The Reward is the Journey

Cancer has no respect.  She cares not at all about plans or dreams. She barges in whenever she pleases and takes pleasure in doing so with only the minimum of warning.   She has made her presence known once more... This patient knows her body well.  The unwelcome warning signs were recognised and acted upon.  Fast.  There is an action plan.  Boom. Cancer doesn't like a plan.  Cancer is disorganised and chaotic.  This patient has resources aplenty.  Cancer is to be pushed to the max, and hopefully zapped into the middle distance.  

Cancer doesn't play by the rules.  She plays dirty.  She defies those things that feel to make sense.  She arrives as if from nowhere and demands to be seen.  She can only be taken seriously.  She shouts loudly drowning out any protestations and sets the agenda.  She refuses to negotiate and drives the hardest bargain. And so a new phase is entered.  Not a door anyone would wish to open, but one through which countless souls have travelled before us.  Across the threshold friendly faces, armed with expert knowledge await.  Paclitaxel administered weekly is the weaponry with which this battle will be fought.   Also known by its brand name Taxol, paclitaxel is a potent cancer-fighting drug originally derived from the bark of the Pacific yew tree (Taxus brevifolia nutt), a small to medium-sized tree that occupies Pacific coastal forests from southwestern Alaska to California.   Development of Paclitaxel started...

As another month passes, I notice how my mind seeks to organise itself around the grief I will doubtless remain conscious of for a long time yet. It comes and goes, ebbing and flowing. Arising sometimes predictably and at other times, quite without warning. These days, it is a gentle sadness. A recognition that she is no longer. That we will never again greet one another in that old, familiar way.  Life, of course, continues. Change envelops me. And my mind does its best to keep up. My mind, I can now see, is working over time to ensure I stay alive - not in the physical sense, but at an emotional level. My mind is capable of keeping me on track and does this by organising my thoughts now that the shock has subsided and I adjust to the reality of my loss. I no longer think about her morning, noon and night. I recall memories at will, and am pleased to do so. They give me comfort. I am haunted no more. The way the mind manages grief over time means that w...

There is a sudden surreal realisation that life has gone on  with little notice of how your life has been forever altered. John Pete Time moves, and passes.  Things settle, and change.  I feel as though the change has been taking place somewhere deep within me.  I have a shifted outlook.  My reality has altered.  Profoundly.  And with it, my perspective is somehow different. The capacity to grieve is as much a part of us as the capacity to love. These changes are hard to pinpoint.  They are intangible, yet perceptible each and every moment that I choose to 'tune in'.  I have a different 'take' on the loss.  It is somehow no longer so immediate, or raw, yet always close by. Each person's grief journey is as individual as a fingerprint or a snowflake.   Earl Grollman I carry it with me, but have found a way of holding it close without feeling consumed or restricted by it.  Like the many little t...

...finding joy in the ordinary; t aking pleasure in the simple things, like finding myself smiling whilst walking to the underground station. At the beginning of the year, I made a note to myself, to allow myself enough time to walk, when the weather permits, rather than getting the bus.   More often than not, the weather is not so inclement that I cannot walk.  It is just that I tend to leave insufficient time, thus robbing myself of the opportunity to spend 15-20 minutes outdoors before descending onto the Northern line. The walk, whilst not the most interesting, creates a spaciousness.  It is an opportunity to shift gears, and turn my attention inward, to notice where it is that I am at that particular moment.  Taking some time to see the sunshine, and feel the breeze on my face is like a dose of 'contentment'.   There are few people for whom the longer daylight hours do not positively impact.  At this time of year, it is not uncom...

Charlotte is preparing for her second round of this second chemo series.  The nausea came, and was contained with super strength antiemetics.  Whilst energy levels and breathlessness serve to remind us of the alien's antics, the schedule permits some important reprieve and I have been delighted to spend some very chilled out time with someone who truly understands the meaning and value of 'rest'.   She remains one of the greatest teachers I've ever had.  And I've had some goodens.  Her humble acceptance of life on life's terms continues to inspire me.  Her humour through it all never ceases to amaze me.  It's contagious and my own life is injected with meaning by her exceptional wisdom, strength and hope.   And then there's her fortitude.  This week's activity schedule included a breathlessness workshop and a session on the turbo trainer...  Charlotte remains an athlete.  She knows her body and she respects her dynamic limi...

There is so much that is so wrong about chemo on so many levels. This dawned on me as I sat opposite my best friend, already far more comfortable and better prepared for what was about to happen than I could even pretend to be. I didn't need to:  I was there, but I was nothing more than a welcome addition rather than anything essential to this morning's proceedings... We arrived on time. We were not the first, and the nurse's instructions (not to mention the 'q word', as it was, at that point, fairly quiet) were not without good reason:  in the three and a half hours we spent on the day unit, it progressively filled up. Soon there was not an empty chair in the house, and this was, it was very clear, just a normal day for all concerned.  There is something about this end of medicine that is (from where I was sitting, as undiagnosed but not, I would say, unaffected, observer) strangely comforting. Or at least resilience promoting. Everyone is getting...