Dedicated to the best dog ever...........my angel with whiskers

When I close my eyes I see you, when I open my eyes I miss you.

This blog comes to you from deep inside my heart – a heart that broke exactly 1 year ago today on the lounge room floor as I cradled my almost 14 year old golden retriever Murphy in my arms and felt her fall heavily onto my chest.  I looked up at John sitting next to me and saw him silently weeping as he hugged Murphy too and I watched Evan, Murphy’s vet, lift the stethoscope from her still chest and respectfully whisper that she was gone.  

Murphy hadn’t been well for a number of weeks, renal failure, which had escalated from her being a bit droopy to her refusing food and having to have regular fluid therapy in order to function.  Although we delayed for as long as we could eventually we had to accept that keeping her alive was more about us and our needs than it was about what Murphy needed.  We knew it was time.  

Without question Murphy deserves a blog all of her own and I need to acknowledge straight up that any loving dog owner will tell you that their dog is the best.  The absolute best.  No really, THE best.  And the fact that millions of dogs around the world in all shapes and sizes, varying ages, quirky behaviours and breeds still manage to be the best dog the family has ever owned, is a testament to the perfection of a dog.  And Murphy was no exception this rule.

Murph played a significant role in supporting me during the hardest days of my treatment.  She gave me a reason to stick a cap on my bald head and sit in the sun while I watched her wade around hopelessly chasing the small fish in the shallow water hour after hour.  She helped me remember that it’s the simple things that make you the happiest and that it was perfectly acceptable to sleep in the daytime.  When I was banned from the gym due to infection risk, she was my silent (and very inactive) training partner as I pumped weight in the lounge room to thumping music.  She was a willing listener to my spoken thoughts and I trusted her discretion for non disclosure when I confided in her about how I was feeling on some of the harder days.  She was always there – the blonde four legged heart beat at my feet, under my chair, by the couch or on the daybed always ready to nuzzle into my lap and wait for my hand to fall on her little blonde head for a reassuring pat. The reassurance was reciprocal.

Murphy was my companion as I counted the treatments down, sitting with me on the back deck sharing the changing summer months as they faded into a much cooler Autumn.  She made me laugh often.  She was my silent critique on most things.  Life was simple from Murphy’s perspective. She loved her food and hated thunderstorms, birds and toddlers dressed up in batman outfits. She was unwaveringly loyal and even at her sickest always attempted to be in the same room even if that meant a creaky and arthritically painful rise to her feet to plod 10 metres from lounge to kitchen.  And if it was necessary, she would willingly do it all in reverse. Twice.  Remarkably, if we were separated for a period of time, no matter whether it was 5 weeks such as for a holiday or for 5 seconds retrieving something from the car, Murphy always always always grabbed a stuffed toy in her mouth and met me wiggling her bottom at the front door.  In 13.5 years that greeting never grew old and I can tell you a year later, my heart falls every time I unlock my front door and she’s not there.  

We got Murphy as a 9 week old rollie pollie ball of fluff.  She wasn’t the wriggly energetic face licking bite your nose puppy type.  Quite the opposite in fact.  She was kind of floppy and cuddly and let you cradle her like a baby, content to be carried around on her back, all four fat paws up.  Essentially in 13.5 years that never changed so that at 35 plus kilos in the peak of her adult life, Murphy still preferred the human crane to any kind of self propelled jumping which included in and out of the car and the bed.  Yes, it’s true, both John and I were guilty of climbing out of the bed in order to lift Murphy into the bed having woken up to her brown eyes blinking at you, chin resting on the bed edge 3 inches from yours.  If you didn’t wake quickly enough, she would kind of snort a little bit of dog juice from her nose with enough gentle force that it would hit you in the face but miraculously never felt like it was deliberate.  Worked every time.  Lifting her in was a tricky manoeuvre that required lightening speed in order to reinstate your position before Murph settled back down – risking your own personal space and any decent sleep for the remainder of the night.  

Murphy quickly became a focal point of our lives – I guess that’s what children do in expanding families but having made a conscious decision not to have children, it was inevitable that Murphy was going to fulfil that role.  And she loved it.  No amount of attention was ever too much for this girl. And the idea that she was a pet; a dog; an animal to be disciplined and trained - well forget about it.  Murphy was a princess; a diva; the supermodel of the golden retriever world and I just need to say it, Murphy was the boss.  And it wasn’t just us she commanded attention from.  Murphy quickly bossed mates and visitors, next door neighbours (sorry Aunty Lyn and Uncle Ash!) and anyone willing to baby sit her.  She was the ultimate strategist and knew to establish the most superb back up plan possible by enlisting the heart of her Fairy Godmother that lasted an entire lifetime.  She was the gentlest dog with an amazing capacity to always get what she wanted.  The girl was special.  

I made a decision at the start of this blog to always write from my perspective only and so I won’t break that rule now by writing how much both John and I loved and now miss Murphy.  But what I can write with confidence is how as a third party I witnessed the growing bond and depth of love that Murphy clearly had for John.  He was her life and she adored him.  In Murphy’s eyes, I was cool but John was a superstar.  Maybe it’s because he walked her more often.  Maybe it’s because I wasn’t around as much in the later years of her life.  Could it have been the cooking thing?  Maybe it’s because John rode out the majority of thunder storms on the kitchen floor nestling her shaking body as he sung James Taylor ‘You’ve Got a Friend’ on repeat at 3am during the summer months.  Perhaps it was the canine version of the father / daughter thing.  Whatever it was, Murphy had cemented her paw print on John’s heart and she wasn’t going to give that up for anyone.  

And then I got sick.

And somehow Murphy knew that she needed to share her love and her loyalty with me.  She knew that she needed to show me how to seize the moment and to realise that life is not limitless.  She applauded my decision to slow down and be at home with her more often and she showed me why it was important to take time to quietly watch a sunset over the water or enjoy the smell of freshly cut grass at the cricket oval.  She secretly celebrated when I shed more hair on the floor than her and she showed me that no matter how sick and unattractive I looked on the outside, that she could still see the real me and that she loved me - so others would too.  

Above all I think Murphy taught me optimism in the face of adversity.  She was suffering from her own debilitating illness, an unfortunate spiralling of her health due to a spreading infection and aging vital organs in an arthritic wobbly body.  Despite this, Murphy continued to sit at my feet and support me as I completed my treatment plan.  She waited every day for the six weeks of radiotherapy for me to walk back in through the front door so she could present me with one of her stuffed pals and remind me that in the right moment, a simple gesture of love can be more effective and valuable than any words.  And on my last day of treatment, she was right by my side as we very carefully (so it could not be misconstrued with a fire cracker) popped the cork from the Bollinger and celebrated together.

Sadly, around late November last year, Murphy’s health moved into palliative care status and we knew we literally only had days left.  It was never a debate about how we would do it, having the vet come to the house and Murphy being held by both of us as the needle was inserted was always an agreed approach.  The decision about when however came with much debate and many tears.  And eventually a date and time.  

And so, exactly a year ago today, we gave Murphy the best morning we could possibly muster given our heavy hearts which included carrying her down to the waters edge at the beach and throwing her a few last sand balls so she could make a feeble attempt at chasing them – which in an incredible final sign of resilience she did. We carried out all the historic ceremonies that become critical when you know it’s the ‘last one’ like towel downs and hand delivered treats and a nice snooze with her favourite stuffed pal, Webbie.  

And then we waited for the sound of the vet’s car pulling into the driveway.  It was one of the longest mornings of my life that in an instant became all too short.  There are so many heartfelt delightful moments wrapped up in remembering this beautiful soul packaged in 35 kilos of blonde hair and expressive brown eyes – this blog cannot possibly do her justice.  I am so incredibly grateful for her friendship and love.

