One Year On..

One Year On..

We all say it: “What a difference a year makes!” and then we all make plans (that we never do) we all say that YES we MUST do that this year! (And we never do) we all say THIS year I WILL come and see you! (And we don’t). If any of this sounds familiar, you are not alone. We all say this. However when one is face to face with one’s own mortality we kind of expect promises to be kept. Many people said to me at the very beginning “I will come and see you!” and they didn’t. At first I was rather upset by this. And then something marvelous happened to me. I was well again, I started to enjoy myself, work, go for walks, and go for tea.. Hell I even went OUT.

And then it hit me. Life Goes On.

Isn’t that super?

I started chemotherapy on the 11^th of November 2014, a day to remember for many reasons. For most the end of a great war, for me the start of a personal fight. Now, Chemo is very dull. There are many different types of drugs and mine was an old school one that required at least eight hours of hospital time once a week. First off I had to have a blood test at 7 in the morning, which meant leaving home at around 5.30 am. After the blood results I would have a quick meeting with my Oncology Doc which went something like this:

“So, Rachel, how are you feeling?”

“Well, I have been better..I keep being sick and actually I feel like crap.”

“Jolly good! All normal then..Keep drinking water!!”

Right.

Then I was shipped off to have a drip put into me. The nurse always insisted in putting the damn needle in my hand but I hated it. After a few bribes I eventually made her put it in the crook of my elbow, where you would usually get your blood tests drawn from. Yet we are talking about an 8 hour stint here. First I would have a pint and a half of saline solution to help hydrate my body as my particular drug (apparently) is a bitch on the kidneys: first session.

Nurse: Then Rachel, here is your pee container. You must pee into the container and call me every time you do, so I can monitor your kidney function.

Me: Pardon? So…I have to pee in to a container AND carry my drip with me to the loo so you know I am peeing???

Nurse: yes.

Right.

And yes dear reader that is what I did. And after the saline solution I was given a half pint of pure cortisone. Now cortisone is a funny thing, it makes one hungry as hell and very active. My lord I could have eaten anything, I was ravenous and hyper! And then more saline solution..and then the chemo. And then yet more saline solution. And just to top it all off, down I went to have a blast of radiotherapy! Joy! By 8 pm I was home and in bed. The day after my first chemo I felt AMAZING. Really, I was full of energy and sparkly sensations and I called my Oncologist as said “I feel AMAZING!” and she said..

“That’s the cortisone sweetheart, give it 12 hours..”

Never a more accurate outlook.

And man was I sick. Sick sick sick. I couldn’t eat anything except tangerines. My darling Mother cooked for me and held my hair back and sang to me. I was a child again. I didn’t look after my son, or myself. I couldn’t handle anything. My friends called me and I couldn’t talk. My darling Grandad died and I couldn't go to his funeral. I was missing so much.

But I did it. I lost 10 kilos (wow!) and I HATED being thin, no really, it was all wrong. I spent Christmas being miserable and sick.

And all of a sudden it stopped. And with that, I stopped caring. Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t stop caring about the people I love, I started actually loving them for who they really are. I had friends who showed their true colours, friends who diverted flights from LA to come and see me and cook for me, friends who apologized, friends who hugged. I was loved. And I still am.

A year has flown. AND with it I have changed. I have a job, my friends are doing well, my family is amazing and I am keeping my fingers crossed.

One of my friends did ask me: “Are you scared of death?”

No. I am not scared of death. I am not scared of dying because I know that I will leave behind something of me in every one of you.

As I said at the very beginning, if people don’t call you or ask every day how you are it simply means that LIFE goes on. Isn’t that wonderful?

Let's talk about Sex..

Let’s talk about sex...

