I had intended to write a ‘what I’ve learned’ type post to sum up my dedicated year of living authentically, but then something happened. A few days before Christmas I found a lump. Lying in bed, putting my hand to feel my heart beat, something was there that shouldn’t be. I had sometimes wondered if I’d be able to distinguish a lump if it came to it, but I knew. It felt like cold, congealing dread. Desperately wanting to mistrust my fingers, I went to see my GP who confirmed she could feel the same as me. She told me she was recommending me for tests as quickly as possible, with the kind caveat that this didn’t necessarily mean there was anything to worry about but it was best to be safe. I cried a little. I was surprised I wasn’t taking this well. Or perhaps I was. Perhaps the right reaction to potentially having a life threatening disease is to feel your world being thrown off-kilter, to be shaken to your very core. Shock and awe.
I told no-one. It was a few days before Christmas, after all.
For about 36 hours I moved in a haze, a strange fuzziness in which all my senses were on high alert. It was a strangely physical reaction. The ground felt a little shaky under foot, nothing had a sense of real permanence any more. Then I started to get some perspective. I hadn’t even had the diagnosis yet and even if it was the worst, half of people survive cancer these days. I began to see it as a positive, a necessary wake-up call. Suddenly 48 seemed like no age at all; the idea that I would waste any of my precious time feeling bored or bemoaning my cellulite laughable. All I wanted now was the opportunity to love my body for being healthy.
Every so often the idea of my mortality would hit me like a slap across the face and for a few seconds I would feel genuine terror, but generally I went about my days with an air of normality. Christmas felt just a touch more poignant.
Ten days after finding the lump I got the all clear. I wanted to cry all the way home from the hospital, letting the relief pour out. The ground still felt a little shaky. It is taking time to get used to the idea that I am not living under that threat any more. I feel changed by the experience and wonder how long that will last.
Today I had lunch with a friend who wanted to tell me about her week from hell. It turns out that she has been going through the same thing. Apart from her husband, she told no-one. She also took it well: she cried and shouted and swore. A healthy reaction to facing one’s mortality, I now think. She got the all clear two days ago. I shared my experience and our eyes mirrored tears. The shadow is still there but perhaps it will serve to illuminate the good stuff.
I cannot praise the NHS staff enough, who handled me with the perfect blend of care, humour and practicality. How they cope with having to give such potentially heart-breaking news I don’t know, but I thank them for it. Hundreds, possibly thousands of people go through this every day, many without such a positive outcome. They leave doctor’s surgeries and go about their business, looking the same as you and me. So please be kind, you never know what shadow someone is walking under.
Let's Be Frank 