And so it was, a year ago today, that in the final moments of her life I had the honour and privilege of holding Murphy in my arms;  I had the intimate time to lean down and kiss her on her little grey face and I had one last opportunity to tell her she was THE BEST DOG EVER.   

Shine on your special star Murphy. xxx               

Pawprints Left By You

You no longer greet me,
As I walk through the door.
You're not there to make me smile,
To make me laugh anymore.
Life seems quiet without you,
You were far more than a pet.
You were a family member, a friend
. . . a loving soul I'll never forget.
It will take time to heal -
For the silence to go away.
I still listen for you,
And miss you every day.
You were such a great companion,
Constant, loyal and true.
My heart will always wear,
the pawprints left by you.

-Teri Harrison

Celebrating The Sadness......

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 sharing a very special lunch with someone incredibly important to me, a sister in this journey, and my left breast ached.  It physically throbbed.  And when I shared this event with another beautiful cancer sister and friend back home several weeks later, I discovered that my diagnosis almost 2 years ago had caused the same aches and discomfort for her but that she had never felt like she could tell me.  Welcome to the club.  Empathy, compassion, understanding, fear.  It’s all part of the membership.  And what comes with it is a need to slip on that armour of resilience and just get walking – the dents and scratches will happen but they are merely a distraction as you start the climb to the top of the hill.  Or if I stick to the same theme running as all of my blogs, you armour up as you take to the field for the game of your life.      

         

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

Better late than never maybe???

I dedicate this blog to my courageous Step mum Yvonne and her pillow, my beautiful dad, Lloyd
.............'When tough times come, it is particularly important to offset them with much gentle softness. Be a pillow'........... ~ Vera Nazarene


Okay okay - I accept you may have good reason to assume I'd abandoned this blogging game - that I had hyped you all up into a home run and a victory dance and blah and blah and then just nicked off home without saying goodbye.  Wrong!  I'm still here and in order to wrap this cancer journey up, I feel I have a few blogs left in me.  Because there have been a number of significant related events that have happened since early August last year (yes I know) and I'm not a fan of having unfinished business.  Besides which, I need to keep my dad happy and he has been on my case for sometime.  So clearly this one is for you dad :)

My last blog alluded to the fact that I had to make a decision to go through with having ovaries and tubes removed to ensure no oestrogen production occurred in this body of mine. I neglected to mention that along with that decision now comes frequent and uncontrollable hot sweats which for all my mates that are a good decade behind me on this one - be warned - enjoy your dry moments with gay abandon I say!  I love a good sweat up don't get me wrong but I prefer that this happens in a sauna or at the gym and not when I am in the middle of a meeting at work and all of a sudden I am the colleague melting at the end of the table.  It hadn't occurred to me just how uncomfortable and potentially embarrassing the profusely sweating world can be.  Thanks cancer - you took a good swipe at me with that outcome.  Still it was destined to happen at some stage in my life anyway and I will be an expert in ventilation techniques for my girlfriends down the track.  Always a silver lining!  

I neglected to mention in the previous blog that I had literally just returned from an amazing holiday in Bali (July 2012) in which my gorgeous friend and cancer coordinator Dr Julia Maclean ( you know, woman of science / crazy lady) and I boarded a plane destined for detox!  Yup, that's right we voluntarily flew 9 hours plus a road trip to Ubud to undertake a week of detoxification (just to be clear - NO COCKTAILS or DUDE FOOD or SUNSET SESSIONS) in the beautiful mountains of Bali.  We left our two hairy children (Murphy and Barney) in the capable hands of John who funnily enough considered a holiday in Bali with no cold beer or food for that matter to not be his idea of a fun time away.  Go figure?

It had been a promise I had made to myself (one of many) that when the chemo / nuclear blasting was over - that I would go somewhere and completely cleanse myself in order to feel healthy and whole again.  And that's exactly what happened.  Mind you, the detox started several weeks BEFORE departure as you are encouraged to 'pre-detox' for your detox I assume so that you don't arrive and start convulsing by 10pm when you haven't had your daily dose of nicotine, caffeine and alcohol (or whatever your said vice might be).  So Julia and I spent a good couple of weeks prior to leaving texting each other to ensure that we hadn't broken and ordered a triple shot latte with 8 sugars.  We were good to go!

The resort (Como Shambhala) was simply stunning.  We ate 'clean food' (read organic, healthy schmealthy juicy veggie stuff) at the beginning and the end of the week but for the majority of the time, Julia and I drank juice only - oh and a boatload of coconut water - some with oils and psyllium husk and whatever other concoction that Eve our Nutritionist recommended.  I mastered the holding ones nose technique and gulping the liquid down and we did get to the point when we heard one of us groan, we just knew instinctively that a friendly staff member in their crisp Balinese leisure suits was about to turn up with two giant size glasses of the greenest concoction you've ever seen and pop it down for us to enjoy!   Spending days drinking liquid only can do weird things to you and I found myself dreaming of chowing down on buckets of KFC popcorn chicken and looking longingly at the floral arrangements in the treatment rooms wondering what the stalks might taste like if I could just snap the bottom bit off for a gnaw?  But, it was an incredible transformation to wake every day feeling increasingly fabulous and energised! 

I have to say my idea of a week in Bali has been traditionally based around Bintang, Nasi Goreng and late nights dancing so to spend a week slurping down bright multi coloured veggie juices and considering clapping my hands at a bowl of Quinoa and 12 hours sleep - I just knew I was doing something very nurturing for my body and soul.  Do I go there and describe the treatments - hmmmm lets just say that yes, occasionally it did involve a lubricated tube and the "Angel of  Water" and some hilarious moments between Julia and I that has further cemented our friendship.  Yes I know, what goes on tour should well and truly stay there.  Enough said about that then.

We did win the award for essentially signing up to every activity on the menu AND undergoing practically every treatment available AND for stealing their local golden retriever and hiding her out in our room AND for arranging a trip to the 'real medicine man' only to uncover it was some old dude in a puffer jacket, sandals and with no teeth in which my consultation was interrupted by his mobile phone ringing!!!  Still, I purchased the $5 bag of yellow oil and smeared it on my forehead like he told me to until it leaked and ran all over my toiletry bag.  He did confirm that my cancer had gone however so Puff Daddy Medicine man rocks as far as I'm concerned.

The following week I said goodbye to Julia and I stayed on to surf at a surf camp on the Bhukit Peninsular of Bali.  I was feeling so fantastic following the detox that I actually stuck to good clean healthy food and I surfed my butt off for a week - some days spending something like 6 hours on a surfboard.  It was the perfect combination of detox and exercise and exactly what I needed to wrap the treatment phase of this cancer up.  I returned to Lennox one happy, healthy girl.

Of course I was aware that I was returning to face round 3 of surgery for me which was to remove my ovaries and tubes.  This was scheduled for early August (taking me to my last blog) and so shortly after arriving home from Bali, I was back in a hospital gown and back under the knife - but hey, I had a damn fine tan and what better place to be in for such an event - fully detoxed, feeling strong as an Ox and back at Club Med St George Kogarah!!  Perfect!

It was also the right time for me go see Stephanie my breast surgeon for a big check up - mammogram, ultrasound etc.  However here is where the fun ends and a week of anxiousness begins.  Unfortunately for me, the mammogram did show up some lumps in the right breast this time and so my week started with a mandatory and what I had expected routine check up and ended up with a right boob punctured x 6 to ensure that the biopsy was thorough.  The operation to remove the ovaries a complete doddle, literally an operation that required one overnight stay in hospital and had me back on a spin bike a few days later.   Waiting to hear if the lumps in the right breast benign - not so easy and sent me into the depths of despair having to seriously consider the 'what ifs' should it come back positive to breast cancer.  You cannot know the anxiety that is wrapped up in waiting on news such as this.  I am one of the lucky ones - I get to sit here and write about how relieved I was to hear that all was well and that the tests came back negative to cancer.  You can go home Kym.  

