December 2015, Chorley, Thornton-Cleveleys
“Have I gone mad?
I'm afraid so, but let me tell you something, the best people usually are.”
Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
Almost a month had passed since my first GP consultation. The delays with misdiagnosis, with antibiotics meant that we hit the Christmas holidays which meant further delays. Then of course there was the initial delay of me not realising the lump was an urgent matter.
"Its dangerous to self-diagnose mum." said my youngest son Mike. Prophetic words.
29th December found me at Chorley hospital where I had an appointment with a consultant. He took one look and arranged an ultrasound that afternoon.
The ultrasound was difficult as I couldn't bear anything touching the lump. It was sore, grumpy and sensitive. Perhaps it knew they were about to blow its cover.
The consultant showed me the black-tar mass on screen and swiftly arranged an MRI scan.
"Is 2nd of Jan okay with you?"
"Errrm yes"
Alice fell down the rabbit hole, so fast, so disorientating, so shocking.
My partner and I left the hospital. We knew.
My brother and I knew in the still semi-light of the back bedroom as I lay on my therapy machine.
"What do you think" I asked as he felt the lump on my leg.
"Do you think it's malignant?" I asked through the shadows.
"Hmm, yes I do."
We both felt the same. The night darkness descended full of contemplation.
The weather over Christmas seemed symbolic. It never stopped raining and not the drizzly stuff, the real chuck-it-down rain that makes you not even consider going outside. I loved having a houseful and totally loved having my family around me.
This Christmas felt heavy too and tiring. The burden of knowing. The body sick and tired. The anxiety exhausting.
New Year's Eve arrived and my 3 sons, daughter-in-law to be and parents had returned to London.
The rest of us weren't up to big celebrations so we settled in together with nibbles, drinks and Jools Holland's Hootenany. Mr Y drank and drank and drank; consumed with his own thoughts.
Was he falling down that rabbit hole too?
What was he to say? What was I to say?
Cancer's not the topic for New Year's Eve; it's full of optimism for the year ahead.
Cancer feels dark, heavy, menacing; no place in a world full of merriment and Auld Lang Syne. No place anywhere.
I felt the air hang heavy with unspoken fears for the next year.
Mine were....How bad is it? If it is IT has it spread? Would this be the last New Year?
Empty hollow throat-grabbing fear. I walked to the beach.
I wanted to be alone. I didn't want to be alone.
What will this year bring? I stared into the inky horizon and prayed on the shoreline. Fireworks filled the skies with joy, excitement, optimism as the clock struck 12 and way below those rejoicing skies I carried home a huge bag of heavy, hollow solitary darkness.
Happy New Year.
"Its dangerous to self-diagnose mum." said my youngest son Mike. Prophetic words.
29th December found me at Chorley hospital where I had an appointment with a consultant. He took one look and arranged an ultrasound that afternoon.
The ultrasound was difficult as I couldn't bear anything touching the lump. It was sore, grumpy and sensitive. Perhaps it knew they were about to blow its cover.
The consultant showed me the black-tar mass on screen and swiftly arranged an MRI scan.
"Is 2nd of Jan okay with you?"
"Errrm yes"
Alice fell down the rabbit hole, so fast, so disorientating, so shocking.
My partner and I left the hospital. We knew.
My brother and I knew in the still semi-light of the back bedroom as I lay on my therapy machine.
"What do you think" I asked as he felt the lump on my leg.
"Do you think it's malignant?" I asked through the shadows.
"Hmm, yes I do."
We both felt the same. The night darkness descended full of contemplation.
The weather over Christmas seemed symbolic. It never stopped raining and not the drizzly stuff, the real chuck-it-down rain that makes you not even consider going outside. I loved having a houseful and totally loved having my family around me.
This Christmas felt heavy too and tiring. The burden of knowing. The body sick and tired. The anxiety exhausting.
New Year's Eve arrived and my 3 sons, daughter-in-law to be and parents had returned to London.
The rest of us weren't up to big celebrations so we settled in together with nibbles, drinks and Jools Holland's Hootenany. Mr Y drank and drank and drank; consumed with his own thoughts.
Was he falling down that rabbit hole too?
What was he to say? What was I to say?
Cancer's not the topic for New Year's Eve; it's full of optimism for the year ahead.
Cancer feels dark, heavy, menacing; no place in a world full of merriment and Auld Lang Syne. No place anywhere.
I felt the air hang heavy with unspoken fears for the next year.
Mine were....How bad is it? If it is IT has it spread? Would this be the last New Year?
Empty hollow throat-grabbing fear. I walked to the beach.
I wanted to be alone. I didn't want to be alone.
What will this year bring? I stared into the inky horizon and prayed on the shoreline. Fireworks filled the skies with joy, excitement, optimism as the clock struck 12 and way below those rejoicing skies I carried home a huge bag of heavy, hollow solitary darkness.
Happy New Year.
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