Plane perspective.

The different view that comes from distance

I’ve recently come back from a month’s extended holiday - the ‘big trip’ that I promised myself when I was half-way through chemotherapy. It was in part something to keep me focused on when ‘it’ was all over, in line with sage advice from people who had been where I was.  But it was fuelled by the knowledge that some much-needed perspective would probably only likely come from being on the other side of the world; the other side of my world.  It’s a bit like the whole ‘death puts life into perspective’ thing - everything ‘big’  suddenly feels so small when looking down from the window of a plane.  And once we moved above the clouds, I found myself breathing in the awe of possibilities and wonder, and breathing out the uncertainty, grief and anxiety and that been creeping in lately.

You see, I’m fast approaching Return-to-work Day after this holiday, and I’ve been almost suffocating myself with self-doubt.  After 12 months of sick leave, it’s time to dust off the work pants and heels and brain cells.  Only problem is the work pants don’t fit anymore (compliments of my own excess baggage from the  chemo/carb-festing/steroids/etc); the heels hurt my feet (continued joint pain/inflammation from the chemo and medication), and the brain cells seem intent on pursuing a part-time comedy career rather than one that requires analysis, memory, and quick thinking (the ongoing joys of chemo brain that hijacks my choice of words/thoughts and sprinkles embarrassment from random brain fades). Then there’s the sudden hot flushes/sweat-festing (also from the medication). And the short back and sides haircut where I once had long locks (the post-chemo do). All of which has led to my ongoing growing fear that I don’t look and sound and think like me anymore, so how can I possibly go back to work and do my job the way I used to? The way others were used to? The weight of expectation had been feeling as heavy as the jet plane I was in.

As the plane rode through the turbulence and the bumps and jolts gave way to calm above the clouds, I came to accept that I won’t be doing much at all in the same way that I used to. But wasn’t that the entire point of this trip; this much-needed perspective; this whole 12 months of re-examining my life and priorities? I may be feeling anxious about my ability to chair a meeting without forgetting my name and what I was doing there, but so-the-hell-what !? I had just run through the finishing line of cancer treatment. My life and world view had changed. The BIG things that felt so onerous and insurmountable before were now feeling ridiculously pea-sized. So what if I’m wearing flats and elastic-waist-banded pants, and sporting a military crew cut, and break out in a sweat in the middle of a meeting, or forget what I was saying mid-sentence.  Those things will be as big or as small as I choose to make them.  This time, it’s me flying the plane so it’s my call about how long I experience the turbulence and how quickly I bring myself up into the calm.  

A new normal.

Walking out of the treatment bubble

Despite the long list of ‘crappy’ inevitabilities from treatment this year, there is a level of comfort and protection created from the constant hospital visits, cancer-fighting drugs, specialist appointments, and general routine check-ups.

But then the day comes when you burst the treatment bubble. The last day of treatment. In anyone’s book, this would be a day to celebrate. And it is. But like any good party, there is a massive hangover waiting for you…

It’s one thing to manage and push through the staggering list of physical changes/impacts/side-effects of treatment. In some ways, these are the easy things to manage because most of them are, by nature, temporary, while undergoing treatment. Like chemo nausea and fatigue or radiation burns. Within all of it is the emergent emotional roller-coaster that serves up heavy doses of fear and anxiety from dealing with treatment, such as hair loss or infertility or waiting for pathology results. But again, these are largely temporary and eventually pass through you the closer you move towards acceptance.

Now, at the end of treatment, the physical side of ‘normal’ is beginning to return. My hair style is resembling that of Johnny Howard – the back and sides have filled in, but I’m sporting patchy bum-fluff/bald patches on top (always the last bit of hair to grow back!) instead of a desert wasteland of hair follicles. Even my eyebrows and eyelashes have started to emerge (no more stick-on eyebrows!).

But the longer-term emotional changes and impacts have apparently been sitting patiently on the sidelines in wait.  I felt the first sting when packing up my make-shift pharmacy (in my bathroom) – the bicarb soda/saline washes, dressings, anti-nausea tablets, etc were easily thrown in the bin. But then I came across the over-shoulder bag that I carried my surgical drains around in for three weeks. And then I looked at my chemo caps. And fake fringes. Should I throw those out too? What if I need them again? And the fear almost winded me – “What if it comes back?”.

It’s like throwing out the ‘big’ clothes you used to have hidden in your wardrobe because you don't want to give yourself permission to gain weight again, yet you find yourself hanging onto them just in case you indulge a bit too much over Xmas... But by holding onto things like surgery bags and chemo caps, am I passively giving into the thought that it could come back?

Cancer feels like it has left me with a port-wine-stain birthmark ... it is now permanently and visibly a part of me and my identity. And while I could wish it away or choose to cover it up, it has changed who I am, how I view myself, how I view others, and how I view my place in the world. I could not possibly have achieved such a dramatic change in perspective without the enormity that comes from facing one’s mortality.