Ha..always a good one. Now, once upon a time my sister was desperate to get the “Now 20” tape for Christmas. Remember those? I do. So of course her wish was granted and Santa measured up to expectations. Joy! Music in the car on the way down South from the annual Christmas gathering in Leeds that wasn’t an random combo of Cream and Kylie (no offence). No. We had Now 20! And all was jolly and good until we got to tape 2 side 2. (for the young, we had tapes, one was obliged to eject and change sides, especially in a Ford). I digress…. 

Tape 2 was a revelation- two songs with the “s” word in them that instantly turned my farther into a spluttering madness who had to stop the car at Fleet Service stations and put on a bit of Peter Gabriel for safety. Oh yes..

However, the fuel gauge was an excuse that was never going to last and thus he couldn’t stop off when the time suited and so he had to let the music play on to not give the impression that he was terribly embarrassed by “Let’s talk about Sex” and the god awful “I wanna sex you up”. Bless him! All that gripping of the wheel and coughing in all the right places! To forgive him his blushes, I hadn’t a clue what the songs were about. At all. But I was intrigued.. 

What the hell is SEX? I asked myself…

 To be honest, dear reader, I had NO IDEA. Then, I was so impressed by the various shades of purple that flowed over my dear parents’ facial expressions, that I was damned to be kept in the dark and I wanted to know more. Ha. “Knowing more” in an all-girls boarding school was a tough call. But I soon got the idea.

GROSS. 

So here I am, years later, being told by a team of medical staff that the time has come to have sex. Lots of it. The more the better, they say. “All the time!” quipped the nurse, as if one does not have anything else to do all day. 

What! I hear you say..let me explain. So, I had cervical cancer. I hope I don’t need to point out to you all where the cervix is? Really? However, many of you may not know exactly what radiotherapy is and what it does to ones insides.

At the very beginning of the whole cancer affair I was terrified about chemotherapy. Will I be sick (yes)? Will I lose my hair? (no I didn’t..) Will I be shattered?(yes).

But nobody prepared me for the devastation of radiotherapy. What is it? Well. Radiotherapy has been around for over 100 years and so it is surprising that not a great deal is known about it. Unless one goes through it… we have all heard of Marie Curie, and thanks to her I can still write this now. Radium is used to kill cancer cells. Back in the days, it was applied directly into the tumor… now it is different. Civil almost! Everyday I went down to the hospital, whipped my trousers down and was laid on a plank whilst this thing whizzed around me. It was a bit like being courted by R2-D2 on speed..yet..NO PAIN! I didn’t feel a thing! “just you wait..” said the nurse. Umm. And she was right.. after three weeks the radio kicked in. Cramps, bleeding, cramps, tiredness, sickness and OH don’t even talk to me about having a pee..It was hell. It was impossible..therapy only took five minutes but I was in agony..and the best was yet to come.

After 30 sessions of external radio, I had to do INTERNAL radio.

Disclaimer: those of a weak disposition please skip ahead…

I was called in just before Christmas to do internal radio. I had a drip of tranquilizers fitted into my arm and a shot of cortisone. Then I was taken in to the theater and my legs were hoisted up and strapped down. This should have set alarm bells ringing..

Then three long probes were inserted into me that went to the top of my uterus and beside my cervix, breaking through the hard membrane of the tumor. Now, I have given birth and gone through Brazilian waxing guys, which was a PIC NIC compared to this. I saw stars. Then I had to be scanned to make sure it was all in place properly and I had to wait for FIVE HOURS with this thing inside me. With a pee bag… I mean really! So I kissed dignity goodbye and embraced the situation. And after all this rubbish, three little wires were hooked up to my long suffering vagina and buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz that’s it. I actually fell asleep. All that pain and faff for 20 minutes of humming! Little did I know that the humming was pelting my body with enough radiation to keep the Christmas lights on Oxford Street going for a year. This repeated three times and I finished on Christmas eve 2014. I was on my knees. The pain was immense. I dreaded going to the bathroom.. I hated eating. My skin from my navel to my mid-thigh had turned black. Here, my hair fell out. Then my skin started to peel.. it came away like silk on a loom. Shards of it. How can I ever go back to being normal?

