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.

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.