I appreciate, however, that some instead choose to sprint to the finish line of treatment and slam the door in Mortality’s face. It comes from a deep, desperate desire to feel the comforts of ‘normal’, familiarity, routine, and everything B.C. (Before Cancer). I can only imagine the purge that must come in the form of a skip-bin-sized dumping of all physical and emotional traces that would suggest life was “back to normal”.

But I don’t want to go back. I don’t actually think I could, even if I wanted to. I have grieved many aspects of my life this year, and permanently laid them to rest. Some of that grief is wrapped up in relationships that have not withstood the emotional burdens that have come with supporting me in my need to fall and break so that I could rebuild and reclaim my life. There is also grief in the way I used to work – my professional identity. I am no longer willing or able to quantify my self-worth or my confidence on the basis of job titles, status and a long list of career achievements. They are now part of my story; my world view, but they no longer define me.

The largest part of the grief pie has been divided up for me and my personal identity. Never has this been more absolute than looking at an old photo of myself from last year - laughing, long hair, care-free, and cancer-free. I will never be ‘her’ again.

The laughing is returning, and in fact held my hand through the worst of times this year.

The long hair is at least five years away, but it’s just hair, and I’ve come to accept my reflection and embrace my bald head as a way of respecting that this entire year gave me the strength to be laid bare.

The care-free is now a mandatory part of my approach to walking slowly and smelling the roses/jasmine/frangipanis on the path to living a happy life. But it’s a qualified state of being, where I am both humbled by, and grateful for, the randomness of life, while also keeping Anxiety in my peripheral vision about whether the other shoe will ever drop …

Which brings me to the cancer-free part. That part will reside in a silent prayer every night and every day for the rest of my life. But it keeps me grounded in the super-human powers I didn't know I had. It keeps me grateful for the new strengths to relationships I didn't know were there. It keeps me connected to new friends and new experiences that I would have never had ‘but for’ cancer. And it keeps me forever appreciative of the infinite wonder that the human body (my body) represents, as each eyelash, eyebrow, hair follicle, and healthy cell regenerates and offers me renewed life.

I’m now standing in front of the blank canvas that is my life, being invited to paint my hopes and dreams A.C. (After Cancer). The paint palette is the same as B.C., but I can now see so many wonderful new ways to mix the colours.  

Three-headed goats.

Listening to our own song lyrics

There I was, banging out the lyrics to one of Australia’s iconic songs, ‘Cheap Wine’ by Jimmy Barnes, alongside some friends one night. For those of you unfamiliar with it, it goes something like “Cheap wine and a three da-aayy growth”. But I stopped half way through the chorus when I heard my friends’ pants-wetting laughter at MY version of the lyrics that instead went: “Cheap wine and a three-headed goat”.

Ok, ok, laugh if you must. I have to admit, in between the heckling, I was also close to falling over in the street, with tears streaming down my face, at what is clearly a ludicrous version of a song lyric. But it was one that I had been repeating for at least 15-20 years in countless bars and pubs (I mean, who can honestly understand what Barnesy is screeching about at the best of times!?).

Then there came Sade’s “Smooth Operator”, or as I have historically preferred to sing, “Oooh Carburetor” (as in a car engine. Yes. I think I have paid unnecessary homage to my inner rev-head over the years. And may need my hearing checked).

We all hear accurately because it's coming from our own ears. We think we are hearing the right words as they are spoken... But then someone points out there are different words. So we listen again... And sure enough, when I listen to that Jimmy Barnes song now, I can clearly hear those OTHER (accurate) words, not my previous long-standing (very funny but very inaccurate) version.

An extension of this is hearing what others say, or what we say to ourselves. We hear what we want to; what we believe to be true. But we must always be prepared to be told there's another version of truth. There's another perspective. Sometimes we just need someone else to offer up new words and convince us to lean in and listen a little harder.

There are always going to messages we hear that say: ‘I’m not good enough. I’m not worthy. I can't’. The song is playing, and the lyrics (so we think) are clear and accurate. But if we take another listen, and adjust the tone, we might just instead start to hear: ‘I deserve it. I am worthy. I can’.

Post-traumatic treatment disorder.

Dealing with delayed grief

I had a follow-up appointment with my surgeon recently, and it felt like I was approaching this huge milestone in ‘the year that was’. It had been about 8 months since my surgeries, and I turned up, having nearly finished my cancer treatment regime, feeling on the verge of heroic. But sitting in the waiting room, I was confronted by six women, one after the other, standing at the counter booking in their pre-admission clinics and surgeries. I was like seeing myself six times over, walking in and out of a revolving door. Each of them wearing their own stage of shock on their faces; their bodies covered in the C-bomb [cancer] residue.

It was like I was experiencing it all fully for the first time again, on repeat. That day when I was standing at that same counter mechanically going through the motions of writing down my own pre-admission times and tests and follow up appointments. I don’t remember crying that day, although I’m sure I did. Many times. But I cried instead when I got to my car after leaving the doctor’s clinic. I grieved for each of those women, and I extended my heart to each of their families standing by their side, witnessing their loved one’s life forever changing before their eyes.

