So, on Thursday I wrote the first draft of the blog below.
I was intending to take some time out to edit it yesterday, to hone my words and reflect on its sense.
But then something very unexpected happened which blew me, and my day, right off course.
Just before lunch, a bouncy little fairy in particularly cool shades arrived at my front door (well, technically she didn’t arrive at my front door, she hid in a bush..). She left a deeply special gift on my doorstep - a card and envelope containing money for 10 massages, contributed by my incredible friends. Cue much repeat sobbing and plenty of snot.
Dear, dear friends, you know who you are. And I know that many of you will be reading this. Thank you, thank you, thank you. It has taken me a full day to process, and I am still in shock. I do not know what I have done to deserve such incredible friends and such repeated generosity. Truly I don’t. But I am so deeply grateful, from the bottom of my heart. The contributions that you have all made to my life - material, practical and emotional - have made such a massive difference to me this year. I feel so privileged to have such good people supporting me and continue to feel held aloft by your love.
As I approach the end of my treatment marathon, your gift will genuinely help me to heal, allowing me to use massage to process the last 12 months and to feel my way through my recovery from cancer.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
x
PS…
Here is what I wrote on Thursday, before my gift arrived. It is still unedited but I want to get it out there today. Please forgive its rough-around-the edges-ness.
Today I went for my second massage. I was not sure what it might unleash in me this time around, if anything. But I knew that both my body and soul were craving more.
I shared with Emma how profound the impact of my first session with her had been. She asked me where I felt the emotion and my hands were drawn instantly to the space over my heart, the space where my left breast used to be. She suggested that this week I simply observe whatever came up gently, inviting me to visualise cradling the emotion in my hands, infront of my chest.
Again, the warm flannels on my feet. Sublime and sensuous. But as I lay on my front and she moved up to my back, what came up was an overwhelming sense of panic. A rising desire to snatch my breath, a feeling of suffocation, pressure in my chest. As we’d discussed, I stayed with it, holding it gently, observing, not pushing it away. I realised that on so many occasions this year as I have moved through my treatment programme I have come close to feeling real fear. But each time I have pushed and swallowed it down, knowing that I just have to grit my teeth and get through. Fear of surgery, fear of chemotherapy, fear of radiotherapy. Today, safe in Emma’s hands, I felt as if I could be really present to that fear. Allowing it to be heard. Allowing it to release. I have got through my treatments. Like peeling back another layer of the onion, I can now let that fear go.
When I turned over, I felt something very different. The panic instantly dissolved. Instead, as Emma’s hands travelled the lengths of my body, I was mindful to how each and every bit of my body has been physically damaged by treatment – my skin is still dry and papery, my nails – at one stage black and lifting - are still weak and cracking, my left arm feels heavy and powerless post surgery, my right arm is scarred from my picc line, the skin on my face is lined, red and sensitive, battered by chemo, my top lip has shrunk in on itself, my thighs are bruised from the repeated injections of targeted therapy, my stomach still marked from self-administered anti sickness injections, my scalp is still flaking from the loss of my hair.
But as Emma’s hands worked, I could feel each area of my body give way a little and release. Letting go of holding on. Touch healing, Healing touch.
At the end, we discussed what I’d experienced during the massage, and also what Emma had picked up as she worked on me. Her experience was that my right-hand side, my warrior side, felt dominant and strong. Undoubtedly it has been doing a fabulous job in protecting me. But she also said that she had felt that my left-hand side, the side that is about creativity, playfulness, spontaneity – was crying out for attention. I wept in recognition at her words. Yes, life has felt relentlessly serious this year…
A little after I’d left her, Emma left me a voice message.
She told me that she wanted me to know that throughout my treatment there had been a little robin on the windowsill, watching us. She said that she felt as if it was trying to get her attention. She said it was insistent and suggested that I look up the symbolic meaning of the tiny robin.
So I did. Nothing mentioned that they are tenacious little buggers who fight to the death…
Instead, I learnt that in many cultures robins are seen as divine messengers from someone who has died, coming from heaven to let you know that your loved one is watching over you and telling you not to worry, that you are safe.
They are also all about determination and perseverance and trying to ‘keep on keeping on’ through the cold, harsh months. But according to many myths and legends, the robin is also a sign of transformation, growth, renewal and change, a sign that however deep the winter, spring will always return. In many cultures, the presence of a robin is taken as a sign that you are entering a new positive chapter in your life, an indicator of rebirth and new life. Better times are on their way and the robin wants to you embrace laughter, happiness, joy, vitality and beauty as you move forwards.
Mum, I feel your reassuring presence alongside me, as I start to re-awaken my left side and move towards my very own spring. Thank you little robin.
x
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