It takes a year. At least. It takes love and patience and bravery. The last thing I wanted to do on this earth was have a normal sexual relationship with my husband. NO WAY. But, who refuses a doctors order? I had to. UGG. 

So I did.

If anyone can remember what it was like to lose your virginity do spare a thought.. this was much worse. And now with my body in full menopause (thanks radiotherapy!) it is one hundred times more awful. My mind is where it is, I am 32, but my body has regressed to a 12 year olds in some ways and to a 50 year olds in others.. I have to be very careful. I still don’t know my after cancer self. I am different. I am fragile yet so much stronger. Aside from the constant hot flushes, the mood swings, the anger, the tears, the lack of comfort, the UNFAIRNESS of it all. Apart from that I am fine…

I have been waltzing with R2-D2.. give me a while to come back to earth..

xxx  Riggy 

Mountains May Depart

Mountains may depart...

A lot of things have been happening recently in my life “after cancer.” The all clear was sent to me in an email by my doctors and I had to really look twice at the words; but there it was, in black and white: all clear. So what does one do? One moves on.

And I have been trying to move on. I thought it would be much easier than this. I saw myself being a better person, running through fields of corn, making jam, going to church and hugging everyone. Randomly. Just because I could. Yet no! People stopped calling to see how I was, I argued with my husband, I huffed and puffed at queue jumpers at the post office, I swore at crap drivers. What the?? Where was my vow of loveliness? Where was the amazing friend/mother/daughter/lover/sister that I had promised to be? Who AM I? Then it struck…

I am me. I am human. LIFE GOES ON. 

It feels like I am picking up where I left off, and I shouldn’t feel guilty about that. But I kind of do. Then I understood that we are all human, we are all picking up  and moving on all the time.

Which brings me to my next point: My Friends.

I have been incredibly lucky to have had many great friends, most of which are still in contact to this day but most recently one of my dear friends has moved away. Actually, she will be moving from Italy to America tomorrow. She is uprooting her children and her husband to go off into the far yonder in search of a better future. A future that will be without me dropping in on her for a coffee when I want to. A future that will not involve a glass of wine at 3 in the afternoon with me just because we can. A future that will not include her coming over to my house for a hug because I am going through Chemo hell… She has gone, for her sake, for her family and for HER future. 

You see? Life goes on. 

And her leaving has made me think about all of my wonderful friends who are scattered around the world. Who have ALL made a conscious choice to leave the comfort nest and fly off to greener lands.  Who have ALL had the courage and conviction to follow their heart and GO. Because…

LIFE GOES ON.

And that’s how it should be.

And another crazy note.. they are all women. Some are mothers, some are sisters, some are daughters. And they all leave behind mothers, and sisters, and friends. So if I can give something back to you, I give you my respect, my best wishes, my love and my admiration. 

This post is dedicated to my wonderful friends who have left, who have picked up, who have faced so much and have so much to give still. And to the friends who are left behind. Who call, who send messages or flowers or texts. I love you all.

And I will be here when you need me x

For the mountains may depart, and the hills be removed; but my loving kindness shall not depart from thee

Gabriella Nenna, Kerry Waldron, Elisabeth Catuogno, Annalisa Distasi, Gabrielle Stewart, Kate Neill, Angie Greenwood, Sue Kiddie, Gemma Butler-Cooper, Amy Mortimer, Alissa Holmes, Angela Macchiaruolo, Anna Jowett, Georgie Stickles, Charlotte Buckmaster, Catherine Pitt, Charlotte Birley, Cindy Wirth, Feronia Nenna, Elodie Nemetz, Grace Stanley, Inge Van Buggenum, Jo Gillespie, Linda Martinez, Linda Otter, Lolo Yan, Maria Viscardi, Sev, Sophie Clarke, Hermien P.

Night before the Exam...

We have all been there...