However it did offer me yet another life lesson on this cancer journey and it's one that is extremely close to home even as I write this blog on a rainy Saturday afternoon.  And that is that unlike me, there are others in which the news is not cause for celebration.  In which the news means another round of dreadful telephone calls to your mum and your mates and your work telling them you have to check out of life for a while.  In which the people the closest to you stop making plans for their own lives because they know you are going to need them and they have no idea how long that's going to be for.  In which you lie awake in the darkness of night and wonder where the strength will come to do it all again.  To keep smiling.  To stay positive. To fight.  I think of the beautiful people in my life right now that know exactly what that feels like......you know who you are and I look forward to every opportunity for connection and sharing whether it be at a cafe in Ballina or a restaurant in Paris.  You are my mentors, my pin up gals, my strength. 

And so it was that I gained a new depth of appreciation for all those people out there currently battling their disease for the second, third, fourth and tragically in some cases, the final time.  How do you keep fighting when you have used up every inch of your resilience to get through the last round of treatment? To take to the field and play the game of your life only to have the Umpire say you get off the bench and play again - the games not over - yes you are exhausted but you are still not safe on home base and no one else can play for you.  And it's gone on so long that it's not just you that's tired - your support crew are growing weary too.  

Yesterday my step mum opted, for now, not to undergo her final round of chemo.  For Yvonne the game has been long (over a decade now) and she's played with strength and an amazing spirit.  She is a champion in her own right and I have watched with pride and a heavy heart as she and my dad as her number 1 supporter have faced the pitcher time and time again.  No one should sit in judgement of decisions you make about your own health when only you know what you can and cant face - particularly when the game has been unfairly extended and physical and mental exhaustion is at play.  I've only had to face one innings in this game and I already know that there are scars I will carry forever as a result.  Additionally I am only too conscious that my support crew have sacrificed much to support me.  It takes a special person to keep taking the punches after every knock to the ground. It's not just you either - it's those that are helping you back to your feet, dusting you off, holding you up.  I can completely understand the decision to bring the game to a close.  

And so I dedicate this blog to Yvonne and Dad - Warriors in the fight.  A partnership that has shown remarkable love and care and above all kindness.  I salute your courage, your fortitude and your toughness.  To my dad I especially respect your stamina, positivity and the selfless sacrifices you have made to be the gentle pillow in Yvonne's life.  I am in awe of both of you.  

Much Love Squirty (aka Kym) xxx  

Does this feel like its gone on forever for you too?

I dedicate this blog to a stranger named Francy......

Wow, I just sat down to write a blog and realised my last entry was dated 30th May, just over 2 months ago! I can't believe how quickly the time has past and just how slack I've become at contributing to my very own blog. I've also uncovered that the blog templates have been completely updated and changed so that nothing is familiar so its also taken me conservatively 15 minutes just to work out how I start a new post!!?? Arent these things meant to be intuitive Mr Google??

There was a time when I wrote at least weekly if not more regularly in my blog. Perhaps I had more to share, more to off load, more to express. Bundled up emotions trapped inside what felt like a shell of a body busting to get out. Disbelief, anger, sadness - that all seems so far away from me now.  Or perhaps my excuse is that now I am way busier, living more real life, filling my days. No time to sit and write, I'm busy doing these days! Yay to that!

Or.... Perhaps I'm just slack.....

How do I summarise the past 2 months so that this entry doesn't take forever to read? There's so much to tell I am reluctant to cut corners. I am also really only ever writing these things as a personal journal of my illness and recovery. So I guess in that respect there are no rules. I cover what I cover. Nothing more and nothing less. My little brother just asked me if I ever read back over my blogs like a book about the last 9 months of my life. I've tried, I told him, but it's sometimes too emotional and raw for me just now. The reality is I am still in it. Still fighting.  Maybe later.

So a quick update on my health status. My last blog revealed the news I am not a good metaboliser of Tamoxifin, the hormone blocker my body needs to ensure I don't feed my breast cancer any further aestrogen which it apparently liked. So lets starve it I say :) After much research, second and third opinions and lots of thinking, i decided the most appropriate course of action was to go ahead and have my ovaries and tubes removed.  Drastic and permanent yes but really, I havent been one to take the minimalist option with any of this cancer fight so why start now?  The concept was introduced by Boycey, seconded by A Team Oncologist Jodi and researched thoroughly by my very lovely GP, whom I trust implicitely.

It was not an overly emotional decision for me unlike many women whom I imagine struggle when faced with the same dilemma - even at my age.  I've never been the maternal type nor have I linked my femininity to my girly bits.  Ever since puberty, I've had a very clear view that I was never going to have children.  I love kids when they belong to someone else and go home with them prefereably before they start crying.  I also hold a much stronger passion for travel and great food and adventures like being able to chuck jobs in and go kayak to some remote island, or live in a Combi van for months and it just seemed that having the responsibility of raising children could never factor in neatly with those kinds of plans. Not ever.  I stated this fact at an incredibly early age and pretty much never waivered.  Eventually parents, grandparents, friends and your favourite aunty's stop asking "when the little ones are coming" and you realise with relief that they have finally resigned themselves to the fact that perhaps you actually meant what you said. Go figure. 

But putting the emotional aspect of this decision aside, I needed to consider how important aestrogen is to other things like bone density, good teeth and happy moods. I've never really been the grumble bum type but perhaps I now have a fantastic excuse to turn an episode on at any given moment!  Kym goes postal!  Look out!  I feel fortunate to be genetically blessed with unbreakable bones and rock solid teeth (both of which have been tested as a gymnast in my younger years surviving many face plants into balance beams and vaults and more recently smacked plenty of times by rogue surfboards), and so with all of this in mind I decide I have no reason to be overly concerned.  Before I have even calculated these risks in my mind,  Dr Maclean, my Cancer Coordinator, has linked me up with Sydney's finest Gyno and Anesthetist (enter Spunk A Team part 2) Greg and Michael and I was good to go!

This decision was essentially made around early June.  So the remainder of that month saw me undertake a discrete project at work, return to regular classes at the gym and spending time with lovely friends. 

One event I do want to journal was an interesting encounter I had in Ashfield sometime in June. I was racing through the Ashfield mall trying to find something quick to eat with one arm tucked over some work documents and the other arm clutching my wallet and mobile phone. At that time, my phone rang and it was a work colleague advising me of sad news relating to the death of lovely friend (and team members) mum. As I took the call I sat down on an available bench seat inside the mall so I could rest all the paraphernalia on my lap and give the call my full attention. I hung up and sat still in a blanket of sadness knowing how deeply sad my friend would be at that very moment there with her mum. Sitting next to me was a very frail, wizened up older woman with one of those shopping carts that have two wheels and a plastic lid in which you fill your groceries. She obviously overheard my conversation (yes I know I am loud) and I assume she looked at the files on my lap and recognised the DoCS or NSW Govt State emblem.  She then turned to me and simply said 'You care a lot and you are a good person, I can tell' as she reached out her boney hand and patted my leg. I wasn't quite sure how to react so I simply said 'thank you'.  I was at that juncture where you start to wonder am I sitting next to a crazy lady or someone extremely well meaning?  She then said something like 'look at me, I worked hard and cared a lot too and now I have things wrong with me that mean I cant work and I have to buy this' and she gestured with a wave of her hand at the gluten free bread and fruits in her basket.  I acknowledged to her that I had been unwell myself assuming she could tell (my hair was very short only just growing back from chemo) but I assured her I felt great and was happy to be back working. We engaged for a very short moment and I then excused myself indicating I needed to make another call - this time to my friend which I knew would likely go to message bank so I could express my condolences.  It was during this call that I became aware that the woman had gotten up from the bench and walked away. However, when I looked down on my lap, Francy (signed at the bottom) had left me a little pink note that read: Kim/Kym........I reckon you'll make it!!! (ps 1) don't become the CEO (2) say 'no' sometimes. Best Wishes Francy (go for the long haul) and she finished with a love heart and a small bunch of red seedless grapes which sat on top of the note now sitting on my lap.