It’s the start of a long meandering grieving process, regardless of the diagnosis and prognosis. And by the end, it will become an acknowledgement that there are certain things that will never, and should never, be the same.

Like the way we overly complicate what happiness means.

Like the way we love, without the protections of our armour, that allows us to suffocate in the embrace of hope and joy.

Like the way we take for granted the smell of frangipani flowers. Or fresh coffee. Or babies. Or an open fire. Or rain.

Like the way we grant permission to change our choices, decisions, purpose, perspectives, that honours our self and others.

It sometimes feels like I’m carrying a new burden of hope and possibilities – that I’ve been gifted a second chance in Life’s Lottery. When I think about the beautiful souls of people that I’ve met this year that are instead planning their funerals rather than a New York holiday, I stop to catch my breath. It’s a funny expression, ‘catching one’s breath’, but it’s the most obvious reason to exercise gratitude. It’s almost like a perverse survivor’s guilt syndrome because I’m taking on a renewed responsibility to live my best life, and in doing so, am living for those that will never get the privilege.

My ultimate promise to myself and others is now to embrace change and uncertainty; to embrace the courage to be imperfect and vulnerable; and to embrace a new me.

Conquering change.

What it really meant to finish chemo

“I conquered this moment”. That’s the sign on the wall of the chemo clinic above a big brass bell to represent whatever people need it to represent. Most of the time, the ringing of the bell is about celebrating the last chemo session ... But for me on my last day recently, it felt more like an apology than a party. Like I should have been standing at a private wake rather than a public celebration. There was an applause and cheer from the nurses and even the patients. But I just went back to my hospital chair and cried quietly while I packed up my bag and walked away. 

I thought I'd feel elated, excited, proud. I thought I'd be breaking out the Hawaiian shirts and pina coladas and balloons. That the only heaviness I'd feel would be from the world boxing champ belt that I would have otherwise been wearing after going 12 rounds with chemo. But the heaviness was on my heart (and my backside from the weight I've put on in the last few months). 

I did feel proud that I had come through all of this (relatively) in one piece, but I realised it was much more than finishing chemo. 'This' was really about the last six months since diagnosis when my world decided to flip on its own axis.  I was also just unsurprised by it all... Did I ever give myself permission NOT to get through it? Was there ever any other choice I offered myself? Well, yes there was. I could have put on the pink boxing gloves and taken this all on as a fight. I could have pushed back in denial. I could have allowed myself to become victim to my anxiety about all the things that could go wrong. 

But I didn't. I surrendered to it all with the perspective of treatment, not toxins. I surrendered to the facts like I would lose my hair and that I would have some really crappy days. What I also did was trust. I trusted that there were medical experts who deal with people like me every single day.

I also trusted myself. I have come to realise the hard way that the strongest and most reliable friend I had in all of this was me. And when I say me, I really mean my mind. The messages I tell myself. The choices I make for myself. The decisions I commit to that are about looking after me. Sometimes those decisions and choices have been to shut out the noise of the "should" list and instead spend a morning in my linen cupboard throwing everything on the floor and creating a new colour-coordinated Tower of Towels. And sheets. And cushion covers. And crap I didn't even know was in there (And who can really make those damn fitted sheets have square edges!?). Sometimes it's not answering a phone call because I'm simply too tired/brain-fried/wired to try and string two words together. 

I couldn't tell you what I've done in the last six months. Sometimes it feels like its been one continuous day. People keep asking me though so I've started to think a bit more about a better way to answer it other than coordinating linen cupboards and binge watching house renovation TV shows. 

What I've done is lived. And the last six months is really just a snap shot in time of a life. A life that could belong to anyone. I've done whatever I've had to do to survive. And I don't mean from a life/death perspective (even though it's in the context of a life-threatening disease). I mean to survive each day by nurturing myself enough or asking for help enough to know I can get up the next day. 

I have grieved so many things - lost plans, lost opportunities, lost choices, lost identity, and lost confidence. 
I have persevered with love and compassion in the face of bitter brutal disappointment from people closest to me who were never supposed to know how to deliver such blows. 
I have suffered pain, fear, hurt, anxiety, sadness, grief, anger. 
I have surrendered, fallen over, laid down naked, and not gotten up. 

But I've also received with absolute clarity the gifts of trust. Of kindness. Forgiveness. Openness. Vulnerability. Hope. Love. Laughter. Courage. 

I have honoured myself, my life, and the choices I’ve made.

I have embraced all the unknowns and all the choices I still have in front of me.

I have heard quiet for the first time in a long time. 

I have given myself permission to shred the Should list(s) and replace them with Today I think I feel like...lists. 

And above all else I have evolved. I have changed. Pain had gifted me that.

Taxol, not Taxidermy!

