Cancer is the Loneliest Word

Lonely. That word has come up in every single one of my therapies sessions.

I was alone on the day I received my diagnosis. Alone in that cold, sterile hospital room with two chairs in it.

It was not on purpose. They had not been expecting to give me such life-changing news, so they had not asked me to bring someone with me to the appointment.

Alone is how I started my cancer journey. Little by little, I let more people in (and then my mum told half the world without consulting me, but that is a story for another day).

Every message I sent, every person I told face to face, every phone call I made, I was expanding my support network. Trying to feel less alone.

I had amazing friends. Incredible support, a bunch of people who tried taking some of the weight off. Thinking for me, cooking for me, taking my mind off everything that was happening.

Friends who came to appointments with me, drove me, waited with me, did my shopping for me, brought me food and sent me cards and crafts to keep me busy. Parents who came over from abroad for the operation. Brothers who gave up their Christmas plans to come and spend it in a tiny AirBnB in Buckinghamshire.

And so it feels wrong, it feels selfish and ungrateful to say my cancer journey was – and still is – extremely lonely.

The pandemic must have played a part in this. By keeping people away for almost a year and a half, we have obviously grown apart. And very few (if any) people saw me go through the first 18 months of my survivorship.

Survivorship is about getting over cancer. Putting it behind you, learning to live your new life as a cancer survivor. It is the part people do not see, the mental struggles, the silent battle, the will you have to move forward and the constraints that your body and your mind still put on you. Learning to live with cancer, despite cancer, beyond cancer.

At first it was about learning to breathe without hurting. Remembering how to walk, how to bend, how to do yoga. How to get back to work, how to go to appointments and not be afraid anymore. It has been about accepting the reality of cancer, understanding its effects, my present, my future. And on that path, I was alone. I was working from the confines of my bedroom, then my studio, then my living room. I was having catch-up with friends via Zoom and Messenger, family group chats and hospital appointments by phone. I learnt to be myself again without someone to hold my hand and sit right next to me, but on my own.

Just like I was on the day of my diagnosis at the hospital. Alone, with my phone and my thoughts.

Now, as I see friends and family again for the first time in months or years, I realise people do not think about me the way I think about me. The pandemic has drawn a line over cancer, it has separated two distincts moments of my existence. There has been no continuity in this cancer, because people have not witnessed me going through it.

There was the Lauriane of autumn-winter 2019, the one who had cancer, who had treatment, who was on the road to recovery. And then there is a blank, there are almost two years of no contact and no seeing each other in person. Cut-off from the world for two years, people now see me as a different Lauriane. The one who is fine. Who no longer needs support. Whom we do not associate with cancer anymore. Two very distinct beings.

It is hard to feel lonely in a room full of people, but it is how I feel now, both literally and figuratively.

Literally, because sometimes even though I am physically in the room with you, I am not, not really. I have these intense flashbacks where I am reliving random (or not so random) moments of my cancer journey. Sometimes I get away with it and no-one realises, sometimes I have to rush out so people do not notice. It happened at a handful of family dinners, it happened on a dozen video calls, it happened watching football at the pub with friends. I was in the room with them, cheering England on (I know, I kmow), and then suddenly I was not. I was on my own, scared, shocked, afraid, back at square one, in my own head, and oh so lonely.

Figuratively as well, because I was the only witness of my cancer journey. Only I have the full story.

Because my family and friends do not necessarily know the full story, either because they do not want or need to know, or because I would be incapable of summarising the last two years for anyone else, I have to accept the loneliness.

There are people who I have spoken to basically every day over the last two years. But even to them, I have not been able to tell everything. The meh days, the really bad days, the days I wanted to give up, the days I wished I was more sick so people would come flocking to me like they did when I first got my diagnosis.

No-one warns you that your support network will wobble and dwindle as your body starts to get better. It makes sense that it would. As you begin to rebuild yourself, you let go of the arms of others and try and stand on your own two feet.

I feel guilty about still not being OK, and it making people uncomfortable. I feel guilty trying to shove my cancer onto other people when they would rather forget. I feel guilty refusing to put it behind me and forget all about it, when people have moved on.

I feel guilty of feeling lonely when people have done their best to make me feel safe and supported. And even in my guilt, I feel lonely.

Scars, Stares and Silence: A Summer of Self-Consciousness

They are angry.

Purple, raised, asymmetrical.

Shockingly dark against my pale skin.

Four marks on my lower abdomen, a sort of connect the dots drawing a rather crooked X pointing to the source of my shame. A treasure map leading to emptiness.