It was random in nature, borderline creepy, but more importantly sweet and kind and Francy's gesture stuck with me for some time.  Why? Well to be honest I'm not quite sure.  I think perhaps it was due to the fact that it happened at a time of hyper-sensitivity for me. Trying desperately to resume my former life. Battling with my own appearance and a strong desire to look 'normal'. Wanting to manage a new round of workload and needing to get my head into that mode at the same time as knowing that deep inside me a raging battle was going on with my own health. I think all of that colliding at one time coupled with a completely random encounter with a stranger who felt compelled to leave me a personal note of care, just resonated with me.  Kindness expressed through a gesture is a lovely gift.  But kindness expressed through a gesture between two complete strangers, especially in a small barely detectable way, has the potential to change someones life forever.  

I carry Francy's note in the front of my diary.

Been a while between innings.....

It's a cold and wet Wednesday afternoon the 30th May and I am preparing to go visit Boycey my Oncologist for an impromptu visit. I acknowledge straight up that it's been some time since my last blog and so there's actually quite a bit of catching up to do. Which I will. But right now, I'm focused on the immediate and I'm hoping that the outcome of today's visit is one of relief - I'm even prepared to take embarrassment from Boycey telling me I'm overreacting rather than discovering my concerns are warranted.

Several days ago my left breast started feeling odd. A mix of sore and kind of weird. Different to the other boob and I guess if I was honest, more reminiscent of how it felt back when the cancer was first discovered. Not that those feelings are easy to remember more than 6 months down the track. It's like when you have a pain and people ask you to get really prescriptive about exactly how it feels and where it is and how long it lasts etc. and sometimes it's just hard to describe or determine exactly. But I do know that there has been a change in 'feeling' and like anyone that has experienced cancer or any other serious health issue will tell you, vigilance and action certainly have the upper hand over casualness and disregard. Call it paranoia or being delusional but every little twinge or pain post cancer sends you racing back for check ups. I once spent half the night feeling the back of my head panicking in the dark that I had grown some brain tumour only to discover the next morning that it was an ingrown hair the result of head shave number two! Oops!

It's actually my natural instinct to want to ignore this type of thing I must say. I spent a few days kind of rubbing the area thinking 'gee that push up, tricep dip, chin up challenge at the gym is really hitting my pecs hard', and i push the bubbling concern in the pit of my stomach aside. And as there really is a competition going on at the moment at the gym involving exercising to fatigue (roll eyes here), I truly hope that the feelings are totally associated with exercising specific muscles more than I normally would. All makes sense right? I have also used the opportunity to blame a particular bra I did own (now chucked) that had ridiculous underwriting and push up bits (I mean who seriously wears these things regularly???) and that I wore for a couple of days recently in an effort to fill out a new top. Hmmm? And then I could blame a recent surf maybe? And of course there is the endless lifting (the human elevator as aptly described in my house) of Murphy. Up stairs, down stairs, in back of car and at times, just off the floor. Perhaps I've somehow hurt my boob doing that? Whatever the reason may be, I am hoping like hell, it has nothing to do with cancer.

And so, in an effort to ease my mind and stop me from inventing scenarios that involve mastectomies and a second round of baldness, I am off to see Boycey my first base coach to seek his guidance and what I hope will be reassurance that the game is on target, I'm still in play and that it's ok to keep doing those unassisted tricep dips until I shake. Additionally I am waiting on news from some genetic testing I opted to have which should tell me my body will metabolise the hormone treatment I soon need to start taking......for the next 5 years!

I doubt I will finalise this blog before I have to leave so I will update when I get home. In the meantime, my last blog had me days from completing radiotherapy and I am very proud and happy to advise that all went completely to plan. I hit that Cancer Centre on Monday 30th April armed with two dozen Krispy Kream donuts for the lovely team and a vuvuzelor hand carried from Sth Africa which I blew as loud as I could several times to mark the occasion. Discretion never was my forte.
I did uncover the 'politics' which exist between the admin team out front, the radiotherapy technicians, and the nurses when I questioned with whom should I leave the donuts??? Apparently there's a turf war raging when it comes to gifts and gestures of acknowledgement from patients. I never hung around long enough to (a) even attempt to sort it out (I'd suggest that this issue is way bigger than my breast and donuts) nor (b) see just where the gift ended and whether the staff I had wanted to personally thank but that I didn't see that day, even knew they were in the building. Oh well. They sure heard my vuvuzelor :-)

My green gown was gladly deposited in the patient bin on final use and I drove home with my support crew on that day. On this note, I wish to acknowledge the amazing team of people i love that travelled with me every day for 6 straight weeks to be with me during my zapping. The incredible John, the beautiful Bono, the gorgeous Cate and the woman of science /crazy lady Julia at some stage or another in that time, endured the waiting game sitting next to a bald Kymmy in her green gown (Ms Geisher and her aqua Kimono). But above and beyond the call of duty I wish to dedicate this blog to my mum. Mum travelled with me every day bar two sessions in all of my treatment time (an hour and a half of travel time and whatever length of time in the cancer care centre) sharing the conversations with my cancer colleagues and their families. Not once did mum complain about delays or the inconvenience to her life and in fact apologised when she couldn't come on the one occasion due to a funeral indicating that she didn't want to 'let me down'! She was a fantastic source of information and gossip on the return trip having uncovered all sorts of private information about people I will never know outside of that waiting room during the time I was being nuked. I'm not sure knowing that the chatty bloke in the hat with the prostate cancer used to have an active sex life will ever come in handy for me but hey, ma uncovered it and we shared these snippets on the drive home. Thank you my lovely mum. I love you and your solid and consistent support I have leant heavily on throughout this time. You made radiotherapy manageable and in some ways, a bit of a mother daughter chick adventure.

So, I'm safe on third and really the race to home base is a doddle from here. I need to agree to a hormone treatment plan to ensure I block oestrogen and pass all my tests. I have a big test with the surgeon late July ( the first of a number) and by then I will have undergone my planned detox to cleanse my body of the last of the chemo and radiotherapy. I will most likely be back at work in some capacity or another and finally pulling my life back together after the shattering it took since cancer diagnosis. My hair is growing back and in fact I recently enjoyed my first official haircut! Anthony and I danced and hugged each other and then he snipped about a nano inch off my hair and plastered my scalp with product declaring I was on my way to the Pink rock star haircut I've been lusting after. My hair regrowth is strong, thick but bizarre in colour however I've been convinced to keep it given all the lovely comments. The colour has a number of names....steel, ash, blue heeler or Staffordshire blue if you are a dog person, Burmese lilac if cats are your thing. Really, it's grey with a smattering of brunette but hey, I think steel sounds so much more, well, better than grey. And I'm still enjoying the wash and wear of short hair. Girls......I promise you will love it. Go for it!