Embracing ‘Slow’

All aboard the chemo go-slow train! It’s one of the most frustrating (but comical, apparently) side effects – chemo brain fog. I was told at the beginning of treatment that my ability to think, multi-task, focus on details, remember stuff, was basically going to be on the ‘wish list’ for a while. That instead, chemo causes the brain to malfunction a tad. My panicked face was because I surely need to do all those things for a living!

But these days, I ‘wear’ a banana, rather than ‘eat’ one. I write my birth date on consent forms, rather than today’s date. I announce that I’m at the chemo clinic for taxidermy, rather than taxol (the name of the drug)… that one had the nurses in stitches.

I’m now embracing it like everything else about chemo – a chemically-imposed trial of SLOW. There are books written about it and workshops and experts teaching us how to de-clutter our lives and, by extension, our heads. It’s about moving slowly, eating slowly, breathing slowly, and thinking slowly so that we all have more time to reflect and ponder and immerse ourselves in the present.

While it is a confronting thing to be shooting blanks at the most basic of conversational times, I am trying to see it also as a way of my brain (and body) taking some well-earned long service leave from what has otherwise been more than 20 years of frantic busyness where my brain didn’t know how to switch off and just ‘be’. I sometimes wonder whether it was an inconvenient truth to not want to do it either.

Becoming disconnected from the world of emails and meetings and ‘busy’ has made me start to ponder how, in a world of instant connection (with devices), that we are so disconnected (with people).

In among the many not-so-great things with this year of diagnosis and treatment, I have been gifted with Time. It can feel like pure self-indulgence. I then question whether I should be doing something more constructive like solving world hunger than going for a walk to my local coffee shop and talking to random people. But selfishness is not a dirty word for me anymore. It’s instead another word for self-preservation.

When I see someone now getting lost in the excitement of their phone’s notifications, I want to scream “Just look up!” You never know who or what you might see right in front of your face. There’s sunlight. Trees. Birds. A big blue sky. Oh, and those unknown scary creatures called people. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a moment of connection with something that doesn’t require a battery recharge. 

I see it with kids too, where ‘fun’ becomes the conjoined twin to smart TVs, playstations, and wifi. What about a 5 minute walk to the beach. The wildnerness. The wonderment. The “why” of life. 

So I’m going to enjoy riding the go-slow train. In fact, I’m not sure I’ll ever get off it. It’s time to welcome some empty space into my head so that I can make more room for new stuff, new friends, new experiences, new dreams, new perspective. And ultimately, a new life.

Beyond the art of bald head maintenance.

Embracing the opportunity to start again  

Who knew the words: “Can adults get cradle cap?” would ever leave my lips.

Who knew there was such a thing in Google’s search results as ‘bald head maintenance’!? Apparently my chemo-inspired nudie noggin’ requires the same love and attention to that of a new born baby.

But dealing with the fallout (pardon the pun) of chemotherapy has raised a few questions that go far beyond an absence of hair.  

Cancer, despite being a life-threatening illness, seems to strip us back to the day we were born – when we came into this world free of self-imposed limitations or others’ expectations (or hair). It's now both liberating and yet bordering on debilitating to feel the freedom of a new beginning… Maybe that’s why we are born screaming – overwhelmed with the power of breathing in life, but also the fear of what and who we may become. Or not become.

Who are we when we stand naked, alone, no hair, no labels, no presumptions, and no clue about what happens next?  

Losing one’s hair brings with it a physical confrontation, because it’s a critical part of our exo-skeleton; our body armour. It’s how we identify ourselves, and how others, unintentionally or otherwise, place a value on us.  Not many would seek an opportunity in our adult lives to rip off the suit of armour we spend years building and reinforcing. But without one, I’m asking the question now, to what end did I fight so furiously to uphold mine over all these years? To protect myself on the inside from hurt, pain, failure, or fear? To give out some external representation of status or success; confidence or identity? Underneath the clothes and hair, regardless of the brand names and colour/style, we’re all the same.  We think and act in ways that try to protect our hearts from feeling anything but rejected, unwanted, unloved, or alone in this world.

And that brings me to the other question, which is almost a spiritual confrontation. There’s an honesty that comes with being stripped bare. It’s an unapologetic honesty because the body armour has been removed completely, and what’s left underneath is, by nature, vulnerable and raw and unprotected. And yet this is probably the strongest version of myself I’ve ever known.  

Why then, without cancer or chemo or complete hair loss, and with access to a full suit of body armour, did I used to find it so hard to be unapologetically honest with the simplest of truths: You hurt me. I’m scared. I think I love you. I need your hand. 

I will need to rebuild some kind of exo-skeleton again, because I won’t be existing in this cancer treatment bubble forever. But I will make sure that it does not have electrified razor wire this time, or an emergency eject button if I’m having a bad hair day. I now trust that my greatest strengths remain on the inside; borne from vulnerability and a voice that speaks my truths.

Life vs. Lines.