The night before an exam, any exam, is always a mad mixture of emotions, tension and apprehension. I remember going over dates and details with my fellow students sitting on the floor with tea and then getting sidetracked by the latest love scandal and then "we MUST go to bed!" Only to stay wide awake staring at the ceiling...dates and details whirling around my head.

Of course later on the same feeling would creep back the night before my university entrance exam, then my driving test, job interviews, house viewings, right up to the night I was taken to hospital and told that yes I WAS giving birth in the morning... dates and details, details and dates..

Right up to the night before my first chemo...and then it all stopped. No whirling. No dates. No details. It as if some giant hand had pressed the over ride button on my cerebral washing machine. Yup...A black sock must have got in and turned my whites to grey. It was odd waking up and feeling so neutral considering what I was about to face.

And I felt it again last night, the night before the BIG SCAN. The scan that I have been waiting for, for 3 long weird months. Months in which I have felt such a range of emotions that I am not even sure if they have been all truly my own. I realise that o have been on autopilot. I have ploughed on for the sake of my family and friends and essentially for my own peace of mind.

And now I will know. The timing couldn't be better really. Throughout this whole journey my body has strangely followed the seasons..The dying off and discolouration of September, the naked and bleakness of winter when I was physically and mentally at my darkest, and now the fresh new green of Spring. And this is, dear reader, terribly cheesy I know..and I guess it may seem to verge on the contrived...but this morning I woke up with a head that was whirling: dates and details, details and dates.

Autopilot has been deactivated. I am coming in to land this fricking cancer plane and I am ready for it now. This scan will be the decider. It's a big deal. And no I am not scared at all.

Thank you all for being with me on this voyage  xxx

Let it Go...

Let it go..

And before you ask, this is not about Frozen (but we love that film...) this is about a chair. Well the beginning bit is anyway. 

So last year a friend of a very good friend of mine was flown over to sort out her stuff and clear her clutter.  This was not only necessary for practical reasons but for spiritual reasons too. My friend had been through a rather crappy time, by herself, with two small children. She needed to get rid of the past and half of her closet and all this went remarkably smoothly until she was confronted with an object that she wasn’t expecting her friend to pick-up on: the baby chair.

The chair in question was one of those wooden ones that can “grow” and change with the child thus lasting a good six years or more and this one had been the loving supporter of both her kids; and it wasn’t going without a fight. 

Her friend insisted and finally at the end of the week, just before a girl’s dinner, we all met in the square of a forgotten hilltop town and the chair was passed down to our other friend who had a baby girl. The Chair Ceremony was a big deal. The chair had been a solid, silent member of her family and now she was saying goodbye, and with it, she was recognising the hard fact that her kids were no longer little. They didn’t need the chair anymore. She had to Let Go.

Fortunately! The chair is alive and well and is much loved by a delightful little lass and so the story ends well…

Now, dear reader, what the hell has a chair got to do with me and my cervix I hear you cry!?

Nothing and everything.

Yesterday I had another check-up. This was a big one and I was pretty scared but thankfully my doctors took one look up me and smiled (euwww!) no sign of nasty Mr Cancer. But my bloods confirmed that I had started the menopausal process and that my ovaries and uterus are, well, burnt to a crisp. I will never have a period ever again THANK HEAVENS FOR THAT I SAY!

Yet, alas, I will never get pregnant again either.

I will never again eat for two (or 4..), or wear funky stretchy tops, or get heartburn or feel those little kicks! I will never again wash dinky little socks or change my child’s nappy or get puked on. Nope, never again. It’s quite a final thought.

So I have decided that I need to Let Go too. For years I have kept onto all my baby stuff in the hope that the patter of tiny feet will once again be heard. I have so much baby gear I could stock most of the Early Learning Centre and it’s all washed and scrubbed and wrapped in plastic. I have clung to it. I sniff it all occasionally…

But now the time has come to move on and clear out. I have been blessed with one amazing little boy and that is a great deal compared to some. I will enjoy every moment with him and not waste another minute thinking about the second baby that will never be. I have one. I have wonderful friends with wonderful kids too. I have my beautiful niece and nephew. I am pretty lucky.