I have been asked countless times since my last blog how Murphy is! I am pleased to report she's great. It's been a slow recovery but really what you should expect from a 90 year old. She has somehow successfully negotiated a sausage roll every Sunday and she undergoes hydro therapy at least three times per week. Her life is impressive. She is now carried to and from her bed, has her food heated to take the edge off and in more recent days has enjoyed her day bed next to a log fire which operates if John thinks it's too cold in the house for her 24/7. Human contact therapy has also increased with the onset of cold weather and there are countless morning cuddles in bed during coffee drinking sessions. Yes, I know it's ridiculous. But it's also fabulous and nurturing and is good for the soul. Her legs are still wobbly and if she's been swimming a lot in the day, when she shakes the water off, she also falls over. But she manages to find her feet (well 3 of them anyway) and she wobbles her way back to the car for a soggy human elevator lift into the back. The most recent piece de resistance has been a discussion by John on how he can somehow try and support her legs while she goes to the toilet as its currently a bit tricky for her in the squat position???? Do I need to say anything more? Murphy and John have morphed into conjoined twins. I'm just there for when John travels as the back up plan and the occasional access to the treat on top of the fridge. Gotta go! Late for onco appointment!

Okay......so I've consulted my base coach and he's had a bit of a poke and a prod at the 'area of interest'. I'm relieved to report that Boycey thinks the feeling is simply a response to the hammering my breast took during radiotherapy. Yayyyyyy! He does want me to have the appropriate medical tests (mammogram and what not)but is relaxed enough about this to indicate I should just wait until the allotted official time already set in about 8 weeks. His response is enough to instil a level of confidence in me that there is nothing to worry about. Welcome back chin ups! New bra! And surfboard! Phew :)

However one slight issue (well significant really) is that my gene testing has indicated that I am not a good metaboliser of the treatment Base Coach was proposing as next. Drats and double drats. Boy, this cancer thing sure does test ones resilience! A new game plan now needs to be formulated.

So what does this mean? Well, I'm not entirely sure. One option is to return to the surgeons table to have a few more (this time internal) girly bits removed. Not like I haven't done that before and hey, I've still got my special cotton very cute undies ready to impress the surgery team for a second time! Boy, they will be so excited! And I do have a VIP pass at St George Private which gets me hand delivered coffee on the morning after op. So, if that's what's required then so be it. It's not girly bits I am specifically attached to and many many women live full and fantastic lives without them. Is it bad to also admit that I figure its one less body part to actually get cancer??? :-(

Alternatively I can consider a different hormone treatment which just has a variation on the side affects to manage. I'm flexible and I can roll with the punches. And I also have some time to decide. But not forever. The cancer clock is ticking.....and its loud and every thump beats a sizeable hole in my strong but tiring heart.

I totally understand that you good people just want this game over with. It's dragged on long enough and you all need to get home to your families. I know. I feel the same. But I also am not packing up my bases and leaving without a definitive win under my belt. So please hang with me. I have decided to sit safe on third for just a little bit to contemplate my next move. I've just dropped down on the base and crossed my legs and I'm drawing the options with a stick in the dust and dirt. I'm probably going to confer with my first A Team Base Coach Jodi just to see what she thinks would work best for me. Ultimately the decision of course is mine. After all, I have to live with it forever - more importantly I have to accept the outcomes of the decision I make. Not to dwell too much on detail and specifics but when you are sitting across the table from your Oncologist and they pull up on the screen a table that has all your stats plugged in it all becomes very clinical. There are three outcomes that are graphed and presented to you to consider based on the intervention you decide to adopt. These are 1. The likelihood of survival 2. The likelihood of recurrence and of course 3. The likelihood you are going to die from this disease. Naturally you want the optimum outcome but where it gets muddied is when you need to balance that with pain, side affects and inconvenience to your life. Add in a dose of resilience and what you've got left to give. The good news for me is that I'm not even close to being tired of fighting just yet. Mate I've still got a right hook and a damn fine roundhouse kick left in me. And i am so so very grateful that I have options and the capacity for choice along with plenty of internal strength to keep plugging away at this game.

I've been teaching a pump class in recent weeks that has a song with the lyrics
Anything worth having, Sure enough is worth fighting for,
Quittings out of the question so when it gets tough, fight some more.

Seems these words mean a whole lot more to me tonight than bottom half bench presses.......
New game plan to be advised. This next ones going to have a sting in its tail and a home run in the bag. Until then, sweet dreams x

Trumped by a geriatric Golden Retriever! Is there no lengths this dog won't go to?

It's Anzac Day - April 25th - and a gorgeous day here in Lennox. I woke early enough to attend a dawn service but in the end opted for snoozing and a casual coffee on the floor next to Murphy. And while clearly this is super un-Australian of me, I can provide a very good reason for my choices.

You see this past week Murphy decided she had had enough of the health focus being on her mum ("and where has all her hair gone anyway - as part of the pack there is an expectation we all have fur!") and on the Sunday afternoon a week and a half ago, decided to have what can only be best described as a doggy stroke. John was sailing and I had been having a lovely afternoon coffee with the gorgeous Gaye when my mobile rang to tell me a neighbour had Murphy 'distressed and unable to walk' in her front yard. I had just arrived home and to be honest was completely relaxed about the call assuming that the neighbour wasn't used to Murphy's wobbly back legs and sooky ways. However when I arrived and discovered the terrible state she was in, I quickly realised this was much more serious than a case of Murphy being tired and looking for a piggy back home and a couple of schmackos.

I hoped to no avail that she would settle down and eventually fall asleep in one of her 8 beds (nope, not kidding) but in fact she continued to pant and drool and refused food so after an initial telephone consult with the after hours vet, we opted to drive her to the clinic. Michael the on call vet was amazing and diagnosed the problem immediately but made it clear Murphy would need hospitalisation for many days and that her prognosis at this stage, very poor. By the time we left her there and took the somber drive home, it was close to midnight. In the space of one afternoon Murphy clearly trumped me in the health stakes. From then until now almost every telephone call, every conversation, every sleepless hour the result of worrying that Murphy might not make it. I have longed to get to a point where cancer and my ability to beat it didn't occupy my thoughts so much but I never wanted the replacement distraction to be concern for Murphy.

Since last Friday there has been a 24 hr vigil to watch over her. Makeshift beds downstairs, a calendar of medication requirements, hand feeding, carrying outside, carrying to the car and carrying to the toilet, coaxing to stand and walk and of course, endless and endless pats and a whole lot of cuddles. Slowly, ever so slowly, i am relieved to report that she has started to improve. Her mobility is increasing and she's eating some food. But there's still a way to go. There have been many times in these past 6 days since coming home from hospital that I've sat and watched her sleeping and thought how much Murphy deserves my every effort to care for her and nurture her back to health. After all, she's been such a faithful and beautiful friend to me and has hung in during my low times. As they say, dogs are miracles with paws.

And so during this time, with all of the distraction of a very sick dog in the house, I've managed to almost complete my radiotherapy! Yes, I have less than a week to go! I want to get excited about nearing the end of this treatment phase but I must admit, the worry of Murph has somewhat dampened my enthusiasm. It's hard to believe I am almost there. Six long weeks of daily nuking of my left breast has resulted in quite bad burning to the skin and a discomfort that's hard to describe. It's not hideously painful, just provides for a general throbbing that never subsides. I'm now at the point of having to apply a dressing to the area following every radiotherapy session. It's ok though because the tubes of gel like cream are a really cool shape and I've gotten pretty good at self application. Well, good is probably a stretch but at least I can go out in public these days with it on. The first time I did it I somehow made my boob look like it had exploded in my bra top and I had gauze and fluff sticking out of several spots of my top including the back of my neck??? Yes I know, I don't know how either??