They are the visible stigma of my ordeal, the proof I am not whole. 

My hysterectomy scars.

I trace them with my fingers, often. The one on the left, slightly more raised than the others. The one on top of my navel, long and thin, the one that took ages to heal.

I refuse to look at them. I do not know why, considering I have no problem exploring them with my fingers.

But I will not look down. I will avert my eyes in the mirror. I will cover them up so I do not have to inadvertently see them. 

But others do.

I have been very careful not to show them to anyone. I have gone swimming daily since the spring, and I always wear a full-coverage one-piece swimming costume that keeps them hidden from view, concealed from strangers. No-one can see them, no-one suspects a thing.

Until yesterday.

The much expected and much dreaded family holiday started, complete with extended family time, lazy afternoons by the swimming pool and games nights.

I knew it would be too hot for my usual swimwear (and also, no-one wants a racer back and swimming shorts tan line), so I went on a hunt for the perfect bikini before I left.

I was not concerned with finding something flattering as much as I was with making sure it would cover as much of my scars as possible.

I thought I had done pretty well. All in check, except the one above my navel, which still peaks out from all the high-waisted bikini bottoms I could find, a few centimetres of raised, uneven skin.

I somehow thought that it would not matter as much, because I was with family. Family are respectful. Family would not stare like strangers would. 

But they do. And worse, they know what caused the scars, and yet they still stare.

My mum in particular. And it hurts.

It hurts when her eyes will not leave my stomach. It hurts when she will not say a word about it. It hurts when she will look at my scar every time I get in or out of the pool. It hurts because she is uncomfortable with my scars and my body and makes it obvious whilst also not bringing it up.

I never used to be self-conscious much, but cancer has changed that. I did so much work over the last few months to try and get more comfortable with my situation and my cancer-survivor body, and it all got wiped in the blink of an eye. More like, in that second they refused to blink and look away. But also refused to engage and bring up the truth.

No-one has said a word about cancer.  About my recovery.

I am seeing extended family,  grandparents, aunts, uncles for the first time in over two years. Last they saw me, I had not even been diagnosed.

And now, it is being ignored. Swept under the carpet. If we do not ask questions, it does not exist, does it? No-one asked how I was doing. Where in my recovery I was.

But they stare, and that leaves me feeling both ashamed and lonely.

Either stare and bring it up, or avert your eyes and stay silent.

I will feel uncomfortable either way, but at least I will have someone to share that discomfort with if you say something.

We do not talk enough about the mental load associated with cancer and making people comfortable with it.

Having to take that first step. Forcing people to acknowledge the fact that it exists, when I myself am not comfortable with it. I cannot ignore it like you can. You bring it up by constantly staring at my scars, you should at least offer to take some of the load off.

It should not be up to me to ease the discomfort you make obvious, but also refuse to bring up.

***

At least that has given me an idea for my next few posts: mental load , loneliness and selfishness in cancer recovery.

Walking Down Memory Lane, Part Two: Confrontation

There is something thrilling about making yourself face your fears. An excitement that pushes you to go forward, even though you would rather stay curled up in bed with a nice cuppa. Adrenaline.

After a long week of no-sleep and exhausting anxiety attacks, of terrifying flashbacks and endless crying sessions, I finally had to take the plunge. Go into work, the place which in the last few months had become the personalisation of my cancer journey.

I was lucky enough to have a scheduled session with my cancer therapist the night before going back into the office. I had not cried that much, or shared that much of my fears in a session since my last hospital appointment. And I got more than a few tips out of it: tell my manager in advance that I might be upset, and why, allow myself plenty of time to make my way there, remember that I can leave at any time, let myself be upset rather than trying to shove it all down, breathe, breathe, breathe.

That morning was tough. I tried to stick to my routine, despite waking up before 4am. Hop into the shower, dry my hair, read for a bit, ponder going for a swim then deciding not to, so I do not have to rush to the train station. In the four hours between waking up and catchingmy train, I must have thought about cancelling a dozen times. Cried my make-up off three times, and re-applied it thoroughly. Using it as a veil to conceal my lack of sleep, but also as an incentive to keep it together. I am vain enough to not want streaks of eyeliner down my face because I have been crying.

I was a mess. I felt tears coming up on the way to the train station. I felt sick, I felt powerless. I took the same route I took the day I went into the office after my diagnosis. I walked on the other side of the pavement.

I am always late, but that day I was early. Early, and alone.

My psychologist had suggested talking to a friend on the phone on my walk from the train station to work, or listening to a podcast, distracting myself. I could not do it. I needed to process things on my own, and in the relative silence of the Buckinghamshire countryside.

