I am the 2%

White noise that’s all I hear, white noise. Someone is trying to tell me something incredibly important and all I can hear are random whizzes and bleeps. I squeeze my eyes shut hoping this will help me concentrate, now I’ve got bright white in front of my eyes too. So I guess my abiding memory of finding out I have cancer is white, I bet there are worse memories

Can I stress again, how difficult I’m finding this post to write? If you think, in the last few days I’ve flooded little blog with posts; I’ve woken up thinking about writing, I’ve stayed up until 3am writing. I. Need. To. Write. This post, this post I’ve been staring at for a few days now and it’s slow going.

Dad says he’s finding it fascinating what I choose to write about and I’m finding it fascinating how little I want to go into this particular day. So I’ve analysed this and I think the problem is Two fold (sticking with our ‘Two” theme for today):

One: I know when people think about cancer and diagnoses it always seems really scary; people say it’s their worst nightmare. I don’t want to write the wrong thing, to concern people un-necessarily or project how others might feel. The truth is, for me, this life-altering news became normal surprisingly quickly, it’s now just what’s going on at the moment. There’s a reason for that which I’ll explain in a moment…

Two: The worst bit for me about this process so far? Telling the two people I love, more than anything, the news. I don’t remember what I said or how I said it, I’m not willing to scratch at that particular surface at the moment. I know I rang A first, waking him at some ungodly hour, I had to ring him first because I thought I’d probably cry and I didn’t want to cry when I told Dad (Sorry A, I love you). After that, it’s a very welcome blur. Do you know what gave me this gratefully received amnesia and helped me accept things, at least in the short term?

Full. On. Shock. Having done First Aid courses, I know how dangerous shock can be and I don’t mean to be flippant but looking back, I thank my lucky stars that I went straight into a room marked 'shock' and I didn’t come out for at least 48 hours.

Shock makes me very practical, or so I like to think. I’m not sure how practical it was of me to tell MBS that’d I’d probably have to swing by the Breast Care Clinic the next day, as I’d need to O.K the time off work……

This is where my second boob angel comes in. The actual very first person I told, actually in the flesh, was a work colleague. I used the phrase “I have Cancer” or maybe I just said “Cancer”. I think my eyes were a little wild which helped get my point across. Either way she moved me pretty swiftly out of the open plan office. 

My second ‘In the flesher’ was due to shock, it was a brill actor who made the mistake of asking me how I was doing. He then stood out side with me for a little bit, while I waited for my dad. 

The third was the wonderful Director I was working with. She was with me when my dad ran up. She hugged us and said, “you will both be ok” and I believe that helped get us to the hospital.

To these three lovely people, I say a heart felt thank you, for dealing with me so kindly and so gently. I’m also really sorry that fate threw you in my way and you got the un-finessed “I’ve got cancer” monologue. I really am more adept at it now.

End of Part One