I know in my last blog I mentioned the characters one meets in a radiotherapy waiting room. Those relationships have continued to be nurtured in our green gowns within the four walls of the cancer centre sterile environment. I have enjoyed the banter and the support of my colleagues especially the compliments and sideways winks from the good old blokes in there.

"The Spanish Dancer must be buggered after trying to tango with you young lady" a particular favourite.

The impact even greater if you can imagine that many of them are sitting around with no pants on. Enough said about that. You never quite know who or what you are going to get every time you turn up for your appointment. A veritable lucky dip of characters and cancer issues. This past week I felt the heavy pangs of empathy when I met Debbie from Casino who is just starting on this part of her journey. She has both breast cancer and a brain tumour. Twice daily sessions for her and many more weeks of treatment to go. Debbie turned 60 this year and had announced to her family that it was 'her year' - time for travel and fun with less work. Two weeks later she discovered her cancer. You learn a lot about life as you sit in this room. Debbie and i moved our conversation to pixie hairstyles and laughed at the 'colour' options for our new hair and despite her sad soulful brown eyes, i detected a spunk in her that i truly hope will see her through. It also once again reminded me that regardless of the fact I am a fellow radiotherapy client, I have much cause to be extremely grateful.

My life is gradually returning to normal. I'm back at several gyms and absolutely loving every class. The energy and support network in those sweaty rooms has carried me so much throughout my cancer journey. Big love to my fitness friends.
Additionally i have had the pleasure of working on a discrete project which has given me cause to speak with many of my work colleagues recently....so good to hear their voices and share in their collective brains trust during consultations. I am lucky to be surrounded by such smart, capable women and I've missed them terribly.
And finally I am moving to a stage of recovery where I can start to make plans outside of medical appointments and schedules......soon, very soon, trips away and holidays and nights out and fun stuff within my reach.

So as I sit here watching the afternoon sunset, with Murphy snoozing beside me, I formally enter the final 3 hits of radiotherapy which will run over the next 5 days given a weekend in between. I feel more and more confident of Murph's return to good health and I think the Langill girls will have cause for many celebrations in the coming weeks.

At the close of this month it will be a half a year of cancer diagnosis and all that it holds in terms of medical intervention and recovery for me. To my fellow cancer colleagues now celebrating years of a cancer free life, I know I am only in recovery infancy. But I have to say I also feel like I've lived a long time with this demon now and I am eager to draw it to a close.

I can still hear the stadium crowd chanting my name and encouraging me to run harder.....and I can see third base is close. Only I've now realised, right at my heel is my gorgeous pal running along side me, a heartbeat at my feet and a waggly bottom and squinty eyes when the umpire finally yells SAFE on third.......for both of us.

I love you and thank you again for your support. K and M xxx

Conflabs and Confidence

It's a lovely gift when someone you respect says something or does something that indicates they have a confidence in you. It can sometimes be the smallest of gestures and at times can mean you push yourself way out of your comfort zone to ensure you rise to the occasion so as not to let them down. Its clever and empowering and i believe is one aspect that sets the difference between a manager and a leader. I've generally had the good fortune of being managed by amazing people whom I have loved and respected enormously throughout my career. Knowing they have confidence in your capacity to deliver on a specific task, identifying your strengths and capitalising is in my mind, the role of those in leadership positions. And when they express that confidence to you, it can make you feel like you are on top of the world.

As I write this blog I am reflecting on my earliest memories of being given the gift of confidence. I'm sure my parents, who were nothing but incredibly supportive continually provided in that way. But I have a specific memory of my Grandfather Gimbert (Bill) showing he had confidence in me when I was just a very young girl visiting his house in Yamba. Grandma and Grandfather moved from Sydney to Yamba to retire well before I was born. If you've ever visited you will know it is a gorgeous seaside town on the Far North Coast of NSW but for my Grandfather I am sure that was a secondary consideration after the predominance of good fishing spots. He was an avid fisherman with more rods and reels and hooks and sinkers in the garage than you can poke a stick at. And I remember clearly him taking me, just me, out with him on his boat and going fishing together. On this specific trip he refused to bait the hook for me but gestured in what could be misconstrued as a grumpy old man kind of way, that I was capable of doing it myself. It was a confidence moment that sticks with me to this day. And as he inspected my job with an approved nod and a toss of his arm out to sea to indicate I could throw my line, I felt warm and fuzzy and like I was the best ever 5 year old fishergirl on the planet. I can't recall actually catching a thing that day but it didnt matter to me. Because someone I loved and respected showed a confidence in me. And yesterday, 2 weeks into my radiotherapy, my base coach endorsed my pace and technique with a gesture of confidence.... Cancer sure picked the wrong chick because I am stomping all over this thing!

If you are any good at maths (which I'm not! - its why calculators were invented right?), you will work out that I am one third of the way through my radiation and while each day hits me with an accumulated thud, I am actually feeling tip top with minimal skin damage and almost no fatigue. I'm making new friends with my daily waiting room get togethers and I now know almost every technician in the cancer care centre by name AND whether they have pets, kids, secret talents and what they have planned for the weekend. I also know when I lie naked from the waste up on that big machine that the first 'number' (the secret radio-code these people use to communicate with each other) is 19.8 and 8.5 to the left :)
New career possibility for me? Absolutely not but I do wish to pay tribute to the Radio-oncology unit staff's daily dedication to a room full of people like me dressed in green gowns and looking anxious or in many cases very ill and anxious. The staff all have smiley dispositions and take absolute care to ensure the accuracy of their work. Thank you.

So can you describe the process please Kymmy I hear you ask. You arrive at the cancer care centre which in Lismore is a relatively new building with a clinical feel. The first time I attended John came with me and we laughed when I cautioned he couldn't park in the allocated car parking spots as they were marked for 'patients only'. John had to point out that this was in fact a parking spot for me! Doh! I still sometimes forget that I am attached to the word cancer.

You then walk in through big sliding doors into a large waiting room dotted with blankets, brochures and beanies. It's taken me two weeks but I've only just realised that while the blankets are for borrowing while you wait, the beanies you can take and I suspect get used during your bald period with an expectation you return for a new friend to use. Fortunately for me I have an extensive hat collection ( some gratefully borrowed ) AND my hair is starting to poke through so I am more and more inclined to travel commando these days. The beanies can stay for someone else to use.

You then get 'checked off' by the lovely admin staff and take a plastic card that gives you access to the stage 2 waiting room. The room is surprisingly small with a row of chairs up against both hallway walls, a couple of change rooms and tea and coffee facilities. No TV but access to an array of ancient magazines and one space set aside for those who like to tackle a jigsaw puzzle. You quickly change into your own personal green hospital wrap around gown (I prefer the exotic term Kimono :)) and then you sit and stare at each other or the carpet until someone kicks off a conversation. My experience has been that if you are a new kid on the block, you sit and eavesdrop on the others as they have the established relationships from daily attendance at stage 2. But it doesn't take long before the crew get to know you, know what you are there for and how long you've got to endure this phase of the treatment. Today for example there were two of us being treated for breast cancer, 1 x bowel cancer and a handful of testicular cancer lads. I find the men the funniest as they tend to be good old blokes, the kind you'd normally find perched on a bar stool, and they love to tell a yarn or a REALLY bad joke. However they do occasionally make me sad when I hear them comment in their blokey way that they probably won't be around to see a grandchild graduate high school or that their 'missus' will be left to sort the house out once they've gone. Defeatist yes but not knowing their reality it makes it hard to jump in with a counter argument as to why they shouldn't be so negative. So instead you catch their eye and smile and a little piece of your heart sinks.

