Honesty, where my family is concerned, simply elicits anger now, but in truth, this past year, overshadowed in every way by the ugliness and grief caused by Cancer, has made me feel I exist in a sort of limbo at the moment, between the doors of Life and Death.
I do not feel 'lucky' or 'fotunate'. Perhaps I shall, if I can be given another scan that shows my entire body is clear of Cancer, instead of being told by a student doctor that my 'entire body was filled with baby cancer cells'.
My Mother died of Stage 4 Lymphoma in January. I was diagnosed with Stage 3 Breast Cancer in September, a year ago. Being a Virgo and discovring my cancer a day after my birthday, I could measure this as a year of hell from September to Septembe. Or I can try to restore a less mad calendar, beginning afresh perhaps after Samhain, symbolically celebrating a festival of the slaughter of all of the animals that cannot survive the cold of Winter as a sort of sacrifice to the Gods selfishly for my own survival... or wait for the Winter Solstice and the Celebration of the birth of the new King... or indeed, wait for the Western New Year on 1 January. What difference will it make in reality? None whatsoever... it is the Fear that keeps me from seeing a 'new beginning', especially as I have lost part of myself physically to this monstrous disease, as well as a part of my heart, when I lost my Mother.
A year after the diagnosis, a few days ago, I went for a test to see if Cancer had invaded the right side. I was given a clean bill of health in that very specific area. I wonder if I am the only person who did not feel like leaping for joy. In fact, I was suffocated by a sense of despair almost afterwards. It was a promise of nothing. It really meant very little in fact.... or at least that is my understanding, now that I have been told that the left side of the body is entirely separate from the right. The left was invaded by Cancer to the point that it had gone into the lymphatic system, which means that it may have invaded the rest of my body (never mind left and right now.... the lymph system knows no divisions in that respect, rather more similar to blood veins than to flesh. )
Every one appeared to be angry with me, however, when I did not demonstrate any joy over this reprieve for the right breast. The reconstructive surgeon somehow managed to persuade me to allow him to cut into the right breast, even though it was perfectly sound, to perform what he described as a little 'nip and tuck' to match it to the rather horrible artificial breast that had taken the place of the original on the left side. One is hit by something like Cancer and intelligence and logic often retreat... the 'nip and tuck' he described so blithely consisted of actual removal of the nipple, to replant it higher, so that there are stitches all round it, as rather as a large incision at the bottom that looks depressingly like the one on the left from which they removed all of my breast. So I feel like Dr. Frankenstein's monster and for what? It cannot be for vanity's sake in all truth.
Every time I watch any film or series on the telly now, it appears that they must insert at least one character who is going through chemotherapy, whether male or female. To me, that is blatant advertising by one of the biggest businesses of all. Cancer is a big business. When I refused chemotherapy on the valid grounds that I was allergic to the steroids that had to prepare one for the actual poisons they use, I was told I had no desire to live! And yet, chemotherapy treatments do CAUSE cancer and certainly the 'anti-cancer' drugs they continue to invent can cause cancer as well.
Is it any wonder I do not believe in a future when the very medical profession peddle their treatments so aggressively that I am told I haven't a chance unless I surrender? My mother had the same cancer when she was 42. Same breast as well as same infection of the lymph nodes. She had a slightly different experience with the radiation, as well as the amount of flesh that was carved from her body. They now admit women in those days were given far too much radiation, but what does that really mean? After my own radiotherapy, I first was told that it would remain active for a fortnight after treatment ended... When the blistering, redness, pain and so on reappeared after two months, I was told not to worry. Effects could last or reoccur up to two years after treatment. Now, I am told that the radiation remains active in the body FOREVER and side effects can continue until the day you die.
So why should I believe in any of the myths, legends and fairytales that are fed to us as cancer patients. The medical profession is trying everything. For some, the motive is noble. For others, it is commercial. Whatever the motive, the chances of success are like throwing a dart into a board with a blindfold over the eyes.
Chance of survival, in my own opinion, after a year of this, is random, based more on the patient herself or himself than any treatment undergone. I have heard far too many tales now of sisters who went through the precise same treatments. One survived and the other died. When you know this, how can you possibly submit to drugs that actually can CAUSE new cancers to develop?
Anyway, this post is not dedicated to cancer treatments but to the psychological effects of the disease on me. I once was a fairly brave individual who trusted in destiny, trusted in fate, trusted in God. Now I live with the cold breath of FEAR upon me from the moment I awaken until the moment I fall asleep. I wonder if I can turn it round, if I can begin to believe in some future again.
The receptionist at the Cancer Centre went through breast Cancer and ALL the treatments twice. I asked her if the fear has lessened now... the answer sadly was in the negative.
I can see how the old way of waging war, charging into battles could be LESS terrifying than this endless waiting for Death to creep into one organ or another. Beheading is the act of an instant. Being run through with a sword... very quick. What always terrified me more was the threat of mutilation and now I have experienced precisely that at the hands of surgeons. Little by little, being whittled away, but worse than that is the crack in the wall of protection that allows other diseases to make their way into the body. I am not much in love with this sort of existence. Like Keats, it would be easy to be at least 'half in love with easeful Death'. I will not surrender. I will continue to fight to live, but I cannot say that I really believe in any of it now as far as THIS life is concerned. As for any afterlife, that is just a gamble really. 'Some call on Jehovah, some cry out to Allah. Some wait for the boats that still row to Valhalla... but too soon, it's over and done. And the Man for all Seasons is lost behind the Sun.'
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