I like to think that I am not “getting rid” of my baby stuff, I am just passing it on to babies who actually need it. 

Like the chair.

Keeping up appearances part 1

I went to an all-girls boarding school from the age of 8. 

In Cumbria.

Mark Zuckerberg was just going into first grade.

Things were a little different from what they are now and us girls didn’t really give a damn about what we looked like. We were Northern. We had scuffed knees, red noses and chapped lips (it was bloody cold). We ate like troopers: everything from porridge to Lancashire Hotpot to chip butties and tinned tomatoes and fried bread (did I mention it was fricking cold??) We didn’t worry about fat or cellulite or spots or bad hair and ragged nails. Some of us didn’t even look at a razor for months!

Until the dance with the local boys’ school was announced and all hell broke loose. The week running up to the event was a flurry of madness and preparation. Hours were spent discussing every outfit in detail and being the first to borrow so-and-so’s top or boots or jeans. Tweezers were dusted off and we would queue up to get our mono’s sorted and shaped. Suddenly we gave a damn about the acne and hair and nails and the corridors would stink of ‘Stop n’grow’, Clearasil and Veet hair removal cream, a smell that would linger for a good few weeks. The suspense and anticipation was a killer but FINALLY we would pile onto the coach and drive off into the night. It was a big deal. Who would be there? Will the teachers bugger off for a bit and leave us to it? Will this god awful strapless bra last the night? Will I get a snog at the end of it? (a snog, Dear Reader,  instantly gave the green light to ‘go out’ with the boy in question and become a steady girlfriend, thus spending the next two months writing long letters of love during Biology and hanging around the pay phone most evenings...sigh!) I would wake up with a HUGE spot, always, without fail on the morning of the dance. 

Of course most of the action happened in the last twenty minutes as the first two hours were spent just STARING at the opposite sex, scarcely daring to believe they were real until someone (usually the smallest boy) would get pushed over to the most approachable looking girl (usually me, due to the spots…) and ask if his mate could dance with my mate (sigh again!). And that’s all it took. 

What I am trying to say in a rather roundabout way is that WE DIDN’T CARE (much) about looks. This all changed much later on, when I was about 17 and went to a mixed collage and was surrounded by boys ALL THE TIME. And no, I didn’t like it. Well actually that is a lie, I DID like it because they were very funny but I felt like I needed to look half decent all the time instead of slobbing around in pyjamas. We started worrying about fat and cellulite and bad hair and spots. We started eating salad. I found my rusty razor and decided that I would just wear thicker tights.  Yet the funny thing is we would have conversations like this:

“Ugg.. God you are sooo lucky you’re thin..I am such a fat moose..”

“No you are so not, my bum is wayyy bigger than yours..”

“Guys I have no boobs, being thin is crap, you are soooo lucky”

“Do you think that if I can just squeeze here and here and not eat..”

Whilst sitting down, drinking tea and eating chocolate biscuits. Lots of them.  Those were the days…

No matter how much we complained, looking back I bet most of us would take back our 17 year old bodies in a heartbeat.  I would!

The other thing is that chemotherapy made my body go nuts and shed 15 kg in 2 months. At Christmas I weighed 56 kg. I haven’t been that weight since I was about 12 (I did talk about the chip butties and biscuits didn’t I?) and guess what? I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it because I looked like crap; nothing fitted me, my bones stuck out, my eyes were sunken and yellow and my knees looked massive compared to my skinny thighs. Flash moment! Thin? No thank you very much.

Now that I can actually eat, I am going to eat (healthy of course!) and I am going to enjoy it safe in the knowledge that I now like the skin I am in and it ain’t skin and bones.