I have mentioned the inimitable A Squash and a Squeeze by
Julia Donaldson here before; such is the impact this favourite rhyming book of
my then toddler has had on my life. I'm not sure how much of the moral my youngest
took in at the time – that everything in life is relative and happiness lies in appreciating what you have –but she certainly went to sleep with a smile after numerous
renditions of, 'Glory me! It was tiny for two and it's titchy for three'.
Little did I know that I'd still be quoting, A Squash and a
Squeeze long after the screams of, 'Take in my hen? What a curious plan,' had turned
to the killing fields of the Hunger Games.
Roll over Dickens and Tolstoy.
In A Squash and a Squeeze, the wise old man asks the farmer's
wife to trust in his philosophy. Her poky house is getting her down and she
doesn't have room to 'swing a cat', let alone her farm animals of assorted sizes,
which the wise man asks her to add one by one into her already straining abode.
It's only when he directs her to remove them, that she realises quite what she
had before.
2014 has been a bit of a squash and a squeeze for me and none
more so than the summer holidays, rammed with radiotherapy appointments at the
expense of work and being with (and transporting) my teenage children. Where the old
lady filled her house one by one with extra animals varying in size from a hen
to a cow, my 2014 was filled with treatments for cancer. But as in the book,
it's all relative; I am one of the lucky
ones.
That doesn't mean I haven't lamented the lack of time.
Throw in chemo! the oncologist said.
I can't I cried. I teach, I edit, I write
I work for my husband (badly), have a small business
(which suddenly seems humongously large)
and short stories and a novel I'm trying to type.
And I want to ride my bike.
I can't take on chemo, my life is a squash and a squeeze.
But in the chemo went.
Take out a week every three to recuperate
And add in Herceptin every three weeks for a year
And radiotherapy.
Oh! don't shed a tear, after 15 sessions you'll be out of here.
And then add in Tamoxifen for the next four years and one
It's only a pill, with any luck, it won't make you ill.
And then I blinked and it was September. The big cow had stopped
dancing on the dining room table. I locked the door soundly behind it. Goodbye
chemo, farewell, I hope. Radiotherapy has been winched out of the top window. In
the kitchen there are still a few hens pecking at my feet; a reminder that this
cancer journey still rolls on but you know, I can manage perfectly well even
with a constant tickle at my toes.
So sympathetic, professional and advanced has been my
treatment that although I breathe in the less cluttered air with relish, there
is a part of me which hasn’t disliked the squash and a squeeze of the last nine
months. I've found it interesting, supportive, friendly and hopeful. I'd have
gladly done without it but without the brilliance of the medical profession and
the incredible love and support of those around me, the path life has forced me
down would have been much less bearable.
And let's face it, I might not have been walking it at all.
My cancer journey isn't over. I can't imagine it ever really
coming to an end, although an all–clear after five years is a milestone I wish
on every wishbone to meet. Nine months after diagnosis, however, emotionally
and practically, I'm feeling a little less squished.
