From zero to ninety in just six years
MJ celebrated a milestone recently, six years since her cancer diagnosis. In her typically pragmatic way, she discusses living with cancer in very human terms during October, Cancer Awareness Month .
Last week, we ate cake to celebrate my husband’s 49th birthday. We celebrated in the perfect way for him and his favourite pastimes - no massive fuss or fanfares, no fancy fine dining, no over-the-top decorations or hordes of people.
While I believe he is deserving of every single thing possible to celebrate him, he’s happiest being with his girls and indulging in a delicious steak pie lunch after a long, autumnal walk with the pups. And that’s just one of the many things we adore him for.
But while one day was filled with love and joy, the very next carried a weight that is difficult to express. There was another “celebration,” though this one brings me nothing but guilt, not least because it’s so close to his special day.
There was no cake, no cards. This one was personal to me, and by default, to him and our children.
When our world changed
An anniversary, but not one celebrating love or a union. Instead, it was the sixth anniversary of the day our world changed irrevocably. And in those short, very fast six years, I’ve been launched into my nineties.
I am, of course, talking about the sixth anniversary of my cancer diagnosis - my ‘cancerversary’ if you will. And I reached my 90s by recently completing over 90 consecutive cycles of chemotherapy.
Some believe it’s a thing to be celebrated. I struggle to see past the momentous and catastrophic impact it had on the family life we had built and the future we had imagined.
It’s an IV drip chock-full of mixed emotions because, all the while, I am exceptionally grateful to still be here.
So much to learn
Grateful, but fatigued. There has been so much to learn, so much to accept. A colossal amount to adjust to. If you have no personal experience of this (and I desperately hope you don’t), not all of it would be what you expect.
The cancer world is a confusing one, and it is normal to feel overwhelmed. It is okay to want to step away from it all and give yourself a little grace where needed.
If you’d care to indulge me in another of my cancer soapbox rantings, I’ll explain. If you’d rather stop reading now, then please do me one favour before you go - endeavour to be more cancer-aware. Know the signs. Check your boobs. Learn how to help those who might need you.
Being diagnosed with a chronic, life-limiting illness is something that shouldn’t happen to anyone. It’s the 21st century, after all - surely medical advancements should have rid us of this by now?
Talking from experience
It’s certainly something nobody thinks will happen to them, and yet here I am talking to you about it, unfortunately as the experienced "expert" I now pretend to be.
Expert? Not a chance. Even in the thick of things, I remain shamefully uninformed. Mostly by choice, as I retain the utmost trust in my medical team.
And let me be very clear on this point—even if I was better informed or educated, I would only be an expert on my own specific circumstances.
Nobody, even your friend’s aunt’s sister-in-law’s dog walker’s mother, who had breast cancer 17 years ago (and she’s fine now), or your hairdresser’s neighbour’s cousin twice removed (who died two years ago) will ever have the same set of specific circumstances as me or anyone else going through this cancery shit show.
Thanks, but no thanks
Unsolicited advice heard via the school playground rumour mill is never required nor welcome. FFS, just offer to make a lasagne—or, even better, simply turn up with one—and deliver while keeping your opinions to yourself. Please.
Well-meaning folk have previously voiced thoughts, brought books to help educate me on how to ‘starve’ cancer, and made unsolicited suggestions.
That’s a great big thanks-but-no-thanks from me—nobody, except myself and my husband, has been in my consultations with my oncologists. That’s all the input I need right now - unless you’re bringing magic-infused baked goods.
Well-meaning but…
The well-meaning lady who gifted me the above book did so with a flourish of anticipation.
Having been previously diagnosed herself, she followed the book to the letter and -wonder of wonders - was all clear now.
Adamant it would do the same for me, she waxed lyrical about the joys of her cancer being caught early and completely eradicated after treatment - praise be for private scans provided as standard due to her excellent, employer-provided health care provisions - and don’t you know - she’ll be automatically checked every single year.
Lucky her. She is healthier than ever! I was waiting on her to perform a gymnastic tumble as proof.
Cancer smugness
But how do I cheer her on in her well intentioned cancer smugness when I feel despair bearing down?
I bit back my frustration to save her feelings—after all, she’d brought me a book— so I smiled, nodded, and wished her all the best. Her good deed checked off for the day, indeed.
Meanwhile, I sobbed all the way to the charity shop, where I dropped the book off for some other poor sod who might actually want to read it.
It’s about them
This was her story, and she was determined to tell it to a relative stranger reliant on the NHS (brilliant NHS, by the way) to control her much more aggressive, incurable, metastatic, higher-grade, life-limiting variety of cancer.
She had no interest in my journey, so desperate was she to tell me hers. Maybe I have a face for it?
CBD oil? Really?
Another associate of mine, whom I believe to be educated and of sound mind, advised me to ignore modern medicine and rely on CBD oil, which had apparently completely cured her friend.
