I'm Fine Thanks.
on surviving cancer and everything that comes after.
I wrote a couple of weeks ago about feeling like I was ‘back in the room’ or at least that a load felt like it had lifted somewhat. I want to make this clear to myself mainly but to anyone else who might be reading that this does not mean that I’m back to normal. Not by a long way and to be perfectly honest I’m not sure that going back anywhere is ever likely to happen and I’m also not sure I want it. In fact I’m certain I don’t want the normal I had before. I waltzed through life as if I were immortal.
Cancer, me? Nah, that’s the disease that affects others. I’d had my brush with BCCs (basal cell carcinomas) and felt relieved that my cancer experience had been negligible. Yes, I checked my breasts and I’d poo’d on the stick sent through by the NHS since they’d started sending them through the post. I didn’t give cancer much thought as a personal issue. Sure I knew people affected by the disease and knew those who hadn’t made it through treatment. I had sailed through until I was 59.
And then life changed for ever.
Who am I now? The woman waltzing through life as if immortal has long gone. There’s so much grief in her passing. Is it possible to mourn her as well as not want her back? It seems weird but that’s what it feels like for me. I’m grieving a version of myself I didn’t even know I was attached to. That’s a strange thing to sit with.
There’s language about bouncing back, getting back to normal life, putting it behind you that are frankly insulting and guilt tripping. It’s like saying to a woman who has just given birth that she should get her pre baby body back in a few weeks. WTAF?
Cancer impacts life not just physically but also emotionally, mentally and spiritually/intangibly. This healing simply cannot happen once the oncologist or surgeon says, ‘right, all’s good and I don’t need to see you again’. The appointment ends. The door closes. And you’re left standing in the car park wondering what on earth you’re supposed to do next.
It’s like being dropped in the middle of the ocean and wondering if you’ve got the strength or will to swim to shore. It feels like everyone has vanished and you’re fending for yourself for the first time since treatment began without any buoyancy aids.
This ‘new normal’ is a lonely place.
The side effects: the aches and pains, the medication, the emotional rollercoaster, the fatigue, THE FATIGUE, the body changes, the mood swings, the brain fog, the tears, the longing, the sadness. Sometimes all of this overwhelms the gratitude for life, for being alive, for surviving. The pressure on survivors to show gratitude is truly immense. Yes, I survived whilst others didn’t. I know that. And yet some days are still very very hard.
And boy, we know how to survive. Our body’s resilience takes my breath away. It’s often when someone comments on my form or my fitness in the gym and says, ‘given all you’ve been through, you’re amazing! You do know that don’t you?’. And in that moment I want to say: ‘yes, and also, you have no idea what Tuesday at 2pm looked like’
The words, ‘hey, you look so well!’ is a mixed blessing. It’s great on a day I’m feeling well and upbeat and ready to take on the world. On days I’m struggling to get out of bed and do anything meaningful with my day it’s another matter.
A friend once shared these words with a group of us. She said, relating to her cancer recovery journey, ‘just because I carry it well doesn’t mean it’s not heavy’. Hear hear, my friend, hear hear.
It’s hard talking to people who’ve had no experience of cancer — sadly I was probably one of those people. Cancer is utterly life changing. We fear that people don’t actually want to hear how life really feels once the ‘crisis’ is over, so we keep quiet. Haven’t we leaned on people enough already? So we smile and say ‘I’m doing really well, thanks’ and we mean it, and we don’t mean it, often in the same breath.
Tomorrow is a big day for me. It’s my final Zoledronic acid infusion, a bone strengthener given to primary breast cancer survivors to reduce the risk of recurrence and it spreading to the bones. I’ve had it every 6 months for 3 years. This ending feels like a mixed blessing. Hooray, everyone says, as I finally draw a line under my treatment for breast cancer I was diagnosed with in November 2022. And…who takes care of me now? Who’s keeping an eye on my blood levels, my bones, my breasts?
There’s an irony in treatment ending: the very system that felt oppressive — appointments, infusions, blood tests — was also a safety net, a structure that said we see you, we’re watching, we’re taking care of you. Its absence is both liberating and abandonment. Both things, fully, at the same time. Cancer teaches you to live in that contradiction.
You see, there’s no going back to normal. This is my new normal. I’m so grateful to have a new normal whilst also carrying the burden of survivorship.
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