Lately I’ve
been struggling to finish any of my attempts at new blog posts, as when I
re-read them I sound whiney.
No-one
wants to sounds whiney. Nor it is doubtless interesting to read my grumpy and
dejected ‘woe-is-me’ musings. I have had that the famous saying ‘If you haven’t got anything nice to say,
better to say nothing at all,’ playing on repeat in my head. I have
therefore kept my silence lately.
But,
finally, I think I’ve turned a corner...again. Another upwards stretch in my strange
rollercoaster, up-down journey through the Badlands of chemotherapy.
Some of you
will perhaps have grown up with the adage:
‘God grant me the grace to accept the things
I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can
And the wisdom to know the difference.’
At various
points in my life, usually times of challenge and crisis, I have come back to
these words, to try and work out what I need to accept, and what I can, and
should, attempt to change.
As things
stand, in recent weeks I have been compiling a long mental list of things I
must accept. The battles that are not worth fighting.
My shortlist
of things I must ‘accept’ consists of items both mundane and significant, for
example:
-
That
the metallic taste in my mouth, common to many chemotherapy patients, is not
going away. It used to come and go, but now it stays. I am stuck with this
until the end of treatment and beyond. Let’s say three more months to be realistic.
(Two of treatment and one for good measure). I miss tasting food and wine
properly. Roll on July.
-
That
I have to wear gloves in most parts of my house and definitely outside. Tingly
fingers and the nerve damage that such ‘tingling’ represents is not to be taken
lightly. I may look like a lunatic wearing my woollen mittens to chop
courgette, but it’s better than the alternative.
-
That
arguing with my toddler daughter about what she wants to wear each day is not
time or energy well spent. If she wants to wear a pink tutu, under a yellow princess
dress, on top of red trousers so be it. Any who’s to say that head-to-toe navy
and white polka-dots from your socks to your jacket and underpants won’t catch
on as a trend. Maybe she knows something I don’t?
-
That
there will be at least 4-6 days every fortnight where I am no use to man nor
beast. I certainly cannot be left in charge of my children. Nor can I be relied
upon to feed myself. Nor am I capable of framing simple sentences. I am a shell
of a human being, and that sucks big style.
-
That
my next holiday in the sunshine will require stoma-friendly clothing. Despite
years of continued exercise to counter my love of chocolate and cake, bikinis
are no longer my faithful friends. Swimsuits all the way.
-
That
I have 4 more chemo cycles to go. Each likely to progress in difficulty as the
side effects accumulate and my body creaks and complains at the recurrent
stressing of its systems and functions. Am dreading each one.
The list of
course goes on and on. I could make it trivial, or profound. Yet the fact
remains that these are things I must accept and live with. For now.
The
challenge, of course, is to accept such facts with grace. To silence the devilish
voice in my head that occasionally pipes up to say ‘It isn’t fair’ and ‘Why me?’
Fortunately, on my odyssey through the poisonous seas
and choppy waves of chemo, I have encountered many positive role models. Individuals who personify
wonderful values and qualities that I wish to successfully emulate. They manage
not only to endure but to thrive despite challenging circumstances, perhaps not
always with ‘grace,’ but certainly stoicism. British stoicism.
This is
more than the stiff upper-lip of bygone eras and boarding schools. This is the
contagious flame of optimism and survival that says, ‘All will be well’ and ‘I am
grateful for all that I have’ regardless of my predicament.
I have not
yet fully mastered this sentiment. At times I can feel it and articulate it loudly.
Yet at others moments I fail. More practice needed I fear.
And what of
‘courage’ to change? Change is often a close bedfellow of ‘anxiety,’ or ‘fear
of the new and different’. But change is
not my enemy. I have rarely feared the new or different. In today’s world ‘change’
is a constant. Better to live with it, and to adapt, than to fight the
inevitable.
The only change
for which I foresee a genuine need for strength and perhaps bravery, is in my
quest to give up sugar. So long have the hallowed purple wrappers of our most
famous chocolatier been my friends. So long have I lent on that friendly yellow
cartoon bear, that bedecks wondrous rubbery, gelatinous morsels of every colour
and shape, for solace and a quick fix. The fight to give such items up fills me
both with emotional and psychological terror. (I’m talking about Cadburys and Haribo in case you find my language a
little obscure).
The marketing
companies have done a thorough job on me. So closely is that purple foil
associated with my emotional wellbeing, that it have become a default option
for celebration, comfort and commiseration. I am not sure how well equipped I
am to rewire my brain and reposition it as ‘the enemy.’
I am split
between feeling that ‘a little of what
you fancy does you good’ and the certain knowledge that this is one area in
which I will struggle with simple moderation.
I know for
a fact that I do not have an addictive personality. I can gamble once or twice a
year on the National or the Derby, and win or lose I feel no compulsion to do
it again. The same applies to many other vices; I can pick them up and put them
down with little consequence. Lucky me.
Yet for me,
and many others, sugar is different. The mental and psychological associations
are so deeply ingrained that it will take significant work to erase those
grooves in my psyche and brain. From early childhood sugar is used to reward,
to cajole, to comfort. I see myself repeating this pattern with my own
children. Yet a recent article* I read highlighted the fact that processed
sugar sets off the same reactions in the brain as an infant’s response to their
mother’s milk. Pure joy and comfort defined in neural and hormonal pathways. No
wonder we get hooked, and over years those associations deepen and grow.
But for the
sake of my own health, and that of my family, it is a fight I can and will take
on, once chemotherapy is over. The link between refined sugar, the damage it
causes in the body, and the chain of reactions it can set off is irrefutable. I
am no trained scientist, yet I understand enough to read and comprehend the compelling
body of evidence. Sugar of the refined, processed kind feeds and accelerates
cancer and fuels damaging inflammation. In this instance, less is definitely
more.
And so I
will make the necessary changes. Just not yet. I have enough on my hands for now.
Wisdom tells me that I should make the change, but that to do it now will
almost certainly end in failure. The body and mind can only cope with so much
at any one time. Simply dealing with and processing toxic, cancer-fighting
chemicals both physically and mentally is enough. For now.
And on that
note, with the spring sunshine outside, and my body once more back to some
semblance of strength, I reckon can find the grace to accept my limitations…
for now.
For now, I
will find the grace to accept my lot. The grace to thank the wondrous NHS, which,
for all its many issues, is providing me with the means to prolong my life and
to reduce the chance of recurrence. I will find the grace and strength to
take on my remaining chemo cycles whilst focusing on the bigger picture; the
phenomenal and immeasurable blessing of having loving family and friends around
me. What is a few more months of intermittent misery when weighed against the
chance enjoy more of the wonderful world we inhabit and to see my children grow
up?
So I shall
cease my whining. Bring on cycle 9, bring on the swimsuits and bring on the
baking-soda gargles to appease my metallic mouth. Amen to that.
*Source: The
Week (although you can’t see the article unless you subscribe. Sorry!)
