may-shock

The biopsy came back positive in March, just before the Covid craziness hit. Positive for c-a-n-c-e-r.
It wasn’t a surprise at first: I knew it would. The skin on my left breast was puckering and I had spent enough nights googling the symptoms. I knew that weird skin = uh oh, this ain’t good.

But at first the doctors hoped it was going to be easy. The lump was small, a quick operation, a week of radiotherapy and I’d be sailing through the other side. Cancer-lite as I liked to joke. But it’s not been quite like that. They couldn’t get it all out; it is bigger than the scans revealed and now a third operation is coming up. And this time they are going to remove my entire left breast.
My husband suggested I sum up the experience in a short story. Channel it into something creative. So here is is… it’s not one of my finest…but you get the drift.

It starts with f
and ends with

It’s a strange thing to feel physically fine, strong and healthy but for my head to
remind me that I’ve got this thing happening. That I must be mutilated in order to
keep me safe. Then the shock leaves me paralysed and tearful. Some days it’s ok,
some days everything feels too heavy. It’s the waiting that unstitches your sanity. The
test results take weeks to come through. When will the phone call come to reveal your
future?….has it spread or not? Six months of chemotherapy or none at all? Waiting
waiting….deep breaths….and wait some more. I try to relax, smell the mallow
flowers in the garden, watch the bees head-butt the pollen filled stems. Friends send
chocolates and soaps carved into blackbirds. They bring on happy tears: there is much
to be thankful for.

And I am not alone. So so so not alone.
Online forums buzz with people being diagnosed. Across the country, I feel the voices
screaming into the night. What is happening to me? Strangers reach out to console
and share their stories and hold each other up. Kindred spirits united in fear and
uncertainty.
And the treatment is brutal.
Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely grateful. The care I’ve had has been amazing.
But cancer treatment looks like Victorian medicine. It’s knives and toxic chemicals
and radiation. It leaves bodies scared, burnt, nerves destroyed. In years…maybe not
even that many….we will look back on these treatments and the photos of the
survivors and gasp in horror. At the cellular level, cancer starts as a tiny cell that
misfires. We will one day deduce how to turn these cells off ; how to whisper to our
bodies at the microscopic level. But for now, it’s a sledge hammer battering. An
archetypal western (Caucasian) way of doing things maybe – crush it, destroy it,
smash-it-around-the-head. Show it who’s boss.
Yet it works. I accept my place in history. I will lose my left breast. I am sad about
this. I am dealing with it.
I will survive. I am extremely grateful.