You Hold The Reaper And I'll Belt Him One!...

"Please tell me Severe Dyskariosis is a remote part of Greece!" I said to my GP...
He smiled and told me: "You don't have cancer. It's not cancer." (erm, yes I did)...
I didn't cry, didn't crack up, didn't even feel a flapping of the backside when the consultant - who'd previously been 'in the area' with a flamin' microscope and had said: "Nope, can't see anything that worries me, just a little inflammation" - was now sitting in front of me just a week later saying: "...and, well, to my great surprise, there is a tumour...but the good news is there's no vascular space invasion."

I couldn't take it in...where did he earn the CHEEK to use the sentence "the good news is..." in the same chat about a certain little cancer diagnosis?! Flamin' nerve, I thought!

From that moment on I just walked in a straight line with blinkers on. I had a young son who needed me. Clients who depended on me. How was I going to fit this tumour in?

So they slung me in that bore, CA-125'd me, and whipped locations out of me in the name of radical hysterectomy lymphadenectomy..(.it took me a year to be able to pronounce that, and almost as long to pee normally again.)..All I could do to get through was read, read, read, on the subject of cancer. I was obsessed with the nasty little devil..

.I was ordered to not even lift a kettle for at least 6 weeks, but told everyone OUTSIDE of the hospital environment that I'm not allowed to lift a thing for a year...And, apart from a bit of a wobble 2 weeks later after my hospital release in which I sobbed "I'm never going to be able to walk properly again, I know I'm not, I know it, I KNOW IT!", I was fine...So, loads of rest, loads of mince pies, and loads of extra body mass later (I threatened the scales with bodily harm and accused the thing of lying) I was back at work.

Everyone thought I was amazingly well-balanced...
"You are well-grounded, I have no concerns about your ability to cope" said the doctor.
"You are so strong, such a great attitude! If it was me, I'd be in pieces!" said a nurse.
I passed everything with flying colours.

Then last year, in my 5th year post treatment, I developed what I now know to be termed as "cancerhead"...The obsessional seeking info.. The fear of every twinge...anxiety...and before you know it I was sobbing again in my GP's chair (well...not HIS exactly you understand...) "I don't know what's wrong with me", and I'm walloped into psychotherapy for "post traumatic stress".

I eventually came out of that with an Oscar, several weeks later.

So now I'm anxious about my future.

Do I have one? Am I really going to survive?
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Sep 5, 2012