Had a bit of a nasty shock the other day; heard a good friend of mine was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. This was the lady who often gave me a place of refuge away from the hospital, when I was having radiotherapy, many many years ago. I don’t know why I thought she’d be immune but I did. She’s doing well and the prognosis is excellent, as they seem to have got to it very early on. That’s all good news. But… Well… Excuse the language but…bloody cancer!

Note to cancer: I hate your stinking guts.

The other day I was chatting to an acquaintance and we were comparing notes on what it’s like to need a walking stick, weird medications etc. A reasonable way into the conversation she said, “I didn’t know you have cancer.” She’s known me for close to three years but I guess she entered my life after the diagnosis. I don’t talk about it a lot (don’t want to bore the pants off people) so I guess she never picked it up. Of course, I’ve confused and bemused her because I don’t look as though I have the disease.

Here’s the thing: many people who have metastatic/stage four/can’t-be-cured cancer, don’t look ill. We live in an era when medication still can’t cure secondary cancer but it can certainly maintain and control it; sometimes for a short time but often for quite a number of years.
We usually still have our hair.
We don’t look very frail although we need to be a little more careful with our bones.
We still have “off” days, usually due to the medication we’re on, but we don’t get sick like someone on chemo…at least, not until we are on chemo.
The medication sometimes has a strange effect on our senses – particularly taste and smell. (My deepest regret is that coffee no longer tastes like ambrosia.)
Medical costs can mount up so we sometimes feel as though we’re a financial burden to our loved ones. However, the treatments, scans, blood tests etc are keeping us well and alive, so…
We live as normally as possible, with the knowledge that the beast within could go on a terminal rampage at any time.

(I am extremely grateful for the wonderful medical team looking after me and for the excellent care I’m getting. I’m glad that I’m still well and doing fine. But, oh coffee, how I miss you.)

Sometimes we wish we could be like the others who actually look sick and are on chemo. Why? Because most of them are going to finish their treatment, recover their energy and well-being and get back to a healthy life. Meanwhile, we keep going to the oncology unit every month, or every two months, and we see the sick-looking ones come and go and new ones come, and us stage 4s know there’s no reprieve. We’re part of the furniture, part of the routine, part of the crew until the beast goes nuts and we join the sick ones, hooked up to their infusion bags. Only, when they attend us, the nurses look a little more grim, a little more determined and a little sad, until we learn that there’s one less of our number… until the new recruit signs in.

See, that’s the trouble with the Big C, we keep getting new recruits, new members of the C club. Have I mentioned how much I hate this disease? It’s (excuse the language) a bloody mongrel.

Dear readers, stay well out there. Oh, and please give my love to coffee when you see it. I really miss it.