It’s just over a year since the day I was told I had incurable, stage four cancer – the day I thought my life was over.
The day the word ‘palliative’ was first mentioned; the day my ovaries were to be shut down for good. The day I had to go out to the car park and explain to my new partner that my cancer was back and could not be cured.
In the weeks that followed, I received blow after blow. I found out you can’t get travel insurance when you’re dying. I called every insurer and broker, answering questions like ‘Do you have more than six months to live?’ (yes) and wondering whether to tick the ‘terminal’ box (no).
I bought a new coat. I didn’t really need it, but I told myself it would last forever. Then I realised there was every chance the coat would outlive me. The meaning of the word ‘forever’ had changed.
I felt like a lesser member of society. I was only going to be in people’s lives for a short amount of time before they would move on and forget me.
I tried to go to a big work event in the days after a big biopsy but I couldn’t hack it – I went home crying in an Uber not long after arriving. How were these people carrying on their lives while mine was ending?
Gradually, there were chinks of light. A holiday to Portugal where we literally enjoyed every moment. A proposal. Then good news – my treatment was working. I could be operated. There was hope that I could live for much longer than I thought.
Then the operation. The hardest time physically, yet a period of pure elation and chemically induced euphoria.
Next, depression. I cried all day every day, for weeks on end. As I recovered from surgery, I couldn’t do any of the things I normally do to make myself feel better, like work, exercise and cooking. I felt so helpless, so dependent. Everything felt dark. I was supposed to feel happy - I had a wedding to plan! Yet all I wanted was to hibernate at home.
For the first time in my life, I started antidepressants. They worked almost instantly. Then, gradually, I started to swim again, building up my strength.
Spring came. I started to feel so much better. I made plans to travel. Another good scan result. More hope. I was able to get travel insurance. I got married, in a tiny ceremony that was just about us. As I started to feel better, I felt ready to plan a bigger event for our family and friends.
Work opportunities came. I began to picture a life beyond this diagnosis – to dream of decades instead of years. When people mentioned the long-term future, I no longer felt my stomach drop. I had a new lease of life, like a ‘normal’ person. Things felt good.
But some days cancer pins me down like a weighted blanket I can’t shrug off. I live between a space of healthy and sick, and right now I’m in some sort of space of mild post-traumatic stress as I process the last 12 months of incredible highs and incredible lows.
But I’m still here.
I’m still here.
Brilliant read, as ever, Laura. Very glad you’re still here!
Courage without challenge isn't courage. Grace without challenge isn't grace. But your post gives hope that health without remission can be healthy. Your goal may not be to inspire, but you inspire anyway. I wish for you the medical developments needed to extend life. Your joy in it should be sustained, not cut short.