Who Am I?

‘Please tell me about yourself.’

This question has been haunting me over the last few weeks.

It first came up in a scenario which I had not expected to be a trigger – a job interview I was conducting with a colleague. It is a most basic interview question, which I have answered myself many times. It is an easy one, you just have to find something witty to say, something truthful but exciting. But as I sat there, silently listening to someone else describe themselves with a sense of confidence and ease, I felt a pang of anguish. Would I be able to do the same?

It came up again during my first appointment with the therapist I have just started seeing, but this time it was directed at me. I did not have the words, and I started crying.

Two years ago, I know exactly how I would have described myself. I had perfected it to an art, and I had smart and playful ways of describing myself, with a number of variants – for job interviews, on a dating profile, when meeting strangers, as an awkward first date question.

I have lost that sense of self. The first, and pretty much the only thing that comes to mind when I think about that question is ‘I had cancer’.

Most days, I feel like it is the only thing that defines me.

I used to say I was ‘aa sister – with two brothers, one younger, one older’. Now, I am the only member of my family that had cancer.

I used to say ‘I am in my twenties’. Now, I had cancer at an early age.

I used to say ‘I love art, crafting, making things, discovering new techniques’. Now, I try to craft to occupy my hands and stop myself from thinking about cancer.

I used to say ‘I grew up in France, and I moved to the UK right after uni’. Now, I went through cancer with my family in another country.

I used to say ‘I am determined, ambitious and always up for meeting new people’. Now, I am tearful, shy, and scared that other people are going to see that cancer broke me.

I used to say ‘I love writing – I am in the middle of a short story at the moment’. Now, I write a blog about cancer.

I used to say ‘I am a rock for my friends, I am someone you can rely on’. Now, I crumble and can barely hold the weight of my own pain, let alone that of others.

I used to say ‘I do not want children’. Now, I cannot have them.

I used to say ‘I love travelling, I am always up for an adventure’. Now I know I will be refused travel insurance because of cancer, and I will have to coordinate my holidays with my many appointments.

I used to imagine my friends thinking of me, and describing me me as ‘a friend from uni’, ‘a friend from work’, ‘my old school pal’, ‘my old tennis partner’, ‘that girl with the French accent’, ‘the one with all the shoes’, ‘the one who listens to weird music’. Now, I know that for a lot of them, I am ‘the girl who had cancer’.

I feel like I have no identity, no personality outside of cancer.

Even when I look into the mirror, I barely recognise myself.

Strands of grey have appeared in my hair for the first time, and they have only become more prominent over the last few months.

I lost a tremendous amount of weight after the surgery, which I put back on after starting HRT, and now again because of the antidepressants.

I have scars, which my eyes go to as soon as I soon as I pass a mirror. It does not matter if I am wearing clothes over them, I look for them, as if I could see them through the jeans I wear. Some of them are scars from the surgery, some of them are wounds that I have inflicted to myself during panic attacks.

I have messy, medium length hair as a result of the many post-cancer haircuts I decided to get. I am growing out the undercut I shaved when I wanted to regain some control over my body.

Even the tattoos I got and which I absolutely love are there to remind me of cancer. They have other meanings too, but they are part of my cancer.

The one on my left arm are words from On The Road, with black stars that reference Kerouac, David Bowie and Harry Potter all at the same time – probably three of the things that most defined me between the ages of seven and twenty-seven. But the words ‘mad to live’ remind me of how I felt in those first few weeks after the diagnosis. They are cancer words.

The tattoo on my right arm is made up of circles spelling out ‘you won’ in Morse code – a broken, incomplete circle on the inside, and a full one of the outside, a metaphor of how the surgery has left me. It is a timeless quote from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, it is the line that broke my heart in the last series of Schitt’s Creek, but it is cancer as well. I trace it with my fingers as I write this blog, and it feels like I am tracing the last fifteen months of my life.

I am my cancer. I wish I was not. I hope a day will come when I am more than that.

World Cancer Day

Today was World Cancer Day. A day to celebrate those who won, remember those we lost, support those who are still fighting and give hope to those who will fight in the future. A day to raise awareness and stop being afraid.

It was a long day. I woke up in pain from the physical repercussions of my low oestrogen levels. I had my first counselling session. I cried hot, burning tears. I had flash-back. I said words I had never said out loud. I took another step towards recovery.

On this day, we all have a part to play. Whether it is taking care of your own body, paying attention to the signs, raising awareness, remembering a friend, making a donation towards cancer research, saying a kind word to a loved one fighting cancer, driving someone to an appointment or listening to someone’s story – it all matters.

And on this day, I am grateful to everyone who has been part of my cancer journey, however big or small your contribution was. Thank you. It all matters.

Repeat Prescriptions, Withdrawal Symptoms and Having No-One Else to Blame

I have alarms set up on my phone.

