Twenty five years ago this month I was diagnosed with cancer. First of all I just want to say, look at me, still here. I'm pretty happy about that.
But twenty five years ago, for a year my and my family's life revolved around surgery, chemo and radiation. And then the best part of a decade of medications with with their 'tolerated' side effects. And still the sneaky little blighter tried to stage a comeback a few years in, but we evicted it.
Twenty five years is a while, so my medical experiences are not current but there are a few things I learnt in that year and the ones after and I'd like to say them out loud -
Cancer did not make me a better person. It did not make me re-evaluate my life and see the world in a new perspective. It might for some people, but it just made me tired and grumpy. And intolerant of people's bullshit.
It was not a blessing in disguise. Having people tell me there had to be a silver lining or that everything happens for a reason was not helpful.
Everyone has their own approach. Mine was evidenced based western medicine. Random strangers (no friends, I'm glad to say), telling me I was poisoning myself was not helpful. I was poisoning *it*, the side effects on me were necessary collateral damage
The most important thing my friends did for me was to be normal. Doing stuff we usually did - grabbing a coffee, going out for a meal, seeing a movie. I was thinking about cancer every waking minute, respite from that was what I needed
The other day someone reminded me I told them this - One of the women in my support group talked about how hard it was not to cry in front of her kids. The facilitator asked, what message are you sending to your kids if, when something this bad happens, it's not okay to cry? This is one of the most important things I've ever learnt. Hiding your feeling doesn't let people in and it's not a viable strategy for longer than half a second.
I'm not a spiritual person but I made a bargain with the universe. Or not so much a bargain as a demand. I wanted ten years. There were things I had to see through. I've had twenty five so far and no reason to believe there won't be many more. I'm one of the lucky ones
And maybe that's the final thing I learnt. Way more of life is dumb luck than any of us is comfortable with. I was lucky to have a doctor who insisted on an exam because it was my first visit, when I thought that was totally unnecessary. Lucky to have been in countries with excellent public systems and good doctors who took my questions seriously and considered alternatives. Lucky that when things went wrong they got noticed quickly. I was unlucky to be on the wrong side of almost every statistic - the number of times I heard a doctor say 'but for someone in your category that is very unlikely', only for it to be the case - except for the one that counts.
Life went back to normal in the end - or mostly. There's still a few niggles. I'm a bit more risk averse than I was. Some of the treatments left scars. I know it had an effect on how my kids view the world - I wish it hadn't. And I still have the occasional sleepless night when I wonder whether that ache in my back is a harbinger or just, you know, the stupidly heavy box I decided was absolutely fine to lug by myself.
I know there are many, many people who had all the same medical advantages as me, who were healthier than me, fitter than me, younger than me, more deserving than me, had better odds than me. Who did everything they could and still ended up on the wrong side of those odds. Yes, all those treatments gave me a chance to be here all these years later, but the fact that I am is still luck. That's the nature of the disease.
I've lived longer than both my grandmothers which tells you something about how far cancer treatment had come in the sixty years prior. Almost every treatment I got had been developed since their times. So I was lucky there, too. And I have an inkling of how far it's come in the last twenty five. Without the science that drives that progress, the luck means nothing.