I made a promise to myself on the first day of this dash to third base that I would dress up everyday to attend my radiotherapy. I'm not talking gorilla suit or Elvis dress up (although its not out of the realm of possibility) but just nice business style attire with jewellery and high heeled shoes. I made this decision for a number of reasons.
1. It makes me feel good to dress well.
2. I don't look in the slightest bit sick regardless of my bald head which up until a few days ago I covered with matching hats to my suits.
3. I think it's respectful for the professional staff I am meeting with every day to look my best(and if you've ever read Almost French you will understand the logic).
4. It has been the source of lots of conversation in the waiting room re: comments on my shoes, hats, scarves, perfume and yesterday, my necklace. And that sure beats talking about cancer.
5. I reckon it's lifted the game ever so slightly with a couple of my waiting room colleagues moving up from tartan slippers to casual scuffs - hey, you celebrate every milestone.
6. When I am lying on that cold machine naked from the waist up and my legs covered by my hospital gown, sometimes the only bit of me I see that feels 'normal' are my feet in my fancy stiletto shoes or knee high boots and for the few minutes of blasting, I hold onto that.
7. I want my old life back which was filled with meetings and schedules and so dressing like I am attending a meeting rather than a medical appointment draws me that little bit closer to that life.

So, that's been my approach and I will continue to uphold the promise through to the end.

From Stage 2 waiting room you are called by a technician to come with them and you're led to another holding bay which is essentially two chairs (there are two radiotherapy rooms) again equipped with trash magazines from 2010. Not that anyone looks at them. Because at this stage you are moments off being sent into the room for a blast of the ray gun! I have to say that I think this point is probably the worst stage for me. Partly because I am mentally preparing myself for yet another topless exposure with poking and prodding and shifting and laser lineups etc. and every day adds to the external burn. But more so because as you wait outside the room, another colleague is being nuked and during this process there are signs on the wall flashing warnings of keeping clear and hazard area signs splattered all over the entrance to the room and there is a beeping warning alarm that is offensive to your soul.

And then it's your turn.

The technicians are lovely and for the most part I feel should be travelling on some rampaging Contiki tour dancing til 4am instead of lining me up for therapy. When did they get so young and fresh faced? Today I met Isaac as well who is on student placement from Newcastle Uni and I swear doesn't look old enough to be bagging groceries.....oh wait, they dont do that anymore do they? Lol.

Anyway, they get you to recite your details (every day) as you are removing your gown and between very quick small talk and a series of technical numbers they set you up on the machine. They ask you to not move an inch. And then they leave. And you spend the next few minutes holding tight to bars above your head while this massive and amazing machine whirls and squeals around you. I swear I dont move a muscle. I either close my eyes or as I said concentrate on my shoes, my breathing or a spot on the ceiling. I live in fear of the machine not being perfectly lined up to hit my breast and actually hitting my lung instead. It's an extremely minimal risk but it is a risk nonetheless that I signed as part if a waiver a few short weeks ago.

And then minutes later it's over and in comes the efficient technician to give me permission to get off the machine as they prepare for the next person. I have no idea how many people they see a day but I don't think there's much time for morning tea or a birthday cake. Go team. I love your work.

My skin looks fine with only a minimal tinge of redness. I am sure that will increase with time but I'm being obedient and religiously smearing fresh Aloe Vera from the garden along with an array of lotions and potions. It seems to be working well. The fatigue they advised me I would experience has not yet ramped up and I simply feel just as tired as I would any day after teaching gym classes and running around which is exactly how I am spending my days.

Yesterday I had a game plan huddle with my third base coach Michael. He asked if a student could attend our meeting which I gladly agreed to. I sat down and he asked specifically how I was travelling physically and emotionally and whether I was able to attend the gym at all at this stage of the treatment. I replied that I had taught 4 gym classes the day before, 1 class that morning already and had another to go that afternoon so I felt really pretty happy with my progress to date. He put his pen down, pointed to his door and said jokingly 'Get out! You are wasting our time!!' he then turned to the student and smiled and said he'd get someone in that actually had issues to talk about but that there was nothing more to say to me. It was a lovely exchange which I welcomed with open arms. And as I left my base coach there was a hop and a skip in my step because I sensed his confidence in me. And just like a 5 year old on her Grandfathers boat, I felt that same lift in myself simply because someone I respect indicated through the gesture of a lighthearted joke and a wink that he is not at all concerned about my capacity to deliver on this project. And deliver I will.

So I dedicate this blog to those in management positions that hold responsibility for supporting and nurturing others. More broadly i dedicate this blog to being a leader in life and that's for all of us. The small gestures and the opportunities we all have to lift the confidence of someone lucky enough to cross your path should be seized with both hands.

I realise I'm still running but third base just doesn't seem that far away anymore......

Much love Kym xxx

Bench presses and anxiousness.....

It's Tuesday 13th of March and I'm blogging to you after smashing myself in a Pump class less than an hour earlier. It was my 5th class in two days and I felt every rep. For those of you out there rolling your eyes and saying 'she's doing too much!' I promise I am not. I'm not at full throttle but I am pleased to say I can feel myself getting stronger with every passing day. I'm not doing too much, I'm just doing what I do and it feels fantastic. I am listening to my body and right now, it's asking for more!

To be honest though, I am highly anxious about this next phase - radiotherapy starts in two days.  I'm not really sure why i am so nervous as for all accounts and purposes, it's meant to be easier than chemotherapy. The expectation is that I won't feel nauseous like you do on chemo and there are only minimal side effects. My hair is growing back and at the moment is kind of soft and fuzzy on my scalp - much like the skin of a peach :)  It feels nice when you run your hand over it - the spikes have been replaced with kind of down-like hair and i am now finding myself constantly touching it in some mesmorised state! Im digressing but in a weird way I will miss my baldness. It's been an empowering experience and has proven convenient in many ways.

For a start I've been told constantly that my head is a good shape!??? Hmmm what's that mean exactly? Apparently I don't have bumps? Do you? You won't know unless you shave your head.

See, now I know. :-)

Your travel bag for another is much less bulky without ghd, blow dryer, hair product, shampoo etc. and personal preparation time to go out significantly reduced! My hat collection is healthy and I've enjoyed wearing big chunky bling in my ears and on my neck to draw the attention away from the white shiny scalp. Mind you, on the flip side recently my head was featured as a shiny disco ball, covered in sparkles, in a pump class! Again baldness equals versatility! And if I ever backpack again - I can assure you the clippers will make a reappearance with a much more joyful shaving ceremony!

Now I really am digressing but let's just clear this question up while I'm at it - yes you lose your hair EVERYWHERE girls! Nothing more to say there.

My eyebrows are thinner but hung in there and my lashes are patchy but can still take a dose of mascara. I'm looking forward to them returning very soon. You'd be surprised at how watery your eyes get when they arent protected by lashes. I did lose one finger nail in the chemo process but the rest of my nails and toenails are just fine. The cough that plagued me for almost 4 months has finally left the building!

Why am I telling you this? Well, because radiotherapy will not cause ANY of these side effects, so why am I dreading the next phase so much?

To try and explain it I decided to consult Dr Google and I found a fantastic saying that comes from a very funny woman whom, ironically, died from Ovarian cancer in 1989. Her name was Gilda Radner - she was a comedian, actress and an Emmy Award winner.  I wanted to capture an explanation or a saying that sums up uncertainty for me. Because that's how I feel. Uncertain and quite nervous. When I think about it, it's not really the act of undergoing radiotherapy that makes me feel so unsure. I kind of know what to expect for the most part. But I think it's the elements of the radiation 'package deal' that fills me with dread. The daily grind of an hour and a half of driving to and from hospital, the waiting around in a room filled with sadness and hope, the isolated side affects, the commitment of time and my body once again to this cause. More poking and prodding.