I have a calendar with dates marked in red and blue – every twenty-eight to thirty-two days, depending on the medication.

I have daily reminders – the bottles emptying, the number of tablets dwindling, the old packets I take out with the recycling.

And still, I manage to forget to reorder my prescriptions on time.

I will sit down at my desk, looking at the calendar in front of me. ‘I’ll ring later on, after all, they only take repeat prescription requests after 11am.’

The alarm will ring on my phone in the middle of a meeting or a lengthy email at work, and I will turn it off. ‘I will do it in a bit, when I’ve got a couple of minutes.’

Usually, I remember after a couple of days, I ask my friends to remind me at a specific time – it is harder to ignore someone that it is to snooze an alarm. I always manage to find a way to reorder my prescription before I actually run out.

This month though, I was not that lucky.

I called last Thursday. Another painful phone call to the GP surgery, another ten minutes to wait to be put through to someone, another five minutes for them to check that I am actually allowed to reorder one of my repeat prescriptions. ‘As usual, we’ll need about five working days – you should be able to pick up your prescription at your usual pharmacy around mid-next week.’

It was a gamble. I had not run out yet, but the prescription I was ordering was my hormone treatment, which comes in an opaque bottle with 64 metered doses – that is 32 days of HRT. I never know exactly what day I am going to run out – I can tell when the bottle is almost empty, but that is pretty much it.

I shook the bottle that night, trying to ascertain how much was left. After all, I remember I skipped a couple of doses when I was home at Christmas. How many, I could not remember exactly. Would it last until Wednesday?

To absolutely no-one’s surprise, it did not. Thursday was fine. Friday’s dose came out of the bottle, albeit reluctantly – instead of two full doses, I maybe got three quarters of one. And by Saturday, it was all gone. It had happened once before – although last time, there were only three days between the moment I ran out and the moment I got my new prescription. I knew the next couple of days were not going to be fun.

It started with hot flushes, my body’s way of warning me that my levels of oestrogen are too low. That night, I could not get warm enough, and then suddenly I was too hot – I was boiling, I could not bear having PJs on, let alone a duvet.

Mood swings, even worse than usual. Feeling low, not feeling like doing anything. Trouble concentrating – I could barely get through a 20-minute episode of Modern Family on Netflix. Forget reading – I read the same page four times before realising I had no idea what book I was even reading. Fatigue – I took two naps on Sunday.

And then came the really painful symptoms. On Monday morning, I woke up with a slight headache. By mid-morning, my vision was blurry, I could see spots of light, I could barely read what was on my screen. The light coming from the window making me recoil in pain. I recognised the signs, I used to have them frequently. A migraine, and a migraine with aura at that. They are frequent in women with low oestrogen levels.

Nom nom, painkillers. Nom nom, a second tablet. Nom nom, nom nom. Nom nom.

What is worse than an unrelenting pain in your brain, which feels like it is about to explode? The thought that it is self-inflicted. That it could have been avoided, all I needed to do was pick up the phone a week earlier, when I had first set out to do it.

I am going to have to reorder medicine every month for at least twenty years. That is a pretty basic thing to do. I do not mind the phone that much (not when I am the one ringing – please do not ever call me without warning), so I was not particularly avoiding it. I am used to it. And I still cannot get it right.

Ever since I was diagnosed with cancer (and probably before then, although the experiences of the last year have definitely made it more obvious), I have struggled with self-worth. For a bunch of reasons, I wake up every day and know for sure that there will be a point during that day when I will feeling like a failure. And these things, the little things that should be easy to do and which I still manage to mess up, they do not help.

I feel like I deserve the pain. I only have myself to blame, after all. I have let myself down. I should not complain about the migraine, I should not take a day off work, not even a couple of hours, because I brought it upon myself. I am responsible. There are many things I cannot control in my life, but this I do. If I was not such an idiot, if I did not forget what is basically one of the only things I have to do to take care of myself, I would have been fine.

My body does not produce the hormones that I need, so I rely on drugs to give it what it needs. It is a sort of addiction, if you think about it. And what I am experiencing are withdrawal symptoms. My body craves the medication, it craves the HRT and it goes into survival mode when I do not take it.

So I set another alarm on my phone, every four hours, to remind me to take painkillers, alternating between various active molecules. I have been taking them almost religiously for thirty-six hours, trying to keep the migraine at bay, to be able to carry on with my day.

I dress in layers, to be able to remove them as the hot flushes hit me. I do CBT in the evenings, to try and get a better handle on the mood swings that the anti-depressants cannot control.

Five days. That is how long I will have deprived my body of hormones for. It has not been fun. Will I do it again? Probably. Will it affect me in the same way? That is pretty much a given.

Anyone up for nagging me in 27 days?