I’m trying my damndest to say you go girl as I put mascara on my three eyelashes, two on one side and one on the other. It’s not working so I’m about to text my friends and say if either of you moans about not knowing what to wear I’m going to spew in your faces. Fuck fuck fuck. I have tried on five outfits. All my clothes are fairly classic and not frou frou at all, okay then borderline masculine, and yet in all of them I look like a fat bald chap wearing a dress. No offence meant but just not the look I was going for. Fuck fuck. And then I burst out laughing and never sent my text cos oh for fucks sake. Who really cares. It is what it is. I obviously get the big picture life blessing. But right now I’m having a little picture vanity moment. And to be honest its actually quite liberating because there’s not much I can do about it. I could have got false eyleashes I suppose but they’d struggle to stay pasted on with nothing to cling to, so for what. And I could continue to feel sorry for myself. But for what. Because I don’t feel like me. I don’t look like me. Fuck that. Who cares that my eyeliner smudges everywhere because there are no lashes to stop it from bleeding. Or spreading. Or whatever the right terminology is. Did you even know that was a thing? Me neither. But still, on goes that eyeliner. I’m quite liking this not giving a damn moment. But please don’t tell me I look great with that look in your eyes. You know the one. Just lean over and unsmudge me. It is what it is so help me be me. Because sometimes it’s a little hard. A little hard for all of us to be us in any given moment. So just lean in. Oh and you go girl. Home. Dammit I love this place. Am still on some serious cortisol steroids and am a little out of character at times. Read unplayable. But no oompaloompas here anymore. It seems I had a particularly severe reaction to the chemo drugs. That severe that they will not risk giving me anymore. So that’s it for me and chemo. That’s not it for treatment however, there will be aromatase inhibitors going forward, probably a prophylactic right side mastectomy, an oophorectomy, which is a removal of my ovaries and heaps more in store. Who knew turning fifty was going to be this much fun. Anyhoo, let’s focus on the good right now. I probably will not lose the few lashes I have left and my brows have been hanging in, albeit thinning. And believe you me right now anything is cause for celebration. I have struggled a tad, I will not lie, with the inability to complete the chemotherapy regimen. Then again if you know me you would know that. But my doctors have been incredible in their choice of words. In their certainty. In helping me deal. I preach acceptance so now is my time to dig deep. I was so strong and able going in, and kicked some serious chemo ass, that I got done what needed to be done sooner than expected. And then my body said that’s it. No more needed. So that’s their story and I’m sticking to it. I have done what I must. And what I can. And to be honest, I can’t anymore right now. So next wednesday I meet with my oncologist again and no doubt will cry and question and laugh and fight and get some more answers and some more reassurance. And maybe even a gold star. And then on thursday, there will be no chemo.
B shaved my head this morning. Not much can beat that for a truly intimate, I see you moment. You see nothing in life is ever perfect. Your hair doesn’t fall out neatly all at once. Each chemo session ravages you a little more. Bit by bit. But it also allows you a semblance of control. Of ownership. I have huge bald spots. I would look like coco the clown on a really bad day if what still remains grew. Or something from a horror movie. Actually I’ve always hated clowns. Anyway. How strange our new normal is. Yet how beautiful. The girls wander past the bathroom. Not even pausing, just smiling. It is what it is. We do what we must. Another 21 days are nearly done, which means it’s chemo this week again. Damn time rolls around fucking fast. Feeling less vulnerable, but still prickly. Just trepidation I think at what this week holds. And sets off. And at my fragility. It slowly breaks you down. Bit by bit. Thank fuck I’m halfway. It really is all up from here. Time for some red lippy methinks.
I had a little tantrum yesterday. As in, I don’t wanna do this again. I can and I will and I am, but I really really don’t wanna. It’s those fucking bald spots that did it. And I know I am so much more than my hair, and I know I am blessed to not be terminal, and I’m doing this to ensure I am not terminal anytime soon, but allow me this rant. Rocking the no hair look, and I mean no hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no pubes, yay me, should be a once in a lifetime achievement. Dammit. I know you can all see through the smile, it’s kind of hard to hide the vulnerabilty in my eyes or the tears that well up when I least expect it. And I am brave and I will do what I need to do, so please believe that what I say and what you see is true, but bloody hell, I don’t wanna. It’s cool to be unique, to be different and yes to be the one percent. Apparently that is what I am. A one percenter. The likelihood of cancer recurring after a mastectomy and chemo is one percent. Seriously. Serves me right for always wanting to stand out.
So. Think I’m feeling the trepidation of knowing what’s coming. Welcoming it in a weird way because it’s still my best shot. But this thursday I willingly poison myself again. Time to shave me thinks.
The weirdest thing, well one of the weird things about this little detour is that I felt fabulous. That’s the odd thing often about this cancer thing. If it’s caught early enough there are no symptoms. No visible, palpable, anythings. Now I feel like a sick person. Not only because I have been cut, pricked, prodded, put under too many times, scanned, ummed and ahhhed over. But because I keep getting asked if I’m ok, because I look grey. Funny how when someone asks you that, you instantly feel grey. Feel sick. Feel like a cancer patient. It’s kinda what I meant with that pink rant too. If you are surrounded by sadness you become sad. Well not today. Today it’s friday. And I’m going to lunch. To celebrate life and vigilance. Hopefully my red lips hide the grey.
My 365 or 366 gratefuls came to an end on 15 January. Clearly I am playing catch up, or avoidance. In my defence being away from any form of reliable connectivity is the real reason. I think. Actually it has been a blessing and a curse. A blessing as it’s given me time to consider what now, and a curse because now I’m behind. And I never miss a deadline. But I’m starting to understand there is no deadline. And imperfection is exquisite. And as a dear friend of mine wrote so very recently, beginning takes courage, but continuing takes commitment and determination. And courage too. At this point I’m doing neither, but loving that in life there truly is no deadline. So, what will be will be, what will emerge will emerge. Right now, I’m relishing sharing my last days of chronicled gratitude and the change I feel within me. As subtle as it may be.
11 December. I am grateful today is nearly over. And for the most beautiful flowers thoughtfully chosen especially for me from those I love. Both near and far. They and the sight of my gorgeous daughters, their cousins, my sister and B made the day more than bearable. You guys, all of you, really do complete me.