That walk usually takes about 20 minutes. On that day, it took me 40.

Now, ten days later, I could not tell you what I thought about during those 40 minutes. Or how I felt. It is all a blur – which I have learnt to appreciate as I usually have such vivid memories of my bad experiences. All I know is that I made it to the business park where the office is without losing it.

I went to my building. Everything felt surreal. I was comforted by the fact I was alone. No witnesses. No-one to watch me break down.

I struggled walking up the stairs. Those stairs I climbed so many times between my diagnosis and the operation. But back then, I was never on my own, but with my friends supporting me, virtually helping me up the stairs. The five short flights of stairs up to the second floor never felt so high as they did that day.

I had to stop before walking through the doors. Looking at the stairs leading up to the roof, where I sat one day in October 2019 before going on lunch. Where, as we were alone waiting for the rest of our group, I told a friend that I had something to tell him, he would know soon enough anyway, and the friends we were having lunch with already knew – I had just been diagnosed with cancer. Womb cancer. It looked like early stage. I would be fine. He had no words, asked if I was okay, I wiped my tears and put my face back on.

I still picture myself sitting on those stairs. They have meaning now.

I walked in. Past the meeting room where I once had a breakdown mid-call and had to leave to have a cry in the loo.

Past the other meeting room where I told my dad on the phone, where I told my team in person, where they gave me an advent calendar they had made to cheer me up during the recovery time after surgery, where I spoke to HR about what was going to happen next. I did not look at the door. I do not think I will be able to step foot into that room again for a while, if ever.

It was overwhelming. Sitting at my desk. Setting up for the day. Did I want a tea, a coffee? Just water. I could hardly swallow as it was.

It came in waves. One minute I would be focused on work, the next I would get assaulted by memories. Feeling lost. Feeling the tears come up.

My manager and I went for lunch, to catch-up in person after so many months apart. But we went to that coffee shop where, every lunchtime for two months, the thought of cancer had dominated every conversation with my friends. Where I explained my diagnosis to someone in person for the very first time. Where, for the first and only time, I told someone I did not want to die.

I could barely eat. I felt hungry, I felt sick. Making new memories in a place riddled with thoughts of cancer seemslike a good idea, but also so out of reach. I wanted to try. It was probably too much for me on that day. Too many firsts, too many steps forward.

I breathed through it all. I thought of going home after lunch. The words of my therapist rang in my ears. You don’t have to stick it out. If you need to go home, if it is too much, go home.

I knew the moment she said it I would not do that. I know having the option is crucial, and I know I should not force myself to be in uncomfortable situations for longer than I need. But I am too proud, and I refused to give up. I stood my ground in my fight with my own doubts and went back to work for the afternoon.

Was it the food? Was it hunger, because I had barely eaten anything but a few bites of that cheese toastie in the last 24 hours? Was it nerves, the stress of it all? I was physically sick for the last two hours of my working day, and on the train journey home. I was exhausted, full of feelings, doubts, memories. After trying to act as a functioning human being for eight long hours, I was done.

It was too much, too soon. Too brutal. I should have given up earlier in the day. And I tell myself next time I will, I will be able to stop when my body has had enough, but I also know I will probably keep going. Because it is who I am, and I do not want to lose that little sparkle of my identity when I have already lost so much.

Looking back, I feel proud. I did it. I walked into that place which holds so many memories of my cancer journey, and I survived.

Sure, I had a bad day. I was exhausted. I was not able to follow the advice of my therapist. I was sick. I had more unwelcome thoughts and memories than on any other day in my recent past. But I did it.

I also know myself better. I feel proud of having identified, before I even went in, that that place might be a trigger. It could have been fine on the day. But I know myself. I know my mind, even just a little bit. It feels like a victory.

And you know what? The lead-up to it was worse than the day itself. The wair dragged on, a low-intensity anxiety that took over my life for a week, interrupted by full-on panic attacks. The feelings and flashbacks on the day itself were intense, but it was over after eight hours, and I was able to go home. I survived it, like I survived cancer.

I would not be able to do it again, day after day, in my current state. I felt like I needed to sleep for 48 hours after that day, and I doubt I would have been able to have another day like that without fully breaking down.

Next time, I will have more tools to help me cope with it – more therapy sessions, a better understanding of who I am and how my experience of cancer is linked to that office. I will have tried different psychotherapies.

But most of all, I will know that I can do it, because I did it before.

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)

Numb

Stoic, impassive, apathetic, unfeeling.

Disconnected.

