to B for seeing what I needed. Only now can I begin to take some responsibility. Not for manifesting cancer, but for not putting me first. For getting ‘caught up in superficial achievements, goal-hitting, and daily drama’. For not looking after my wellbeing. We all have cancer cells. It is our responsibility not to create an environment in which they need to grow. To look after ourselves. To take responsibility. I chose to deal with the symptoms, but only now am I dealing with the cause. Every single day there are moments, big and small, when things happen we don’t really like, stop for a minute and before you blame someone else, take responsibility for your part in it. It’s actually quite liberating. I haven’t yet got to the place where I see my disease as a blessing. But I’m getting there.
grace and dignity 