The gift of getting old

I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon, but yet I’ve referenced seeing it every day in the mirror for the last 10 years. It’s a massive fault line that runs between my eyebrows (well, used to, back in the day when I had eyebrows!).

I was contemplating a doozy of a birthday-present-to-self last year … Botox. I was being very sensible about it, not wanting to go overboard with the extras like fillers and collagen that would have me resembling something from the X-Files. Just a little bit (famous last words no doubt).

But I chickened out.

And then the strangest thing happened - I got cancer and that Grand Canyon on my face seemed to disappear.

It’s ok, there’s no hidden side effect from chemo that includes creating wrinkle free zones (although the puffy face from the steroids does help fill in the cracks !). It’s because you see what you focus on. The difference in my face is that I no longer focus on it, therefore I don’t see it.  Now my focus has shifted to how many eyelashes I still have left. But I tell you what, my blue eyes seem to stand out a lot more these days!

Lines are experiences, good and bad. A life lived. Loves. Losses. Lessons learned.

For me, that Grand Canyon line used to be just the physical manifestation of a life full of stress/frowning/worrying/thinking too hard about too many things.

But that line is now a proud Harry Potter-style face stamp of accomplishing great things in extreme circumstances in my life. Like living interstate away from my family from the age of 17. Like spending nearly 10 years working while I was trying to complete two university degrees. Like drowning in tears from broken hearts, that were once also great loves. Like busting through 2000 applicants to get my dream job in the criminal justice system when I finally graduated. Like driving through regional Victorian communities devastated by the Black Saturday bushfires, crying silently in sympathy every time I drove those roads or listened to a grieving parent or school principal about children and families that didn’t survive, and asking what I could do to help them. Like bearing witness to the horrors of humanity through child sex abuse, rape, domestic violence, and murder, and carving out a career that would allow me to help them too.

Those stories and faces were the reasons why I worked so damn hard. And now my stress line is my badge of honour. They are reminders that I’ve been a part of greatness. Of great change. That I’ve been around the block a few times. That I have perspectives that I can share through experiences. That I have survived near-drowning in emotions that have shaped my capacity to love, to feel, to fold. And there’s the lines around my eyes and cheeks. Those are from the happiness and the joy every time I’ve giggled or nearly wet my pants laughing from some ridiculous story or movie or joke shared among friends.

So why then would I now set out and erase all of that? (Spoiler alert: I won’t be).

Why do others then? Is it because people don’t want to wear their emotions for others to see? Or to attempt to not feel them at all? To be frozen, emotionless.

In other cultures, lines/wrinkles are a sign of respect, an honour bestowed upon others through experience. It’s wisdom through living. Fears. Failures. Wins.

If all you choose to see are the flaws, that's all you'll ever see. If the concern is that you'll end up on the single shopping shelf without erasing them (in some attempt to look 10 years younger), well, maybe you need to re-think the quality of the potential buyer … And maybe you should also reconsider what your lines represent to you. If there’s only pain, sure, go for the needle or the knife. But remember that there are those who will instead only see the mother of their children. The love of their life. The future potential of a life long partner. A soul connection. 

Growing old is a gift that not everyone receives. And yet we tend to fear it and wish it would go and visit someone else. What we forget is that it is a privilege to age, not a punishment.

Now, where others choose to focus on lines or wrinkles, I see life.

And so it’s Happy Birthday to me … this week I’m 41 years young.

Welcome Poss.

Wearing self-confidence

My new best friend is Poss. Short for Possum (aka Roadkill).  It’s because she resembles a piece of roadkill attached to a head band … Enter stage left, the fake fringe. She is by far the best $30 I have ever spent. Versatile little bugger – front, back, even doubles as an Adam/Eve fig leaf if you really need a giggle!

Despite my best attempts at embracing all that chemo brings, including a bigger bank balance (no hair care bills for the next two years!), I still look like a chemo patient.  And I still feel self-conscious at times that there’s just no way of hiding that bald section near my ears or covering my massive forehead that was once the background to a flick-over fringe.  

People who don’t otherwise know me have actually commented on my cool hat/scarf/Frenchie chic look (that would be Poss+ when she's out in combo with my ‘couture bamboo soft cap’). I smile and thank them... if ONLY they knew what lies beneath…  

But other than fluffing out my head wear and my self-confidence, Poss brings a big lesson: that even the smallest of gestures can counter the greatest of grief.

A chat with Joe Black.

Acknowledging the near misses

Cancer has usually meant death. Thankfully these days, there are more people that survive a diagnosis than don't, but it still feels like a limp handshake ... it just lingers until you feel like you've finally washed it off.   

For people who hear you've got cancer, the inevitable silent thought arises: "Thank God it's not me". Like a near miss in the car. It is only natural to be confronted with your own mortality. The what ifs. But then the moment passes. Rarely do we think about the need to change our entire perspective on life - no, because that's happening to someone else.

I've always been curious about how people respond to traffic jams caused by a fatal accident. How many of us really do pause to think about the person whose life has been lost instead of just the inconvenience of running late for something apparently far more important.

