Back in February on the eve of my mastectomy I chanced across a memorable image from our crazy wedding day, eighteen years ago.
I have no recollection of the photo being taken, but it captures something elemental - a moment of unrestrained joy, vitality and hope. It made me smile to find it - a welcome slice of light relief at a time of so much uncertainty, fear and grief. Holding it in my hands, I felt, for a very brief instant, the rush of my own youthful energy reflected back at me.
About to embark on a year of cancer treatment, I chose to pin it on our fridge door, hoping that in the challenging days ahead, the image would serve as a reminder of the vital, spirited version of myself that I felt determined to rediscover on the far side of treatment.
In the early days, it did indeed provide strength and solace. A symbol of hope - past, present and future. But as the months rolled on, the sunlight started to work its worst. The photo slowly started to fade. And as the colours bled away, it felt as if the spirit captured in the image started to slide too.
In parallel, my treatment programme started to take its toll stripping me of my energy, my optimism and my enjoyment of life. Week by week a subtle fading, a draining away of colour. Week by week a sense that my strength and mojo were slipping further and further out of reach.
One of my children commented on the photograph on our fridge a few weeks ago, announcing that it was starting to look like something from a horror movie...the fading colours turning my expression of joy into a silent scream. I could not find it in me to disagree.
But while the fading of the photo is an irreversible, permanent process, it would seem that the dulling of my vitality is not.
I recently finished my course of daily radiotherapy, albeit a little belatedly courtesy of a dose of COVID. I have now completed the three big beasts of conventional medicine’s cancer treatment protocol – surgery, chemotherapy and radiotherapy.
Although there remain two more forms of treatment which will keep me tied to the chemo suite for months to come – an immune targeted therapy aimed at blocking the uncontrolled growth which typifies aggressive HER-2 + breast cancer which lasts until March next year, and a six-monthly infusion to strengthen and reduce the chance of secondaries in my bones – I feel as if I am making progress.
And so, keen to capitalise on the good weather and a newfound sense of liberation now I have had COVID (and am presumably immune from the virus for at least the short term), I decided to throw a little impromptu gathering for some of my local friends. In so many ways, small and large, their support and kindness has been legion over the past months and I wanted to host a marking the moment, thank-you sort of evening.
The date was September 11th.
Watching some of the 20-year anniversary memorial service from New York before my friends arrived, and listening to the heart wrenching contributions from survivors, family and friends, I was struck again by the deep randomness of life. We act in life as if we have control. We plan in life as if we have control. We think in life as we are in control. And to an extent, we are. But in so many ways we are just playing at the margins. Life as we know if can be transformed in an instant, at any instant, by events that we have absolutely no control of. So it was for the 3,000 people who lost their lives on that bright morning 20 years ago. So it was for their loved ones. And so it was for me at 2.15pm on January 13th 2021 with a 5-minute call that changed my life immeasurably.
But if we are ultimately not in control of the trajectory of our lives, where does that leave us?
It leaves us with an obligation to appreciate what we have, while we have it. An obligation to live for the moment, and to love in the moment. To take nothing for granted.
And so surrounded by friends that Saturday night, and feeling free to finally hug people with some sense of abandon (oh my, how I have missed holding people this year), I felt absolutely bowled over by love.
We moved to this area only a few months before COVID hit. We had very little time to meet people and establish friendships before being locked away. My story has been that COVID and then cancer have made it really difficult to get out, meet people and put down firm roots here. And that is undoubtedly true. And yet, and yet, as I looked around me that night, I was overwhelmed by and deeply grateful for the amazing community we have around us, inspite of everything. Their support has been incredible these past months (as of course has that of my further flung friends and family - you all rock too!), and their physical presence en masse in our too-long-quiet kitchen filled me with gratitude and love and hope for the future.
My youngest daughter, Honor, commented very aptly the next morning that our celebrations had felt like the scene from Disney’s Frozen, where the gates are thrown open for a party after years of the castle being shuttered up, with no-one allowed in or out. She was spot on. After so many months of being shut away and isolated, first by COVID and then by cancer, a low immune system and a flat, dark, cold summer, I felt like Elsa, finally welcoming the light back into our house…
There’ll be actual real-life people
It’ll be totally strange
But wow am I so ready for this change.
For the first time in forever, there’ll be music, there’ll be light
For the first time in forever, I’ll be dancing through the night
(Ok, so I didn’t quite manage that, this time..)
Don’t know if I’m elated or gassy
(a notorious chemo side effect…)
But I’m somewhere in that zone
Cause for the first time in forever
We won’t be alone.
We are not through this yet. There is more treatment to come, and only time will tell if the mainstream medical ‘slice it, poison it, irradiate it’ protocol will be successful in preventing a recurrence of my cancer. We know the chances of it returning are high, and that is something I am going to need to find a way to live with going forward. I feel wrung out by the gruelling schedule of the last eight months, and know it is going to take time to fully regain my strength. I need to prioritise taking my recovery slowly, and there will certainly be many ups and downs along the way.
But throwing open our doors showed me that while my picture may be fading away, I am not. Not yet.
My vitality has taken a serious knock. But it’s still there. And I’m still here, in glorious technicolour. And that fills me with an immense joy and a deep sense of gratitude.
I don't take any of it for granted.
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