For context, I was 10 years at the end of my [1st] cancer experience. I say 1st, but I’d prefer to say only. I have one option.
I was anxious. I’m anxious before every appointment. But I was even more anxious because I’d already felt a new lump.
I attempted to brush it off as I had been very ill for 3 weeks. Some random flu or virus. But deep down, I knew. It’s fascinating how easily your body knows when something wrong, and even more so when it decides to give you the gift of cancer a second time.
I was hopeful. I always am. But alas, it was not meant to be my ‘only’ experience. My journey was not over. 13 days after I was given the all clear, I was told my cancer had relapsed.
So here I am, 2.5 months after my last infusion, feeling the aftermath yet again. It is different, and I will eventually get into that.
But right now, I’m taking myself out to see a show, by myself, again.
What I’ve learned this second time around, is that doing it alone (and this is not to discount the family and friends that have been there for me - they have been amazing within their capacity, I mean come on people, we all have lives) becomes exhausting and cumbersome.
Going to appointments alone, hearing results alone, planning alone, coming home after an infusion alone, doing the basics like grocery shopping and laundry alone; it all becomes cumbersome, fastidious, irritating, frustrating, and whatever other words you might think I of.
I am writing this at this very moment because I am out to the theatre alone. And while it is an occasion to celebrate, I have no one to share it with.
The Big C is a lonely bastard. It’s lonely because others can’t relate. Those who can, have their own shit going on and no one ever wants to be a bother to someone else and finding the right equilibrium between needing help and being a pain in the ass can be a fine line.
From someone still standing.
