11 months: Cancer Diary

Taya Reid
Jun 30
4 min read

The anaesthetist and I chat in that upside down Spider-man way, theatre staff buzzing around my head in their dizzying efficiency.

'That was my boss.' He's referring to a doctor who came to put in my canula before he'd arrived. 'I didn't know who she was! Was I rude to her?'

'Only a little bit.'

'I was, wasn't I?'

'You just seemed... confused.'

'I've never met her before. I was thinking why are you here? This is my patient.'

'I think she was trying to help you so you didn't have to rush.'

'Oh man. I am in trouble.'

We laugh, and laugh and laugh, and then it's black.

I have surgery twice. The second time because there are additional cancerous nodes found in the first biopsy. It's a game. Will the second surgery find more cancer? If yes then BOO, cancer. If not then BOO, had surgery for no reason. Turns out there was more. So... yay?

I can't breathe, can't exhale. I try to pick apart the problem, what does it feel like? How is it possible? You take a breath in, and out, except it's just not working somehow. It wakes me up, gasping. I'm not cardio fit but my job is to chase kids up and down sand dunes. I shouldn't be gasping at a stand still. I try to ignore it, explain it to myself and others in a neat circle which always resolves itself back to "it must be anxiety". The heart palpitations too. They're not new, surely, it's because I no longer have a left breast, it just feels different, the chest wall has changed.

On a rainy afternoon we visit the Wall of Tears. When the list of names becomes visible to me through the arthouse door I recoil. The physical size of it. 18,457 children. Some have faces attached, stories about the mundane activities they were doing when they were murdered, or descriptions of their unrequited dreams. A pilot. A teacher. A dancer. Some massacred with their families, others leaving behind mothers and fathers stricken with pain. Newborns. Toddlers. Teens. People weep openly. We reunite with our own babies outside.

The nurse on duty after my mastectomy helps me order Uber Eats. I'm high as a kite and somehow have it in my head that I desperately need teriyaki chicken. It ends up going cold on the tray because obviously I'd be sick if I ate it, but in my drugged up mind I'm so glad to have it just in case. The surgery team gather at the foot of my bed to report on their success. I imagine them just lobbing my boob in the bin. I wonder who did it. They tell me it weighed 1.5kg and we all laugh. I've lost weight.

It's hard not to think of life in absolutes. Some days it feels like we might have reached the end, it's so bleak. The festering rot of the Trump and Hanson gang and their poison. The sweltering planet. The danger everywhere - paedophiles, pandemics, crystal meth, social media, cancer. Famine and genocide carried out under our noses. I look at my children and think I'm so sorry for bringing you here. I swear when I was a kid the sky was bluer, the rainbows more vivid. We could play, we could relax. Not everything was on a tightrope.

But then, we have those moments. The puppy running off his sillies at the beach. Everyone together, no place to be. Bleary eyed 6am pancakes, marshmallows balanced on babycinos. Pausing to look at a big digger because that's our obsession this week, patting donkeys, sleeping in. Giggling fits, the camping mattress laid out for movie night. A wedding, a football match, a bird in the bath, an assembly item, a school disco.

So which one is it? Is life hopeless or perfect?

The window is foggy, my chest is tight, someone waves at me from inside the school gate. I'm indicating, I'm trying to check my blind spot through the misty glass, inching out in the rain and bedlam of drop-off traffic. There's a car there suddenly, the woman driving it leans on her horn like I've committed murder. Her face is thunderous despite the fact she obviously sped here and caused this. She's late, got that look about her. Fuck off, I want to scream. I'm doing the best I can.

The cardiologist announces the results of my tests like a cool breeze. A weakening of the heart, lifelong medication. Is he being casual because he wants me to remain upbeat? Or is he just a cunt? It doesn't matter, bad news is received with resignation now. Oh, you need me to carry around three elephants in a car? Sure. I have to have my ears amputated? Okay. My skin is going to turn to scales? Right then. It was the chemo, of course, the Red Devil. I'm hardly surprised. One look at that shit and you know it's got to do something heinous. The person injecting it into you seems to be decked out in full hazmat protection, and yet it's going directly into your vein. They tell you the risks, but you never imagine they mean you. We need to tell you about a small risk of damage to your heart, though it's very rare. I was probably looking at my phone or staring out the window when they told me. It's not like you can jump out of your chair and say you're not doing it. Oh no thanks then, I'll just go to the pub in that case. You can't make a choice. That would be crazy.

The wall sweeps around the entire room, the vastness of the names, a sea of would-be adults, real people who never got to grow up and pull out in front of anyone, be rude to their boss or order teriyaki chicken. Never got to take their heart meds in the morning and get on with their day.

B wakes up in the dark next to me, her little body coming to life in stretchy slow motion.

'Mama. Pancake?'

'Yes baby, pancake time.'