When you are sorrowful look again in your heart – and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight – Kahlil Gibran
It seems to be that the longer I distance myself from my cancer and the more that time passes, the greater difficulty I am having in writing these blogs. In the past 6 months I have managed only two blogs, one of which was never published publicly, – a private moment that was deeply personal with a depth of intimacy I never wanted to share beyond the purpose of the blog and the expressions I needed so importantly to make at that time. It was raw and real and wrapped in both celebration and sadness that the months have managed to slowly dissipate but never completely left me.
And the second blog is now.
This blog I have to confess has been started over countless times. But it seems that I have struggled with every attempt at this particular journal entry simply because the words I type never seem to reflect or capture the depth of love and heartache and loss adequately. My ramblings don’t live up to the significance of the events. But here goes…
From the outset I need to acknowledge that many of my blogs have in fact exposed personal details of important people in my life that formed part of my story. Blogs dedicated to grandparents, a little brother, beautiful friends and even a stranger named Francy – just to name a few. And I have at times worried that in the process of describing something meaningful to me in my attempt to illustrate the story, I inadvertently disclose something private of others. I truly hope that this has not been the case.
But what has been a lovely flow on affect of mentioning significant people in my blogs is that along the way I have had readers specifically ask me about the welfare of someone I’ve described or they’ve sent me personal sayings / quotes knowing it will mean something to me based on an event embedded in my writings. I can’t tell you the number of times individuals have stopped and asked me about my beautiful Murphy, having never met her but simply because they have identified the strength of our bond through my countless Murphy anecdotes and my clothes covered in dog hair. Murphy deserves a blog of her own and sometime soon that one will be posted.
And the blog from earlier this year, about my step mum Yvonne, is also no exception to this rule. That blog posted on 7 April 2013 described the heart wrenching decision that Yvonne made, supported by my dad, to cease her chemotherapy treatment.
To just stop.
And so it was, less than a month later, on 1 May 2013, in her bed at home as was her wish, Yvonne’s fight with cancer finally came to a close. It was a long and hard fought battle spanning just over 20 years and boy, the lady in red gave it a good hard kick in the guts before she finally reached a personal agreement with her cancer and lay down to rest. Her funeral was beautiful, a fine tribute to one foxy lady. And although the months have passed since that time, my dad’s heart breaks daily and her loss is felt by many.
Understandably this was not an easy decision and I know my dad agonised over the unenviable balance of what might prolong Yvonne’s life, even by a week or two, against the painfully immobile and highly dependent existence that had become her life. It was not a question of Dad’s capacity to continue the care required or of maintaining resilience, love and support from Yvonne’s family that tipped this difficult decision. And I don’t think until you are in it, debating the weighty issues and having to communicate the implications to the person you adore, can you ever really know just how hideous and stressful it can be. But eventually, driven by overriding love that holds greater force than the self driven love that needs more time, counts more days, just wants to say one more thing, the scales are tipped to finally let go.
Watching someone that you love die is terrible. Watching someone that you love die from the same disease that you are battling, is equally terrible but holds an additional element of ‘terrifying’ to what is already an emotionally confronting time. I’m quick to say to those I have discussed this with that ‘I know it’s not my story’ or ‘I’m lucky because my cancer is different / better / more positive for me’ and every time I say it I truly mean it. But this would not be an honest account of this journey if I didn’t also admit that my armour of resilience has taken the occasional blow, and Yvonne’s death was one of them.
If my resilience was a shop display item there would be a sign saying “discounted by 10% due to minor damage” – pock mark dents or little chips that stop it from being sold as shiny and new. And every now and then, when I am alone, I find myself focusing on the dents in my armour just for a moment, staring at them, touching them, pushing my finger into the ridges and wondering if they’ve gotten any bigger or if there is a way I can press them back without making it worse. Possibly, for me, an even greater fear is having someone else notice the flaws. It’s a vulnerability I work hard to resist but that despite all of my efforts somehow sneaks its way into my psyche when I am not looking.
When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer I had many of my cancer colleagues say to me “welcome to the club Kym”. It was not articulated negatively – in fact it was said in a way that made you feel like you’d just been handed the special keys into an exclusive girly club with unspoken codes to the secrets of love and life. And maybe it is. Because without doubt there is a special bond that intrinsically links you to your sisters in this fight. And the bond is real. Recently I sat at a table in Paris
The good news is that these feelings and concerns don’t last long and for the most part I, like my sisters, stride on confidently further and further away from the cancer diagnosis. I guess thinking about this as I write it – it’s not a bad thing to slow the urgent pace I have set for myself every now and then. Better to take small and reflective steps in order to have the strength and capacity to actually go the distance. After all, any decent gym instructor out there will tell you that you must enjoy the occasional lull in the music and the workout before you push yourself into a frenzied finish that smashes you over the line.
And whether I am taking timid steps forward or striding it out with my head held high – I am still making my way closer to ticking over another cancer free year. Yeah baby.
And I’m here to tell you that at the top of the mountain where there are no clouds and the air is clear and fresh, my armour even with the occasional dent looks awfully bright and sparkly reflecting in that sunshine.
Sweet dreams Yvie with lots of love always xxxKym.Langill@facs.nsw.gov.au