Being on the receiving end of a cancer diagnosis can be the same - thank God it was caught early. What if it comes back. And there it is - the face of mortality looking at you wanting to have a chat. (If only they could look like Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black).

It's confronting. It's frightening. But if we allow it, it can also feel exhilarating. What would it mean to start again? I've done it before from the point of view of moving states, changing jobs, kicking off a new life full of possibilities. But ultimately the view changes but the vessel (me) hasn't. And without a cancer diagnosis or some other near-miss, why would I? Why would anyone? I'm not suggesting that everyone shaves their hair off, stands naked in the mirror, assumes their superwoman pose, and questions "who could this be?" rather than the usual "who am I?" But this experience for me has absolutely demanded it because I don't want a repeat. Another brick wall. My view and my vessel are both changing and yet I'm standing in the same spot.

It's a choice how we care for our bodies to help recovery (although I'm sure my impulse buy cold press juicer could have been a little smarter!).

It's a choice how we cobble together supports that may come from so many surprisingly wonderful people if all you do is ask and be open.

It's a choice about whether we view chemo drugs as lifesaving medicine or demonic poison.

It's a choice whether we walk towards accepting that yes, our hair will likely fall out rather than painfully waiting for handfuls of devastation to wash down into the shower drain.

It's a choice whether to take a chat with Joe Black (mortality) as a reason to pause, question and potentially change our view. Or whether we're just thankful that the near miss passed us by and keep driving.

I came across the concept of 'mortality motivation' recently. It now causes me to have a set of questions ready next time I meet Joe Black:

Did I live? Did I love? Did I matter?

Until that time comes, my goal is to make choices as though I already know his answer: Yes, he will say. Yes, you did.

A serve of self-love (with a side of coffee).

Support can come from the most surprising places

Self-love lessons can appear at any time, assuming we’re open to it. For me, a stand out was the day that my beloved local barista, Michael, invited me around to the other side of the coffee counter to do a baldie selfie (me, newly follicly-challenged; Mike, a result of the natural course of men aging gracefully!). I had not ventured outside once with my new chemo-do. And other than the occasional hot flush/fever at home, I rarely walked around with my noggin doing a nudie run. But this day, I was embraced by compassion and comfort as I stood for an iphone selfie pic that was surely in need of its built in ‘best portrait’ option!  

I didn’t know if I was going to laugh or cry when I saw my reflection in the camera lens. But the beaming smile to my right told me that crying was NOT my story today. All I felt instead was proud. Proud that I could stand in public and be accepted. Proud that perhaps one person who may see Mike’s social media post might just be one little bit less self-conscious about their own reflection. That they may borrow some of my self-love in that moment and help celebrate that I conquered that moment on that day; that I chose that moment to be happy. And that a good guy (a bloody awesome guy!) helped me believe that I was going to be ok.

Here's Michael and Me @ Walt's Espresso Bar, Hamilton, Brisbane.  

Under the shower.

Losing my hair from chemo

I sat in the shower as the water washed over my head and ran my hands over, knowing that I was about to bear witness to loss. At first it was wonderment. And relief that this moment was finally here - the one thing everyone fears the most with chemo. I'm always one for planning and preparation, but I just couldn't reconcile that there were literally hundreds of hairs on my palms each and every time I touched my sore head. It was as if I was seeing it for the first time, every time. Like those tv infomercial ads that never stop..."But wait!! There's more!!"

Then I cried. I'm not sure why. It's not like I didn't know it was coming. Maybe because this was about more than just hair, because it felt like a moment to be reborn. Under the shower. Peeling off hundreds of layers. Of memories. Of lost wishes. Of new hopes. Is this really what it means to have so much of ourselves wrapped up in our hair? Men are now becoming more able to save/regrow/regain otherwise lost youth or confidence. But for women it's so much a part of our path into becoming a woman and owning who we are. It's every compliment. Every touch of a lost love. Of a heated embrace. Running fingers through fringes - that was my thing. Every hairdresser that would comment on the colour, the wave, the texture. Red. Ranga. Strawb.

My self-confidence, like almost every other woman, was so intricately tied up in my hair (pardon the pun). I applaud anyone who, like me, has sat in a hairdresser's chair, waiting for the big reveal to match the expectations and future hopes that come from the new look - sometimes it's for a new job, or to cut/hack off the pain of a breakup. But there are also those times we silently cried at the realisation we just didn't look like the photo. Or that the pain was still there despite the dead memories on the salon floor. And yet we still paid our hundreds of dollars only to walk out, go home, and find ourselves in this exact moment... crying under the shower.

Moving from Regret to Accept.

The infertility reality check.

This is not a lesson about mutant genes and mutated cells. There are hundreds of expert information sources out there to explain the medical reason about why cells develop at a certain rate within certain conditions and create the perfect storm for cancer to grow in your body.

