When I started this blog, almost two years ago, I honestly didn’t think I’d make it to today. Because if you’re unlucky enough to get diagnosed with two different types of cancer before you’re 40, then you’re completely screwed – aren’t you? Yet here I am: with more chemotherapy, radiotherapy and surgery under my belt; wrinkles around my eyes; a few more grey hairs; and drug-induced middle-aged spread that I affectionately refer to as my ‘Tamoxifen Tummy’. But I’m here. I’m 40! And so I say – bring it on: I do not dread getting older; I dread not getting older.
The past 12 months have been about rehabilitation. Which basically means we’ve been on a lot of holidays: to Gran Canaria for some restorative winter sunshine; to rural France for some peaceful tranquility; and to Canada for a trip-of-a-lifetime that more than lived up to its billing. We’ve been kayaking and cycling, seen orcas and humpback whales, swum in the sea and created positive memories for the children. We may now be completely skint, but every trip took us a few miles further away from the trauma that cancer treatment inflicts on the whole family.
Which isn’t to say that I now spend my days skipping about in a utopian field of daisies (I’m an amputee, we don’t skip) because daily stresses inevitably creep in: work can be tiring, the kids bicker, the bins didn’t get put out in time… the usual ‘life admin’ pressures that we all face, with an extra layer of irritations piled on top: a prosthetic limb that helpfully slides off when i sit down, and makes a fart noise when I stand back up (does anyone actually believe my claims that it isn’t me?); menopausal hot sweats caused by the drugs I take to ward off the cancer; and painful skin abrasions that make getting around difficult.
The fear of the cancer returning is ever-present. It only takes one scan, one mammogram, one fateful consultation to send me – kicking and screaming – back into Cancerland. And I see the evidence all around me: treasured friends, younger than me, who’ve relapsed suddenly and inexplicably. So for now, all I can do is try to squeeze as much joy out of life as is humanly possible. And I’ll do that whilst welcoming my wrinkles, sucking up my middle-aged spread, and rocking the hell out of my grey hairs.
OneLegOneBoob 