Waking up and feeling like I am not in control of my own body.

I go swimming, my legs move, my arms push against the water to keep me afloat.

Automatically.

I cannot hear, I cannot feel, I cannot smell anything but the water. I am numb.

I go home and I look at my hands. They are moving, typing. It does not feel like they belong to me.

Good news, bad news. My face shows nothing. My face is not mine.

I look in control, but it does not feel like it. My brain is locked inside my body, so deep that it controls nothing.

I am a robot.

I lift my arm and let it fall back down. I watch it happen, I am so far away. My body is an empty vessel, carrying me from one place to the next.

I feel nothing. I feel empty.

I do not belong in my body – my body does not belong to me.

I watch life happen. Happen to people around me, happen to this imposter that is in my body.

I am numb.

I know I feel emotions. I know I am capable of it. But I watch them happen to me, to that other person, the one in my body.

I know what happened to me.

It still does not feel like it was me.

It does not feel like I am anyone, much less this stranger that is trying to get back to a normal life.

Dissociating. Consciously or not, I have been doing it for months.

I am a stranger to myself.

One Year On: We Are in the Clear

If I had any energy left after my one-year follow-up appointment this afternoon, I would probably blow up some balloons and put them up in my flat.

It was hard. My eyes are raw from crying. I used about two boxes of tissues – one in the waiting room and one in the exam room.

I cried in front of the receptionist. I cried in front of the nurse who checked my height and weight. I cried in front of the doctor, and I cried in front of the cancer nurse specialist.

Follow-up appointments are rough. You can go about your life for months, but you know that everything could change in a matter of seconds, in that same room where you first got the news. The. Exact. Same. Room.

I had a new doctor again, who asked me plenty of questions about how I was diagnosed, how it came to be, what tests were done, how thick the lining of my uterus had been on the MRI scan (I have no idea). As I was battling my way through my tears, she told me it was ok to cry. It was ok to be overwhelmed, to be traumatised. She told me that I had gone through a lot for someone so young – terribly young, and she could say that because we were exactly the same age.

I do not know why that comment struck me as odd. Why of all the things she said, that is the one that stayed with me.

But it is all said and done now. A quick exam, a lot of background info, a chat about any symptoms I could have had, an inventory of the medication I am on, and I have been declared cancer-free, until my next appointment in four months.

I will have more to say in the coming days. About how they told me if things remained the same, I would be discharged after one more year, instead of four. About how my dedicated nurse was self-isolating so I was not able to speak to her, but arranged a phone catch-up in a couple of weeks to discuss my ongoing mental health problems.

For now though, I will crawl under the covers, put a good audiobook on and try and get some much needed rest. I may order a celebratory takeaway later, making up for the fact I have had maybe 4 meals in the last 6 days. I will make myself a hot chocolate and put the Christmas lights on.

In the wise words of Adore Delano – Party.

Survivor Guilt and Impostor Syndrome

All cancers are not equal. That is a terrible thing, but that is the reality of it. Some are more deadly, some are tougher on the body. Some are quick, some take years to develop. Some are common, some are rare. Some are caught early, and some are never caught. I was one of the lucky ones. Womb cancer grows slowly, it is usually discovered early, and it can often be treated successfully with surgery, with or without the need for adjuvant therapy.

My final diagnosis was of endometrial adenocarcinoma, Stage 1a, Grade 1. After the operation, I was not encouraged to have any further treatment, as the risk of recurrence was quite low. That meant no radiotherapy, no chemotherapy. Other than the mess that is my head at the moment, the only proof I have that I had cancer are four small scars on my lower abdomen (unless you have an MRI machine at home – then I can show you I have organs missing from my body). Four small scars, only a couple of centimetres long, purple against my terribly pale skin. They will fade in time, and will no longer be so visible.

I know I am incredibly lucky. But there is a part of me – a part that I despise, and that I wish I could get rid of altogether – that feels guilty about this. That feels like I did not really have cancer, that I am claiming to be part of a group where I do not belong. My experience was so easy compared to others, it should not even count. I have no right to claim I am a cancer survivor.

I had been told that, after the results of the surgery came back, there was a chance I would need radiotherapy, even just as a preventative measure. So I had read all about it, and prepared myself for it. I had been ready for the doctor to tell me I needed a few sessions, I had researched how it would work, informed my manager of the possibility. When they instead told me they did not recommend any further treatment, and that the grade of the cancer was actually lower than they had initially assumed, I felt a huge sense of relief, which was immediately followed by a feeling of unease. So that was it, for now at least. That was my whole experience of cancer treatment, and it did not match what I most associated with cancer. No chemo, no radiotherapy. Without that adjuvant treatment and the risks and side-effects associated with it, I feel like I cannot claim that I have lived through a real, valid cancer experience. I feel guilty telling people about my cancer, I feel guilty of now having anxiety, depression and PTSD, when my experience was so much easier than most people. I should be glad, and I should be thankful.