There is no blame, no misdirected responsibility about ‘if only I didn’t drink soy milk’ or ‘if only I had eaten organic vegies’ or ‘I should never have gone on the pill…’. There is, however, a tougher task ahead to accept that cancer does not care about timing, or whether you’re ready, or whether you’ve got all your ducks in a row before it punches you in the face. For me, the twisted gene pool may suggest it was just a matter of time. But time was not on my side for this.

At 40, the world of breast cancer still considers me ‘young’, but in the world of maternal matters, I’m geriatric. In fact, I’m past geriatric. I’m graveyard. It’s like the worst oopsie moment in history … Had a baby yet? Oh ! Oops !  There I was thinking that, even if the geriatric ovaries were already in retirement, surely IVF would sweep in as a superhero and deliver me a time machine so I could go back to my 20s and plan for the next 20 years before 'life just happened'. 

You see, I seem to have forgotten to take on the advice of my smug-married friends to just settle down, get married, and pop out a kid in between building a professional career and falling in love with all the wrong guys at the right time and falling in lust with all the right guys at the wrong time and having a mental break down and building myself back up again and moving towns, cities, states, jobs, desperate to find something more than what I had. What I was. Who I could become. How many times had I felt the sting of loss and disappointment that ‘he’ was not going to be the one. That my window was closing. And you know what, for most of that time, I was not exactly prioritising procreation. It was all about recreation. But along comes a magical man when I'm 39 who would finally love me for me. Would see what truths lie behind my eyes, would breathe life into my heart, would inject hope and happiness into my soul. For a moment, I allowed myself to dream that stupidly girlie girl dream of a wedding dress and a house on a hill and a chance to create a new life from new love.

But this is where Injustice and Unfairness and Regret all came to dance at my pity-party. The options of having a baby when you’re about to take on cancer are less than great. It’s basically a done deal – without exploring a myriad of options and impossible timelines/risks/consequences, it aint’ gonna happen on my terms. I have one shot that's sitting in a freezer somewhere waiting to see what's possible in about three years. Until then, I will find time to grieve what could have been. But for now, it’s something that I’ve added to my arsenal to remember why I need to take this time for me to heal, to recover, to regenerate, to re-emerge as something and someone who refuses to sit in the passenger seat waiting to arrive to meet Happiness. I’m done with the bullshit rhetoric about ‘when x happens, and y happens, and the planetary alignment joins up with the sun and moon in z’ … THEN I’ll be happy. No. Today I am happy. I am ecstatic. I now move into the world of preserving and protecting my next phase of life. A phase that is still going to be full of love and hope that offers sanctuary for my soul. Of actually living. Chemotherapy and radiation are my friends. So too is my cold press juicer, some turmeric and wheat grass shots! And I will embrace all of what is to come, including the crappy side effects, to make sure that I am not sitting in another hospital bed unless it is when I close my eyes for the last time at age 93. I may not be surrounded by my borne-children, but I sure as hell will be surrounded by love.

The 'C' word.

How having cancer becomes about everyone else. 

You’ve got cancer.

Three (well, three and a half) little words that echo throughout your brain space, soon followed by silent ‘What The F*’ screams.  Nothing else matters. No one else exists at that moment, except the poor doctor facing opposite you, telling you that your life has forever changed.

Cancer should be eligible for a UN peace prize – it doesn’t discriminate. People. Pets. Babies. Mothers. Criminals. Saints.

I just sat there, alone, wondering how I had managed to walk onto the set of someone else's movie. 

For whatever reason, today, cancer chose me. 

So far, it has become a timely reminder that the strength and resilience (I hate that word by the way) that I thought I had lost years ago was in fact still within, ready and willing to face war.  And it does feel like that – a war.  But you quickly realise that the battles (most of which are all ahead of you with a big ‘To Be Confirmed’ sign attached) are being fought on many fronts.  Family, friends, loves of life, all hear the ‘C’ word and it becomes all about them. It’s about you, yes, but it’s also about their fear of losing you, of not having any say in the matter, of picturing what life might be like without you.

Mothers – the ever-enduring and self-sacrificing “it should have been me.”

Sisters – the silent hugging and sobbing. Followed by just silence.

Fathers – the palpable pain and regret for not being able to protect their daughter.

Life loves – the collision of helplessness and hopefulness etched on a face.

Friends – the tears on standby as they feel the weight of the bomb residue left behind after hearing your "news".  

Then there’s the complimentary reminder from the insurance company that you’ve got death coverage, should you need it.

And the remarks from people who are parents that my impending infertility is a blessing because they could quite easily strangle their beloved Little Johnny lately... 

And so it comes again. In waves – the pity party for one, followed by the stench of stoicism. Then anger masking complete fear and panic. Then disbelief.  An out of body experience. The desperate need to go and lose yourself in a cheap comedic cinematic experience to just forget for two hours that This. Is. Actually. Happening.

