Who am I and where am I going? aka “Woman, Interrupted”

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This might be a long post as I’ve been feeling a little philosophical today.  Possibly brought on by my husband who, in his CFS role attended a fatality nearby yesterday, and thinking that who knows when things are going to be over for you.  Possibly brought on by a fellow breast cancer network member’s discussion over words and their meaning that I read at 5am this morning when, as usual, I wasn’t sleeping, and that awful, awful term used for breast cancer, “a journey”, .  More than likely, a bit of both, with some other stuff thrown into the mix just to churn it up.

For me, words have always been important – their shape, their meaning, their sound…words, wonderful words.  For me breast cancer has certainly not been a “journey”.  I’ve disliked that euphemism ever since diagnosis (hadn’t thought about it before that).  For me, a journey has positive overtones and I’m not finding an awful lot positive about this at the moment – although that may come.  It certainly has been a life experience.  But I call it what it is – cancer.  Is it a death sentence?  That I don’t know, yet.  According to the surgeon, it is almost certainly not and the torture at times being inflicted on my body is supposed to make that more certain.  However, it has been for some around me.   But then, life is a death sentence and you can be driving down the road, doing the right thing and suddenly another car flies out of nowhere and you are gone.  Maybe, you were perfectly healthy, maybe not.  But your friends and family will still be left wanting and wondering.  One of the most difficult things I find about cancer is being taken out of time and place.  It is all consuming.  Three months ago, I was planning our summer holidays, then “WHAM“!  I felt perfectly healthy until the cancer was treated and my/our world tilted on it’s axis.  Who am I and what meaning do I have in my life? – at least the “my life” that I want to recognise.  And how will I shape that life back to something real for me once this is done; assuming that it is ever done?  I really resent the time it is taking from my life and my family’s lives and the impact it will have in the short and the long-term.  I resent the fact that the person who has never been happy without a book in hand has only been able to read one book in 4 weeks.  Will I still be able to be the weird mum who jumps on the skateboard or climbs the ropes over Taronga (almost ended in disaster, that one)?  And when do I stop feeling like an invalid?…participating in the world from the sidelines because I can’t do this or stay awake for that.  I can only hope that it has some positives in the end as any true life experience should.

But I know that someone, out of the blue, never made it home to her family or friends last night, through no fault of her own, and there are many variations of those someones out there.  I’m still here in whatever shape or form that currently resembles.

…And my daughter’s friend’s mum saw me this morning and pulled over to say she’d heard my news and was I okay, which was lovely.

…And a gorgeous, bright, happy bunch of flowers arrived this afternoon from my work colleagues and made me smile when I needed it.

…And generous strangers have my back (because they’re doing it, too) on the online network when I can’t sleep in the early hours of the morning.

…And my wonderful family are struggling through this with me.

It still doesn’t help me to recognise myself or my direction but I suppose, as long as I’m heading somewhere and have some control over what that might be, I hope I will have some say in who I become, even if it’s not who I was.