I cry about it. I make myself sick when I think about it. I feel like I have no right to talk about these things, that it is not my place. I feel like I should not be struggling, it is shameful of me to complain, to feel bad about my situation, when so many other people have it much, much worse. Even writing this blog makes me feel guilty. Do I have the right to speak about this? Do I have the right to feel low, when people are grieving their relatives, when people are losing their lives to this awful disease? I did not even want children, so the loss of my reproductive ability is nothing compared to women who have always wanted children and have had that option ripped away from them. There was very little sacrifice on my part. I had it easy.

Those are all thoughts I have, maybe not every day, but at least a couple of times a week. There are words for them. Impostor syndrome. Survivor guilt.

I always worry that people are going to judge me if I say I suffered because of cancer. After all, all I needed was a quick operation – an hour and a half, snip snip, all done, goodbye cancer. Yes, I have follow-up appointments. Yes, I will be monitored for at least five years, to make sure the cancer does not come back – or catch it early if it does. But all that does not equate the pain and suffering of people with other forms of cancer, or more advanced disease.

I am afraid that people are not going to believe me if I tell them I had cancer a year ago. I am afraid of their reaction, of the fact they might judge me, and refuse to believe me because I show no exterior sign of having, or having had cancer at all. After the operation, when I first took public transport, I was afraid to sit down in a crowded train. I was afraid of the looks I would receive – me, a seemingly healthy woman in her twenties. I was exhausted, I was barely standing up, but I was afraid of people not realising that I was seriously ill, and judging me for taking someone else’s spot.

I always used to associate cancer with chemotherapy and hair loss, but all I needed was surgery. I kept all my hair (until I decided to cut it all off, before shaving half my head). It is something that still bothers me. I did not have the cancer experience that, for me, is the very definition of the disease. Did I even have cancer, if my experience was so easy, so short? Was my life really in that much danger, was it really overturned by the disease? Have I made it much bigger in my head than it was? Am I entitled to request help? I have a medical exemption certificate, which means I do not have to pay for my prescriptions for five years. And every time I use it, I feel guilty. Surely, there are people who need it more than I do, people whose body, whose life, whose livelihood have been affected by cancer a lot more than I have.

I sometimes feel like I should keep quiet about my mental health struggles. More than seven months passed between the moment when I first started feeling anxious and depressed, and when I finally spoke to my cancer team about it – and even then, it was only because I had a full-blown panic attack at my hospital appointment that I spoke to someone. In that moment, I was not able to hide it, to pretend everything was fine. If I had not been overcome by anxiety at that point, I would not have said a thing. After all, I am managing. I am living my life, I am still functioning. I go to work, I earn money, I pay my bills. Surely, I am not that ill. If I manage to do all this, surely I am fine, it cannot be that bad. Despite all the reassurance I have received from doctors, from my CNS, I still feel like I am wasting their time. There are people that are suffering more than I am, and they need their time more than I do. I am claiming help that I am not entitled to.

I read stories about people with cancer. I hear my friends talking about their family members, their own friends. I have lost people to cancer myself. I have family members currently undergoing treatment for advanced cancer. People who know there is very little hope. And I feel guilty. Why was I so lucky? Why did I have it so easy? And why, why do I not feel relief, why do I not rejoice in the idea that I am, as far as my doctors can tell, cancer-free? It is unfair.

I have not joined any support groups. I am afraid of being faced with people whose experience was a lot harder than mine, afraid that this will invalidate my own story. Afraid of the looks on their faces when I claim being one of them, when I know so little and have suffered a lot less. I feel like I do not belong, because of how easy I had it.

Every time I upload a new blog post, I have this ache in my heart, in my stomach. I worry about people reading this, and feeling like I am cheating. Like I am discussing things that I do not know. I am afraid they are going to see me as a fraud. As someone who is taking advantage. As someone who is claiming distress that they are not entitled to.

I have not spoken of this to anyone before today. Not to my doctors, not to my nurse, not to my family, not to my friends. I was editing a completely different article last night, which I was planning on publishing today, when I typed the title for this one. And then I could not stop writing, the words pouring out of my fingers and onto the page. I finished at 3am, long after the fireworks of Diwali had stopped.