I kept hearing the words "you’re a fighter, you’ll beat this, cancer has no idea who it picked a fight with". But I could not, and would not, identify comfortably as a fighter or a survivor. To me, it means I’ve allowed cancer to determine roles and responsibilities from the outset – me: the fighter, and cancer: the aggressor. I was very fortunate to have acted on early warning signs and avoided an all out assault.  I chose instead to view my experience as a life preserving mission, not a fight to the death. Literally. Because to me, ‘fighter’ respectfully belongs to all those souls who have been given the worst odds that life could offer, like a woman who dies within 6 weeks of diagnosis because a recurring chest infection was actually stage 4 lung cancer. Or a man with brain cancer who valiantly leaves his life on his own terms because he knew he’d done all he could and it was never going to be enough. They are the ones who have to fight against the knowledge that nothing, short of a miracle, was going to reverse the carnage that cancer had bestowed upon their bodies. Fighting is about finding the courage to keep moving when there is nothing to move towards except death. It is about the strength to claw onto every inch of dignity and independence when all that is left is silent acceptance of the truth that you cannot win this round.

I instead move politely out of the way when someone is using words like fighter or survivor. I’m just someone who copped a crappy body-intruder, who now needed some treatment with crappy side effects. But more importantly, I'm someone who is gripping tightly to a reason to make a lifelong pledge to myself and my beloveds to truly live and honour the value of life and also hope that this MOFO never finds reason to come back for a follow up visit.

Breast cancer is a funny one – we all grow up feeling self-conscious as young girls, especially ones like me who ‘developed early’. I had boys flicking my bra strap in year 6 that left me begging, pleading my mum to only make me wear the bra at night time so that I would stop being picked on and laughed at. Clueless of course that the law of gravity was not on my side! But this marked the start of a long journey into womanhood rejecting the reflection in the mirror. I was too tall, too pale, too heavy, too nerdy, too ambitious, too stubborn, too independent, too much to warrant the acceptance of myself. How ironic that it was the reflection in the mirror years later that would now save my life. 

In the absence of an apparently never-ending list of 'I love me nots', I focused on my two greatest assets: my hair and my ‘epic cannons’ (aptly described once…). They became critical to defining my self-worth but had never really extended to self-love. A dear friend once said to me that one day, I would meet a guy who saw me for more than just a pair of boobs and long hair. And she was right. But cancer has re-planted that resounding fear in my head about how I embrace who I am as a woman if I didn't have my long hair, or boobs, or uterus, or ovaries, or having birthed a child.  

In the meantime, I am replacing the list of baseless fears with an Indiana Jones-style re-make with me front and centre in the search for my own holy grail. I found out that in eastern medicine the heart meridian line runs from my left hand up my arm, through my left breast and under my arm/shoulder. Bingo. That gap in self-love is exactly where cancer has taken up residence. So, in part it’s understanding my gene pool, but more importantly it’s about treating myself with care and kindness and understanding and acceptance - all the things I have offered to others but rarely myself.

The first step is making this all about ME in the ultimate act of honour and self-preservation. No one else can do that, no matter how hard they want to. Part of that is learning how to give love back to whatever the mirror offers me, especially the days when I don't even recognise the reflection. 

Hitting brick walls.

Processing a cancer diagnosis.  

When I was diagnosed with cancer, I ran smack into a brick wall.  I hit it with the full force of 40 years’ worth of dreams and plans, and mistakes and regrets.  Alanis Morrissette was screaming “Isn’t it ironic?!” loudly in my ears at the point of impact. There I was talking about fertility planning with my doctor one day, only to be told the next that I had invasive breast cancer and would be rendered infertile by the treatment that would destroy it.  

At times over the last few months, it has felt like the moment of hitting that wall is on repeat and being replayed over and over again in slow motion. And yet at other times I’m bearing witness to it, observing and documenting every scene in some feeble attempt to figure out how on earth that brick wall appeared in the first place, and how the hell I failed to avoid it.

In my search for answers, I started researching. I treated it like I would my work where I have spent over 20 years immersed in plans, projects, law, facts, evidence, and data.  And boy, do I love a good plan - I have a plan for my back up plan, and a contingency plan if that back up plan fails. And so, I set about project managing the shit out of that first 6 weeks when I was otherwise at risk of drowning in a tsunami of hospital admissions, tests, scans, specialist appointments, and forms.

What I couldn’t easily find was information about how all ‘this’ might feel.  Now, the A-Z of emotions to expect when facing your own mortality is a pretty hefty-sized book. And I’m confident I dog-eared the edge of every page in the first week after being diagnosed.  But what I wanted was a sign post, or just a smoke signal, to point me in the direction of the missing chapter of ‘N’ for ‘Normal’. 

I came to realise that there was no such thing as normal through listening to other people’s stories. Instead I listened to random chance encounters about how someone had come through the other side of cancer, and sobering reflections about those who did not.  And from there, I allowed myself to create my own normal by accepting how I was feeling when I needed to feel it, and to listen to my body for the first time in a long long time.