Four years to the day that I got my life-shattering diagnosis, I logged in to work and was greeted by a message from my manager saying 'Happy Flapjack Day', as she had decided that day shall henceforth be known. There's a reason: four years and two days earlier I'd not been feeling great for a couple of weeks, and had got very bloated very quickly, I mentioned one afternoon that I hadn't even had a tiny nibble of the flapjack I'd been given earlier that day. As my manager said then, that was concerningly Not Like Me, and rang enough alarm bells for her that she urged me to see my GP. I faithfully went in for a consultation, which included blood tests for various things, and got a phone call the next lunchtime asking me if I could get to the surgery as the doctor thought we should speak in person. Flapjack will now forever hold that association for both of us!
I've written previously about what followed so won't repeat the whole sorry story here.* But early November weighs heavily on my mind nowadays. I know some of my nearest and dearest have the day the GP told me it looked like ovarian cancer as 'The Day' - but for me that's the start of a whole series of Days.
This time last year I was struggling with the memories - somehow having made it to three years from diagnosis felt incredibly difficult. I'd had to come to terms in the April with the news that my cancer had come back after treatment - we'd known it would (sadly that's a given for Stage IV ovarian cancer), but that didn't make it any easier to cope with - and being allergic to all the chemo drugs added a whole new level of stress.
Having 'failed' chemo, with the oncologist giving up after four attempts, none of which had managed to get more than a small amount of the drug into me, we were very concerned about what next. A PARP inhibitor, was the answer, and we'd have to see how well I tolerated it and to hope it worked. Like many others, I found the exhaustion, well, exhausting in the first few months - and combined with extra responsibilities at work, it was Tough. Mentally, physically, emotionally I was completely wiped out. And this began the downward spiral that lasted several months.
This year, though, is a totally different story. I've been on this drug for 14 months now and it seems to be working beautifully and my quality of life is excellent. We know the day will come when it stops working, but for now all is good. I'm still working, and am able to kayak, walk, go geocaching, and even (gasp!) start running again! Whereas last year the entire summer was lost to chemo, hospital visits, and anxiety, this year I've had a couple of wonderful holidays, a lovely long weekend abroad, and am planning another. I have the focus and energy to do the things I want both at work and in my leisure time, and above all I have HOPE!
While I'm not brave enough to hope that I'll see either of my children graduate - that's still over 18 months away, so feels a bit far - it no longer feels like an impossible dream. And in the meantime, I'm getting to see them spread their wings and start growing into their wonderful adult selves. I'm hoping for a bit more time in my job - there's a huge change coming in 2 years and I want to see it through - or at the very least have things far more prepared than they currently are. And above all, I hope to enjoy many more good times with my friends and family, showing and receiving love with the people who are so special to me.
I will keep talking about death and mortality, as for me that's an important part of coming to terms with my prognosis, and also of helping me focus on the positives of the present. I know that my family and friends aren't always comfortable with this, but hope they understand that this isn't me 'giving up', it's not me passively accepting my fate, but is actually me embracing my life and not living in fear of the unspeakable. I hope that when I get to the point that there isn't any effective treatment for my disease, that we'll be able to talk honestly about what that means and how I'll want to die. But for now, I'm living, and my life is filled with hope. And this weekend I might even make - and eat - flapjack!
* PSA: to anyone with ovaries (or who loves someone with ovaries!) - please familiarise yourself with the symptoms of ovarian cancer. It's sometimes called 'the silent killer' because the signs are easily missed, but if discovered early, the chances of long-term survival are so much better.
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