The smile-and-nod reaction was very strong during this conversation. If you don’t mind, I’ll continue on with the skilled oncologist recommended medication that’s kept me alive this long - though I would prefer side effect warnings that say "may cause permanent weight loss, increased energy, and clears brain fog" rather than the intermittent nausea, fatigue and mental incompetence.
Grief tourists
I’ve spoken about grief tourists before—it’s taken me the whole six years to combat my need to please and protect others.
Overwhelmed by the initial ‘celebrity’ a diagnosis brings, I barely coped with the influx of love, care, and attention. Flattered that I unwittingly meant so much to so many, I was exhausted coping with the emotions of others, leaving little time for my own.
Avoidance, along with swearing and online shopping, is a particular talent of mine.
But be aware—this fades over time, as it should. The daily grind of cancer treatment becomes commonplace.
I have no issue with that at all—I am here, living my life, and certainly not worthy of special treatment or undeserved elevated status.
But I do wish to remind people that this can happen to anyone, and if even one person chooses to check their boobs or donate a pint of blood after reading this, then all the better.
On everyone’s radar
Cancer awareness is on everyone’s radar these days. You can’t watch a soap without a cancer storyline, or read a newspaper (do people still do that?) without hearing of some star’s ‘battle’ with the Big C.
Welcome back Amy Dowden—Strictly Dancer extraordinaire. I’m delighted for her—she’s always been a favourite of mine, and I wish her nothing but the best. But fuck me, I occasionally need a lie down after I’ve simply had a shower.
The thought of hurling myself around a dance floor, dragging a ‘sleb with me, would give me the fear. Honestly, just the ordeal of a dress fitting, hair, and make-up would result in a two-day nap chez Duncan.
The recent passing of Coppafeel babe Kris Hallenga hit the cancer community hard.
She was so full of life and joy, determined to educate others about ‘living with cancer’. Cancer gave her a life she never imagined.
I hope you watch her story, Living Every Second - The Kris Hallenga Story. I hope you learn. I hope you remember. She deserves it.
The whirlwind I never asked for has finally died down, dampened by the passing of time. The queue of folk wanting to meet the cancer kid has thankfully stopped.
Those who texted religiously to ‘check in’ have relaxed, and I no longer need to share every appointment or scan update.
Do I think less of them for not checking in as often? Absolutely not. Everyone has something - work issues, children, debt, ageing parents, marriage breakups.
Sadly, more friends have been diagnosed with cancer since me. This is not an elite club.
My choices. I decide.
I no longer justify my choices to others. This is my life, my body, my illness - and I decide.
With my husband and children’s support, we’ve made serious adjustments. I’ve sold my business and gone back to further education - a treat to myself.
Doing something I love has brought me joy. For the first time in years, I sleep soundly without worrying about the day ahead.
I no longer berate my body for ‘doing this to me’. Instead, I speak kindly to myself, because my own voice is the one I hear most often - why shouldn’t it be more soothing?
I didn’t choose this, I’m just trying to survive, and I am not to blame. It took me a while to realise I can be both strong and vulnerable at once.
This passage by poet Hannah Row really resonated with me, and I’d normally cross the street to avoid poetry but I thought I’d share in case it struck you too:
"Until I thought of myself as the sea
I used to separate good days from bad until
I thought of myself as an ocean.
I used to split times I felt strong from when I felt weak
until I imagined myself as the sea—
Calm and rocky, wild and soft, still and powerful and vast
and more than any one thing..."
It reminds me that I’m not just one thing in any given moment or on any one day. I’m all of it - every emotion, strength, and weakness - at once. You don’t have to feel strong to be strong, and you certainly don’t have to be strong all the time.
On a new path
It took strength to step away from the busy life I once led. Now, I choose what I do, and that’s a revelation.
Earlier this year, someone asked, "What do you do exactly?"- a question that once would’ve hurt and offended me. But it no longer holds power over me. I no longer walk that path. That person’s opinion no longer matters.
Within cancer’s shitey set parameters, I do what makes me happy, because who knows how long that will be possible?
My greatest hope is that treatment works long enough to give me more time with our daughters.
Make 2nds Count
That's why I took part in the Make 2nds Count: 1000 Voices campaign for Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
As the campaigns appear everywhere, I urge you to pay attention - raising awareness of secondary breast cancer is so incredibly important.
Bright pink leaflets, park runs and coffee mornings won’t be part of my efforts, as well-intended as they are.
In the meantime, if you find yourself in a challenging situation, here’s something that has helped me tenfold: surround yourself with the right people.
People who leave you feeling energised after being with them, those who feel like human sunshine. They’re the ones who heal mind, body and soul.
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Well written, thanks for sharing your story x
Beautiful piece. Well put. ❤️