Walking Down Memory Lane, Part One: Avoidance

It took me a while to get this post out. I started about seven different drafts, and it took exactly eighteen days from the moment I wrote the title until I finally got the courage to finish it and the nerve to post it.

It is not my best work but I cannot stand to go over the same words again, erasing them, reworking them, rewriting them. It is ironic, considering the subject matter.

I never used to be an avoider. I liked to confront things head-on. I did not shy away from difficult situations, I strove in the face of challenges, I liked to take risks, take the plunge, run away with things.

I have changed. There are routes that I can no longer bear to take, people that I dread to see, voices that I do not want to hear.

I have known triggers. I know that if I walk past the hospital where I was diagnosed, there is a 70% chance I will be assaulted by unwanted images and memories. Sure, there are days when I feel like I will be fine. Days I know I can’t even attempt it, when I am close to tears already. And days when it could go either way. So I avoid it, I do not take the risk.

I cannot talk to my mum on the phone without being back into that room at the hospital where I broke the news to her. Video calls are fine, but sitting on my sofa, and answering the phone? I feel sick at the mere thought of it. The feeling of the phone in my hand, against my ear. The memories are vivid. I can remember the smell, the plant in the corner, the colour of the cushions. One phone call, and I am back in that room.

There are clothes I can no longer wear. The trousers I had on the day of my diagnosis, I gave to a charity shop a few months ago. The shirt I really liked, so I still have it in the back of my drawers. I hope that one day I will be able to put it on again without drowning in my own tears.

So I avoid all these things that I know will make me uncomfortable. I am not strong enough to face them head-on. I force myself to go to hospital appointments, and I find excuses for anything else that I know will trigger flashbacks and unwanted memories. I get enough random intrusive thoughts in my day-to-day life to choose not subject myself to these situations on purpose.

Until I can’t avoid it anymore.

In late May, I was told I should go to the office for one day, to pick up my new laptop.

I have been working from home (and complaining about it) for fifteen months now. At first, I was elated. The office, yay! Something different. Something I had been pushing for for a year.

I started making plans about a week in advance, arranging a day for me to go in, planning to meet my manager there, have lunch… I was so excited.

And then, on that same night I had learnt I would have to go into the office, I had one of my worst panic attacks so far this year. My brain just started remembering stuff I had pushed aside for a year, making links I had never thought of, and generally working overdrive.

We moved to that office on the day I had the biopsy which would lead to my diagnosis. The date is probably not relevant to anyone else. I had never even made the link before that day. But that means my cancer journey actually began on the day we moved into that office. The cancerous cells that would define the rest of my life were sent to the lab on the same day I rolled my pedestal under my new desk.

I spent hours replaying that day in my mind. The bus I took to the hospital, and then back home. The train I got into work. The lunch I had with my friends, where I told them about the appointment, and that ‘it looked like polyps, but they would confirm in a couple of weeks. It was probably fine though’. How relaxed I was about the whole thing. Oh, how naive I was.

Obviously, that was not enough for my brain. Over the next week, it decided to remind me of every step of my cancer journey that took place in the office.

The day I came in after hearing the news. The way my friends, my manager greeted me. The moment my phone rang at my desk – my dad calling after my mum had given him the news. How I sat crying my heart out in the meeting room. And the other meeting room. And my manager’s office. And the phone booth. And this, and that room.

Every phone call. Every appointment made, every person I told. Oh, that meeting I had with my team two days after the diagnosis. Where I sat, willing myself not to break, trying to stop the tears, to stay strong, to crack a joke that would make it feel less real. The stairs where I sat when I told a friend before we went on lunch.

The memories are so vivid. I remember every second in that office in the weeks before and after my diagnosis. Every hard, terrifying second. Every moment I wish I could forget.

I was terrified. Suddenly, going into the office seemed unsurmontable. If just thinking about it sent me into such a state, surely I would not be able to actually do it.

I was frustrated. I went back to the office after the operation and before covid sent us all home. I was fine. I was perfectly fine, I was happy. And I know there were some good memories in that office too. Decorating the place for Christmas. My friends’ support. My colleagues’ little attentions. I am crying whilst writing this. I wish I could remember those moments rather than the ones that cause me so much pain.

That week leading to my going back to the office was one of the longest and hardest I had experienced in a while. Every moment I was not focused on work, I was reliving those same memories, over and over again. I was crying at night instead of sleeping.

I thought about cancelling a million times. Surely I could speak up. Ask for the laptop I needed to pick up to be couriered over to me.

But I refused to do it. There is a time for avoidance, but I cannot let my fear, my feelings and my memories control my life.

And so I went.

(To be continued)

If You Are Doing Something, You Are Doing The Right Thing

Switching point of views for a second.

I have spoken at length about my experience of cancer as a patient, because that is what feels the most true, the most raw. That is what I need and want to get off my chest, that is where I feel my experience could help others.

But there are two, seven, twenty sides to every story.

Over the last few months, several of my friends and family have had to witness a loved one going through diagnosis and treatment. Have had to be a rock for their family to rely on, despite their own grief and pain. The shoulder for someone else to cry on after the loss of a close relative.

In a strange turn of events, I have become somewhat of a confidante.

‘I don’t know if I’m doing enough.’

‘I feel like I’m not helping.’

‘I don’t know how to act around them.’

‘He said he was fine. I don’t think he’s fine.’

‘I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing.’

‘I said something funny to lighten the mood and she just bit my head off!’

‘I asked what was wrong. That was a mistake.’

‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘I’m afraid I’m going to lose it in front of them.’

‘What can I say?’

‘I’m afraid of stepping on his toes.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t want my help.’

‘I’m afraid I’m going to make it worse.’

‘It’s like they don’t want me there.’

‘I feel like everything I’m doing is wrong.’

‘I’m doing my best but it seems so little.’

Having been on both sides, I can honestly say: whatever you are doing, it is the right thing.

Short of refusing to listen to someone, and ghosting them after you have heard the news, there is no wrong thing to do.

Yes, we will bite your head off from time to time.

Yes, we will be a bit short with you.

Everything is so raw.

But weeks, months, and years later,  we won’t remember the moment you decided to make a joke and it fell flat.

We won’t remember you only being able to text your support because you were in another country.

We won’t remember that you were overbearing in your desire to help.

We won’t remember that you used some really clumsy words which you instantaneously regretted.

We won’t remember the terrible dinner you cooked for us.

We won’t remember that you had tears in your eyes every time you said it was going to be OK.

We will remember you said it, and you wanted to believe it.

We will remember you cooked for us when we didn’t have the strength to do it.

We will remember that you said something, and that was enough.

We will remember you tried to help even when we thought we didn’t need help.

We will remember you were there, in whatever form you could manage.

We will remember that you were making sure life was going on.

There is no need to be afraid. There is no right way to support someone going through a life-threatening illness, or the loss of a loved one, or a traumatic event.

You are doing the right thing, and we are grateful.