Fear and other animals

I don’t indulge fear very often. It feels like a wasted emotion on the whole but sometimes it sneaks up on you doesn’t it. Fear for loved ones is probably much worse than fear for yourself. That I can control to an extent. Although during my diagnosis I got that whole system burn like I was going to wet myself which I think is a sort of primal fear. I observed it in the moment and thought ‘oh that’s interesting.’ I have been lucky enough in my life not to have experienced it often. I imagined it was how I would feel if a lion was about to eat me or someone just pulled a gun. Today was the first time I woke up with something like fear. I slept badly and had a dream that a mad surrealist had kidnapped me and was creating hallucinations that trapped me on his lair. If I really used my mind to see past his tricks I could find my way out. I woke up thankful to be free of his weird lair but uneasy and remembered that today was a Big Day. My first whole body PET scan since diagnosis. And it will be confirmation of whether the treatment is working well (reduction of metabolic activity/active cancer or tumour size), working a bit (no change – still a result) or not at all. I already know that there was 20% shrinkage of the primary tuna after a couple of weeks so I am hopeful but it’s the hope that’s the really precarious thing. It has become quite easy for me as a glass half full person to skip about with complete belief that I am magic and will beat the odds etc etc, but once there is evidence, or the prospect of it…one has to sober up a little. I still believe I can be the 1-5% that goes into rare remission at this rather advanced stage of cancer. I have faith. And I feel GOOD. For the first time in a while. I have energy and I feel cheerful and creative. What else does a girl need. A yoga holiday, a party and some singing to look forward to. That’ll do.

I’m in the PET scan pre procedure room. The very same room as last time in the comfy chair. This one involves some radioactive dye that comes in a rather theatrical lead lined box so you have an hour to nap. As I slept badly I am making myself comfy in the chair. You can tell this is the serious end of imagine as the walls have brightly coloured Matisse like prints and a tasteful sage coloured shiny lower wall cladding to jolly things along. If you’ve been through any sort of illness you know you are a bit fucked when the soft seating and pretty colours come out. The chair is like a dentist’s chair meets lazy boy and I am like a small excited child mucking around with the remote. Igor the Slovakian nurse clearly thinks I am a fool. Serious business irradiating people. No mucking around Angela. When will I grow up? He asks if I need anything or have questions. I ask if they can keep a better poker face than last time as the emotional radiographer gave away my diagnosis because she was a kind girl. We’d been having a laugh in the prep room and I’d been telling her about my kids. She looked visibly upset afterwards and it seemed like she couldn’t wait to get me out of there. That’s when I knew. Long before the ‘sorry you’ve got stage 4 cancer’ chat. It didn’t take an empath to guess. I went out on to the cold polluted Fulham Palace Road and headed straight to my post fasting favourite Japanese place to comfort myself with white rice and chicken teriyaki. Today feels different. Less blind fear of the unknown but a lot of hope, and with that comes a fear of having ones hopes dashed. I don’t mind scans. I tend to fall asleep and snore. But it’s taken me a while to find my balance and stop mourning. And I simply don’t want the hope and positive mindset I’ve been cultivating to be undermined. Like building a tower of bricks and having it knocked down. I don’t think any person with cancer could ever say that they get used to bad news. There was a period just a few weeks ago where it was nothing but bad news but I have put that behind me and accepted it. I’d rather not have more because I’ve been able to start believing in the future again and I want that. I’m too stubborn and defiant to believe otherwise. Please don’t burst my bubble.

I’ve been painting like a maniac these past few days. The urge took me to repaint most of my canvases and as a result I am not really very ready for our open studios at the weekend as part of the Brentford Canal Festival as half of my paintings will still be wet. Ok in itself but my studio is small and paint doesn’t come off if people brush past and get it on their clothes. Oh well. I usually sell a few but not sure I care this time. I also shouldn’t really be sitting in an enclosed space chatting to hundreds of people but you know. Life goes on.

Tomorrow I will go into work on an away day for the first time since diagnosis. It can be weird seeing people. Everyone is nice of course but I always feel like I should look a bit more like a cancer patient. I’ll probably fall asleep and snore. I genuinely miss everyone but have become unaccustomed to company these past few months. And having to sit still nicely and listen hurts. Still it will be interesting and our Scottish colleagues are down which always cheers me up.

Time for my nap. I feel the radioactive dye kicking in. They say you shouldn’t feel it but I do feel any toxicity in my blood. A short one today so I can get myself in the right headspace. I hate the lack of news after. It will be at least two weeks till I get the results and I’ll never get used to waiting. This is a different flavour of fear. Like slow dragging fear that sits in the background like dark rot. The long wait. Like an exam you can’t revise for or an anvil hanging over your head tied by a piece of flimsy string. Come on the magical unicorn. We eat tunas for breakfast don’t we? It’ll be alright. Sleep. Breathe