 |
| Ouch. |
I am not immune to The Fear, unfortunately. I had hoped I
might be. Forget piano certificates, gymnastics badges and swimming awards - actually,
scrap the swimming awards, I failed the level below my Bronze Survival and had
to do the launch of shame from the pool after only the first discipline. I should add that I had told my teacher I couldn’t tread water but she hadn't believed
me - never do I feel more proud than when
hospital staff praise my apparent bravery, my 'high pain threshold'.
 |
| Ouch. |
I like to test it from time to time – with the odd break of
a foot or a knee or the smashing of too many bones in my forearm and wrist to
count or a chance burst artery following a fairly routine operation. How's the
pain? the nurse asked, as the blood spewed so fast into my chest cavity that, mercifully,
the vessels carrying blood from the
miscreant area couldn't cope and thus blocked, saving my life (thank you blood
vessels) but oh, at a painful price.
 |
| OUCH! |
Out of how many? I asked, or rather, wheezed. 10, she said. It's
10, I answered. It couldn't have got any worse than it was and I had to wait
three desperately long hours until I could have any form of pain relief. The
'ten' conversation was useful however, as it meant that as the big hand struck
7.05am, the nurse was there, at my side, pouring in the first dose of morphine
which she'd set up a few minutes before.
Is this a good point to mention my love for nurses
everywhere?
So, with this so-called high pain threshold I'd hoped I'd
have Nerves Of Steel and The Fear wouldn't consume me.
And it doesn't consume me. But it does visit often.
Provided The Fear proves unfounded, the further away from
initial cancer diagnosis you can step, the more it retreats, I'm told. But for
the moment, The Fear of recurrence of cancer is loud; concert pitch on
occasion. And although I stuff my fists into my ears, shake my head to disperse
the debilitating thoughts, fill my life with family, friends, chocolate and busyness,
The Fear is sometimes just too powerful.
My hearing has always been my bug bear. I wear hearing aids.
They are wonderful. My tiny friends discretely do their job and I can go about
my daily life barely affected, save for the odd mishear, just to keep my interlocutors
amused. My hearing is going through a bad phase. I'm constantly reaching for
the remote control to turn up the volume of my aids only to realise it's
already on maximum. BC – before cancer – I'd have said that my ears must be blocked
(I have tiny ear canals, they're easily blocked). BC, my hearing would have
sorted itself. Post cancer, when I can't hear well, I fear I have a brain
tumour. The most likely cause is actually a side effect of Tamoxifen, the hateful
drug we truly love because it may be keeping us alive.
Last week I felt sick and wondered if the cancer had gone to
my stomach. In reality, it was simply that-type-of-cold. I could go on.
It's The Fear of those evil little cancer cells dodging the
medication, laughing in the face of the operations and lodging themselves into
a new area of the body, one not being routinely checked. We tell ourselves that
the medication is advanced, clever and designed exactly to deal with the evil
little blighters but The Fear reminds us that they are clever, too.
It can be paralysing when The Fear muscles its way into our
lives, lodging itself into our psyche and, as we try to ignore it, tell it to
be quiet, to leave us alone, on the battle axe goes, beating us pitilessly with
its rolling pin.
But I will not be beaten.
I will not let The Fear win. I ring my doctor. I apologise for
my post cancer paranoid hypochondria and she understands. They all understand.
That's the lovely truth of the Cancer World. They expect it. They expect those
of us who are lucky enough to have survived and feel guilty that we let The
Fear strike when we should be shouting hallelujah for our fortune, to be sitting
in their surgeries. And they don't mind; they really don't mind and that does
make us feel better.
And each time The Fear comes knocking and the door is answered
with a reassurance that all is well, each time that The Fear proves unfounded, then
another chip is shaved from the lump lodged in my consciousness, another stone
ricochets off the side of Goliath's head, The Fear gets pushed a little closer
to the back of my mind and normality is dragged a little closer to the front.
I do not feel the same as I did BC. I do feel a little on my
own fighting what sometimes feels like inevitable recurrence now that the
heavies of operations, chemo and radiotherapy have done their bit and the only
remaining super power, Herceptin, is drawing to a close. I have two more due
before I finish my year of three weekly dosages. I shan't miss the time out of
my Tuesday or the water retention (otherwise known in my house as Herceptin
Bum) and general grogginess which follows for a few days, but I shall miss the
reassurance and friendliness of the nurses and the partial piece of mind this
powerful drug gives, when it's just me and Tamoxifen fighting the good fight.
The Fear will keep attacking me but I will win eventually because I will not let it affect my here and now. It's madness, isn't it, to
waste the glorious present worrying about the unknown future.
Madness, yes, human, also, but helpful, no.
If you fancy a book to read while you negotiate your way through
your chocolate eggs this Easter, I thoroughly recommend both of these.
