Although I have always loved writing, I had never thought of writing a blog to share my experience. One the eve of the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis, I decided I wanted to share my experience with people, and wrote and shared a long facebook post. The response I received was overwhelming. People reaching out, comments about how much they related, how much they appreciated that I had shared that with them. I realised that not only had sharing this post lifted a weight off my chest, but it had helped others as well. And overnight, the idea to start a blog came to me, and I decided to make the jump. The post below is taken from the message I wrote on that night, the 14th of October 2020.
If you know me, you probably know I am not a fan of feelings.
They are unpredictable, they are messy, they make you vulnerable, they are overwhelming. I am uncomfortable experiencing them, let alone talking about them or sharing them on facebook.
I have been thinking about it a lot this past year.
A year ago, if you had asked me where I would be in a year, I probably would have given you some positive, commonplace and deliberately hopeful answer, like ‘oh, I hope I have my life together, a good job, a boyfriend, maybe a new flat, I will have made some progress with my writing, started a small calligraphy business, who knows.’
Well, let’s be honest, it turned out slightly differently.
Tomorrow morning, I will wake up and it will have been a year since I was given a diagnosis of cancer. A year since I first cried in front of friends, family, and strangers (I will make an exception for all those times I cried when I was drunk before – it does not count), and since I started doing it most days, because it is often the easiest answer to the question ‘how are you doing?’. Crying is not a feeling, and it is all my feelings at once.
I truly thought that when the dreaded one year mark would come up, I would be feeling all positive, ready to put it all behind me. After all, the prognosis was extremely good, the operation went well, I am expected to make a full recovery, recurrence is fairly unlikely.
But then, cancer had been very unlikely too.
A year is the perfect moment to turn the page on everything that has happened. A new chapter, a new beginning, that is what everyone has been saying, and I have too. Only, I have been lying.
I still cry every day, and that is not likely to magically change from tomorrow. I think about it every day, I think about the exact moment, at 9.10 in the morning, when I saw the first of scores of doctors. I cannot remember the name of the surgeon who operated on me, or the nurse who chatted to me whilst I was recovering, but I can remember the name of the doctor who gave me the news, telling me he was not supposed to be the one to tell me, as he had no interest in oncology, that it should have been done differently, not at a routine appointment, that he wished he was not the one delivering these news, that they should have asked for someone to come with me, that they did not because they did not expect it, that they did not even have a specialist nurse available.
I did not cry, even as he explained what the treatment would involve, and what it meant for the rest of my life. I asked if I could call someone. I had no idea who I was going to call. I could not even think straight, but I was obsessed with the idea that I had to save face, that I would not cry in front of him. They set me up in a quiet room with a cup of tea – even asked me what kind of tea I wanted. I took out my phone and without hesitating, I called my mum.
And then I started crying.
I have not stopped. I cry in the mornings, I cry when I make a cup of tea, I cry when I look at my scars, I cry when I think about the plans I had a year ago.
I am not turning the page, I am continuing to write on a scroll that only gets longer and longer, and that is ok too.
I have had the best support over the past year. Friends, family, colleagues, housemates, Macmillan nurses, everyone has been fantastic.
I still do not like feelings. I do not talk about them, but I have started writing them down, in the hope that in the future, I will be able to make sense of them, and help someone else like people have helped me.
I will continue saying I am fine when you ask me how I am doing.
And one day, it will be true.