Love Hurts.

Moving through disappointment  

Some have stood in the doorway of my cancer diagnosis and walked away. Those that were expected to be there front and centre at ground zero. And yet they weren’t. Or they couldn’t. Or they didn’t know how. And so I’ve cried. And I hate crying – I used to view it as a sign of weakness and would swallow my tears in front of others and replace with ice cold steel resolve. Until I got home, alone, and then I would let it come. I did this in part to save the awkward moments for others, because trust me when I say that I am an ugly crier. The pasty pale face with a solid dusting of pink (thank you rosacea) means that I just look like a swollen beetroot. The kids at school had it right, ‘Beetroot Face’ – that’s what happens when you’re fair haired/faced, growing up in Alice Springs smack in the middle of the central Australian desert.

It takes a good half hour for the heat and colour to leave my face, so it’s not like I can just let the tears roll, and then gracefully wipe them away and convince others of my regaining composure. Like those glamour pusses that prance around like …well, Prancer, and don’t even break a sweat in their 5 or 10 km display of the latest in leisure wear. Doesn’t even look like they left the brunch table. Me – Rudolph. Cardiac arrest warning. You get my drift.

So, yes, crying in front of someone is/has been a big red no – civic duty to others, tick! The other part is just that I just don’t know how it's going to end. Or when it will end, because sometimes it just feels like It could last forever.

What makes me cry more than anything is when I’m crying because of love. We’ve all been there – at the bottom of a tissue box, an ice cream tub, a secret chocolate stash, a bottle (or three) of wine. Because when it's love that hurts, I have to wonder what on earth will help me heal? The expectation we have as kids is that love will conquer all. Life will be ‘Happily ever after’. The good guys always win.

But what I’ve come to realise is that the one little caveat to all the above is that the answer doesn’t lie with someone else. Especially when that someone else has gone just when you need all the love you can get. What will help me heal from all the crying lies within. Self-love will conquer just about everything, if I believe I can. Self-love means that I can live happily ever after because I choose to be happy in every possible moment I can muster a smile. Self-love means that I will always win, even if the game ends, because I did all I could. We search for so long to find someone to love us, to be loved, and yet forget that we can’t possibly expect of someone else what we can’t do for ourselves.  In the end, love presents in the unexpectedly familiar - the hand to hold is mine. The arms to embrace are mine. The consoling voice that ‘it’s going to be ok’ is mine.

It also means that I can receive and recognize support in many other ways, I just have to ask for it and accept it gratefully. Because while some have walked away from the doorway, others have bounced in (Tigger style!) carrying care packages and kindness. Friends from ten years ago who reach out ready to pick up where life left off because somewhere along the way, stuff just took over and life moved on. Disconnected friends who heard from someone who heard from someone else that “Jodie has cancer” becomes a wonderful (but shitty) reason to reconnect. New friends who just want to ask if I'm ok, and would I be interested in a wooden spoon carving course...because we can!

Those that can stand with you, beside you, and even offer to kick and carry you around that marathon track are all part of the story of how we love IF we let them in. Because sometimes we need them to remind us that we can and should start with our own heart first.

Copyright: Image provided by Marina Locke photography.

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.