The Fat Lady Loses Her Voice

Regular readers of this blog will know that earlier this year my boyfriend was diagnosed with cancer.

It was all very sudden and very shocking – malignant melonoma (skin cancer) that had gone into his brain.

There are several events from that time that I will never forget. The day we were told Steve’s dizziness and nausea were being caused by a brain tumour. The long yet strangely peaceful afternoon in the hospital chapel whilst he underwent brain surgery. The evening in the recovery unit, post operation, high on relief (me) and morphine (him). The subsequent cancer diagnosis and the silent drive home. And then there was the day Steve was given his prognosis.

“You have one to two months if you don’t have radiotherapy, possibly one to two years if you do.”

We both sat on the end of the bed and cried.

To me that was the day the light was turned out.

No matter how hard I tried to be positive, the finality of the doctor’s words meant that life became a long dark tunnel, with no glimmer of hope at the end.

But Steve refused to give up.

He went on the internet and researched the links between diet and miracle cancer recoveries and embarked upon a radical overhaul of his lifestyle.

To give you some idea of just how radical an overhaul this was, pre-cancer he was a hard living actor with Ronnie Wood as his lifestyle guru. On our first date we went out for “a couple of drinks” at lunch time and had to be chucked out of the pub at closing time.

But now it was out with the cigarettes, merlot and fry-ups and in with the broccoli, green tea and algae.

He went through four weeks of radiotherapy and lost his hair. But his skin started to glow and his energy picked up.

He swapped long nights in the pub for day trips to Holland & Barratt - when he sneezes he actually rattles with all the supplements he is taking.

Then he went back to work and is currently in a play at the National.

Life went on, but for me at least there was a numbness to it, an awful feeling of apprehension; a life ruled by ‘when‘ not ‘if’.

But yesterday Steve went for his three monthly check-up and the doctor he saw gave us a new set of words to hang our lives on.

“Your body is completely cancer free. The primary tunour has gone and there is no reason at all it will ever come back.”

We both sat on the end of the bed and cried.

But this time they were tears of hope, not despair.

The light has been turned back on and now all I can see are possibilites.

They say it ain’t over till the fat lady sings – and sometimes, like today, the fat lady loses her voice.

Notes From the Cancer Waiting Room

Yesterday I went shopping for net curtains (rock ‘n’ roll, baby!). I hadn’t planned to go shopping for net curtains (I told you it was rock ‘n’ roll). I was in my local shopping centre and walking past a branch of Linens Direct and the urge to buy some new net curtains suddenly overcame me.

So I went in, chose some nets with a very natty design and asked to buy some. Then the shop assistant asked me what size I would like.

Now I don’t know about you, but I’m not the kind of person who keeps the measurements of all of my windows engraved upon my heart, so I took a wild stab in the dark and told her that Iwanted net curtains with a 36 inch drop.

When I got home I discovered that in actual fact my windows have a 48 inch drop.

I now have half-mast net surtains for every room in the house.

I briefly pondered putting them up in the hope that my neighbours would think it was some kind of new trend for ‘barely there’ window dressing, but came to the conclusion that they would probably just declare me insane and so my new, made-to-measure-and-therefore-non-refundable net curtains remain languishing in their bag.

Initially I’m afraid I didn’t see the funny side at all and spent a good hour huffing and puffing about the house wondering if I could somehow stretch the net or shrink the windows.

Then, flicking through a notepad, I found the following, written one rainy day in April while I was waiting for my boyfriend in the radiotherapy waiting room at our local hospital. I had completely forgotten I had written it so it was like reading it anew and, as soon as I’d finished, it made me laugh my head off at my stressing over net curtains. If there is something silly that you’ve been stressing about today I hope it has the same effect on you…

Notes From the Cancer Waiting Room

I’m sitting in the radiotherapy waiting room and despite the sheets of rain sliding down the window, I wish I were outside. Death’s calling cards are all around me – in the sunken cheeks, translucent skin, bald heads and hacking coughs.

The silence expands. Everyone waiting, waiting for what?

But then a wheelchair breaks and laughter dazzles the room like sunlight. We are all in this together after all.

The silence filters back but this time it is accompanied by gentle, knowing smiles and nods. I resolve that when I leave this room I will Live and I will Love.

Cancer: Death’s calling card or Life’s wake-up call?