One year, one month: Cancer Diary
The day after my final radiation treatment I jumped in my brand new, 4-day old car, picked up my 99-year-old Nanna and my mum and, with B, we had lunch in Kings Park. After the appropriate amount of duck watching, playground climbing and ice cream it was time for school pick-up, so we headed home. As we travelled north on Thomas Road a car turning right onto a side street lunged out in front of us. I slammed on the brakes but couldn’t avoid the collision, a deafening crescendo of glass and metal splintering in the sun.
As I took a long trip around the block to return to the scene I screamed and swore and called the dumb bitch a dumb bitch. By the time we limped into a parking bay next to the offending vehicle I was quiet, and, seeing the look of horror and guilt on the drivers’ face I reached out and embraced her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought I had… I thought.. Are you alright? Your grandmother! Oh my god. Your baby!’ She pointed at the side of her car that mine had destroyed on impact. ‘That’s where my baby normally sits.’
It was a beautiful day. We sat waiting for Tim to pick us up and then waited again for a reputable tow truck. We played with B and gave Nanna sips of water. We took stock. Alive, all of us. Uninjured. Magpies inspected us. Flies landed on our arms. We existed.
When I finished radiation I refused to ring the bell. I had an appointment straight after that, and then a phone call with the oncologist. I have trouble breathing in the morning before taking three tablets to help my heart cope since the Doxorubicin damaged it. I have a monthly 14-guage implant needle and a nightly hormone blocker tablet. I am checked frequently for liver and kidney function, bone density, cholesterol. I am in medical menopause, crippled twice or three times a day with intense hot flashes. I have hair that makes me look like a fucking moron. I have burnt, deformed skin on the flat side of my chest and a tight, itchy scar that throbs and stings at random. I have a high risk of lymphedema.
Last week I developed a terrible cough and was told I couldn’t safely take a “real” cough medicine. Because this is what happens. You’re brought to the brink of death with treatments, then told not to have anything that actually feels good or makes you happy. I wanted a GLP-1 pass to lose some weight easily, the baby weight that never got a chance to escape before my body went through the mill. But no, I can’t have that until I get a grasp on a new drug (another two tablets a day) that makes me constantly sick to my stomach. Maybe I’ll lose weight anyway since I’m now married to the toilet.
I didn’t ring the bell. One, because I’m not done, and never will be, and secondly, because a different brand of evil has emerged. Being at the “end” of my treatment, a whole new set of fears have sprung forth. That’s it, that’s all they can do for me. If it comes back, and believe me it feels more like when it comes back, what are they gonna do then? It’ll be stage four lights out. Because that’s what happens, right? I’m only 43, many years left for reoccurrence. That’s not my pessimism; they’re high risk facts laid out by the oncology team and the reason I’m “eligible” for the poo drug. Lucky lucky me.
I’m happy to be alive, but I want my fucking new car, in one piece, to enjoy, not smashed up on the side of the road.
I also don't want to be reassured anymore or told how fortunate I am or how much worse things could be. Things are really shit. It's allowed to be shit, I'm allowed to be annoyed and sad and angry at what's gone down. I'm alowed to hate it, hate my appearance, hate my new normal of hospitals and constant appointments. None of that means I don't value being here with my children or the sky open wide, the ocean at my doorstep, the abundance of food and friends and freedoms I enjoy. I appreciate it all. But cancer still destoryed some parts of that, and it's okay to mourn them.
This feeling will be replaced as always by one that’s slightly better, slightly worse. This is a life and that’s what happens when you have one. I’ll turn 43 tomorrow cured of breast cancer, whatever that means. The aftermath is not pretty, but I'll take the W with a tentative nod.
All I ask is that if one day in years to come that cure is overturned and I’m terminal, there’s enough time to enjoy a few more sunsets and take up smoking again.
Taya. x
Taya Reid is a writer and photographer working and living in Walyup on Whadjuk Noongar Boodja
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