Today is results day. I think I already know the worst but maybe there is worse to come. As an optimist I like to find some sort of positive prospect to hold on to. Today mine is based on very marginal gains that won’t change much, but I am hoping it is secondary breast cancer and not primary lung cancer. They suspect lung though. Either way it is in my lungs, my lymph nodes and three places in my bones. But I have read that breast cancer has a slightly better prognosis at Stage 4 and my mum lived for at least 12 years after her breast cancer spread to her bones.
There is a chance the results of my brain scan will result in an even worse prognosis. That would be hard. I have always been much more reliant on the ability of my mind to get me through than my body, as if one can make the separation. And I have my PhD Viva on March 5th. A small window of clarity before chemo brain kicks in. I hope the examiners are merciful.
Waiting for results is a unique kind of torture that anyone familiar with this will know. It‘s worse when the results could go either way; all good or all bad. But this sort of waiting for further detail is a sort of dull hope when the outcome is likely to be bad or worse. But at least they will bring me close to getting on with treatment. That will make me feel more proactive and more positive I think. Right now I just have a feeling of decline. With every new ache and pain I find myself intepreting it as eminating from the cancer. And yet I’m conscious that even though I don‘t feel amazing right now, and I‘m described by the nurses as ’asymptomatic’, I can still enjoy a meal or evening out, I can go walking and do active things like weighlift. I can talk. I can laugh. I can breathe.
Yesterday we set off for a day’s walk in the Alsace. A heavy fog sits on top of this mountain and we are right on the snow line. I can‘t shake the feeling that it is sunny down the valley and we are just sitting in the cloud that is following me around. This is not merely a projection of my mood on to the landscape. I saw the cloud from a distance as we approached and thought ‘that’s where we‘re heading’. There is phrase I’ve always loved in English literary criticism known as ‘pathetic fallacy’ where the writer projects their feelings on to the weather. I suspect myself of trying to turn the world around me into something meaningful and poetic, like travelling into the unknown. As we stood on the side of Lac Blanc yesterday staring into the fog, I was mentally preparing myself to do a walk I wasn’t sure I could manage to Lac Noir below. I reflected on the many occasions when we are required to simply trust and set off into uncertain landscapes and conditions. We generally take that risk and assume things will work out. The diagnosis (and my breast cancer diagnosis and recovery 6 years ago) has chipped away at that natural confidence that everything will work out. I am married to a man who always seems to travel confidently into uncertainty and has carried me along with him on adventures that I might not have taken myself. My children have fortunately picked up his habit of life confidence although my daughter tends to overthink the risks of new situations. Happily she has incredible grit and determination like the boys once she starts. I see her dig in and get on with the task and I feel proud and grateful to have children who can take on a 25km ski in minus 30C or set off on a 40km mountain bike ride without complaint. That’s never been me. I have always been much more hesitant where physical risk is involved. It took me longer than most children to learn to swim, ride a bike, or even commit to running. I simply thought too much about the consequences and would rather bail and hurt myself than commit. And then suddenly, aged 18, my year off found me skiing, parachuting and paragliding off cliffs. It built my life confidence.
Yesterday as we clambered the first 20 minutes over icy rocks I became really fearful of falling and fracturing something that wouldn’t heal. It’s as if I have discovered the normal fears of ageing overnight. The husband promised me it would level off and actually it did but the restaurant at the other end was full and we had to walk an hour back along the road when I was already at my limit. My hip and spine screaming at me. Overnight my bones kept me awake throbbing and I really faced my fear of becoming disabled and losing my mobility. It may just be my osteoarthritis which was also seen in the scans but maybe it is the beginning of spinal compression.
Eventually after taking painkillers I fell into a sleep punctuated with difficult dreams. Skiing in the dark and pushing the snow with my shoulders rather than gliding and using my skis. Crossing dangerous roads with a friend. And worse still I found myself starting a new job at Sky (!) on the 100th floor overlooking the M4 flyover near where I live in London and I had to leave my children behind on the other side of reception. Everyone in the office was young and vibrant and not very interested in meeting me or helping me find my place in this new world. There was some sort of coded map on my security card which indicated where I should go but I was told no one was around to meet me and I’d have to just get on and figure it out by myself. I said sure, feeling that this was becoming the new norm. My late mother was looking after the kids in my dream though and that was a comfort. The mind comes up with comic metaphors for the obvious. I was disoriented and trying to find my way with the odd bit of kindness and family as an anchor. But they couldn’t come with me where I was going and I was keen to show them all the exciting things I had found.
I’m sorry this is a bit of a downbeat post today. I promised my self I would be honest here and not shy away from the dark days.
I am actually quite happy sitting in my cosy room in the mountains writing while the boys go ‘ski-ganging’. They are keen cross country skiers and there’s not quite enough snow to ski so they are ‘doing funny running’ as I call it. I’ve asked for a video as I can’t quite imagine how you run with your feet close to the ground.
There is a small desk with a view of the hills (well mainly pure white fog with the dark mounds of the Ballon d’Or looming occasionally out of the mist). I can smell the wood burning stove in the restaurant downstairs and the fresh mountain air catches my throat.
Ever since I was a child I have taken pleasure in writing or creating as a way of managing sadness and uncertainty. Being at one with sadness is a comforting place to be. It’s like fuel for creativity.
Today I am counting down the hours to my 1pm chat with Dr Doom (he’s such a nice young man and I feel ungracious calling him this but, so far, only bad things have come out of his mouth. It must be a tough job.) I plan to write a bit, plan chapters of a book and paint a bit with some colourful Japanese acrylics I brought with me. Maybe a short walk if my back will allow it. Later we‘ve booked the Finnish style smoke sauna and outdoor hottub with the view. As I said to the consultant when he asked if I was OK with results by phone, ‘I‘d rather have the prospect of a cheese fondue and a Mountain View the other side of news than the prospect of walking out to the cold, wet grey of Paddington station in London.
Breathe…
And let it begin
UPDATE
The doctor rang early as I was getting my walking boots off. There were no results back from the biopsy. Still working on it. Just one result which I am taking as a win. I don’t have brain cancer. Whoop whoop.
Breathe 
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