Radner was quoted as saying....."I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned the hard way, that some poems dont rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle or end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next.........delicious ambiguity"

I am anxious because once again I'm starting over. Im facing a new stage just at a point where I'm feeling relatively healthy with small signs of personal recovery - both physical and emotional. It feels like I've just gotten to my feet on second base, im breathing heavily but the third base coach is waving me in! Geez, am I ready to run for 6 straight weeks? I'm not going to be declared safe on third until early May and that's dependent on a smooth run. May. Feels like ages away.

Don't get me wrong, I am hungry for the end of this game. And the home run can't conclude if it doesn't start so let's get into it! But if i can just hold out hope for one thing, its that the gains i have made recently are not lost on that radiotherapy table. That the uncertainty of my future doesn't detract from the hard work and effort of recent weeks. That the love and support of the here and now carries me the required distance.

And that the ambiguity or uncertainty of the next couple of months as I carefully place back together the puzzle pieces of my life, brings me healthy and happy outcomes that taste absolutely delicious. Thank you Gilda Radner.

Much love to you. Kym xxx

I just got my first tattoo!!!

I had one of those moments today, in this cancer roller coaster I currently find myself, that can only be described as surreal. Bizarre. A 'how did I get here' moment. It's happened a few times since being diagnosed and sometimes it doesn't take an event like today. Sometimes it can be as simple as driving somewhere and I rest my head into my right hand, elbow on edge of the open window, and I become conscious of the fact that I only feel scalp. Or when I am grabbing the towel in the bathroom dripping wet and I suddenly notice the incision on my left breast. Or the other day when I gathered up all of the anti nausea and 'chemo' medications, the Dexy, the Emend and the Maxolon and there were bottles and bottles and as I nursed them in my T shirt up the stairs to go into a cupboard and out of sight I thought 'how did I ever end up having to swallow all of this just to feel ok'?

Today I found myself back at the Cancer Centre in Lismore this time for a scan and what is referred to as 'planning' for my next stage - yep the race to third base is about to be on! There was a great deal of waiting around in between seeing professional staff to discuss next steps and what I can expect from 6 weeks every day (bar weekends) of Radiation Therapy. At one stage I was led into a big cold room with a giant scanning machine (my knowledge of correct medical terminology leaves a lot to be desired) and the Radiation Technicians walked me through what I can expect from the therapy - the good and the bad. I'm thinking more good than bad - if it zaps the absolute last of this cancer out of my body, I will gladly take the potential burns and the drudgery of daily drives to Lismore.

The technician offered me a rotating curtain to stand behind as I undressed and put on the gown (split to the front please Kym). It's a tokenistic gesture of privacy because the minute you walk out from behind the curtain you are asked to lie down, arms out of the gown and full top half exposed as they poke, prod, move you ever so slightly up, down, over, no too much go back - aligning you carefully on the machine. Clearly precision is of utmost importance. Finally after two technicians spent what feels like an awfully long time getting it right, they then ask you to continue holding two metal bars that are above your head and not move an inch while they draw on you, slide you in and out of the machine, speak in code to each other and then request the presence of my third base coach Michael to come in. Now I have three people staring at my breasts, drawing on me and even making a traced replica on a plastic cover as an extra triple check of the required 'zapping' area. But wait, there was more. They then moved in with the tattoo needles and gave me my first 'ink' which I had hoped would be something small, sexy and meaningful but in fact turned out to be three freckles. :-) Doesn't matter - I still feel wild and edgy and like I now need to buy a motorbike......clearly shaving ones head is soooooo 2011. I also have a new respect for the pain threshold of people who actually pay money to have tattoos placed on really sensitive areas of their body. The second tattoo for me was in the centre of my chest right on my chest plate and it really hurt! What a wimp....
The finale was the technician requesting permission to photograph me lying there, from the position of my legs to the way my hands gripped the bars above my head and all points in between.

After all of that was done, Michael nodded his approval and he and the two efficient technicians left me there to undergo the scanning process but assured me that they were just outside and could see and hear me if needed. It was during this process that I had my very surreal moment. Alone and as I lay grasping this big cold medical monster of a machine, naked from the waist up with all sorts of drawing all over me I could hear it wizz and click as it did its thing. And as I was being slowly moved further inside to be positioned just so concentrating hard on not moving a muscle I thought 'how on earth did I ever get to this place and how can this be happening to me'? Even after four months of dealing with this unwanted invader, i still question its actuality. I feel like a fraud. I am not the typical person that gets cancer, so therefore it can't really be happening can it? Even more ironic is that cancer for me occupies an enormous part of my head space. From the minute I wake up aspects of having been diagnosed with breast cancer, the symptoms related to the cure, medical appointments, dealing with the worry of its return fill my brain daily. So how is it that I then have moments of wondering if it's actually real? What's that about?

It may be because it feels like time stands still in these moments that even the act of breathing becomes a conscious effort and so it forces your brain to focus on exactly what is happening right then and there - and nothing else matters at the time other than working in partnership, for example, with a medical machine. Being in that moment means all the other aspects of your life fall away and you are alone with your body and the cancer and maybe it's all too intense?

It may be because every step of this journey is about focusing on the positive, digging the deepest you've ever dug both physically and emotionally to ensure that you give this cancer the greatest fight of your life. And in doing that you realise there have been so many distractions in your life, things you worried about or worked so hard to achieve, that are now no longer important. And the fact that cancer has given you this opportunity for a major priority rethink messes with your mind?

Or maybe it is because you thought you knew what fear felt like until you were diagnosed with a life threatening illness and now you've been provided an actual opportunity to be legitimately and completely terrified.

Whatever the reason for me today, it was a bizarre introspective moment of complete surrealism. A fleeting moment of impossibility in my head happening at the same time as the cold reality of permanent tattoo markings and scary medical machinery.

As quickly as it comes, the moment passes and you go back to making boob jokes, laughing with the friendly staff and racing to get your clothes on. Kym returns to the hospital foyer. And the wait for next stage continues.

Despite my description of what went on quietly in my head today, i am pleased to announce I am scheduled to begin the race to third base kicking off on March 15th. I am tracking well and my base coaches have all given me the big fat tick of approval! Another hurdle to get through but I feel even more confident about this next run than the previous innings. It's shorter in time for a start and although they tell me I may suffer fatigue, I am hoping that it will be minimal. Tired and sleepy! Baaaaa - i will catch up on sleep in my 90's! Right now i am regaining energy and I'm raring to go! Radiation does mean there may be some potential skin effects so sorbelene will become my new friend along with aloe vera cut fresh from the garden. And yes, it means a daily commitment of hospital visits and waiting rooms but I know already it will be my opportunity to meet new friends with their stories and their smiles. I find such strength in the resilience of the cancer colleagues i meet along the way and i am sure those undergoing radiation at the same time as me will be no different.

I know the next 2 months will come packaged with its own challenges and i am in no way dismissing the seriousness of this next round of treatment but in comparison to what chemo packs as a punch, i feel confident that this next phase will be just a friendly scuffle. Bring it on people - I love a good rumble and I'm competitive in nature. I will have radiation pinned to the floor and screaming for mercy! And this tattooed chick means business so step aside, I wouldn't want to hurt you on my way to victory.

One of the most sublime experiences in life, is to wake up feeling healthy after feeling sick...

It's day 13 after my last chemo hit. Had I been prescribed 6 or 8 cycles I would be gearing up for another dose this Wednesday. But I'm not. I'm free. And I feel better and better with every day. In terms of where im at in this game I feel like I'm on my feet and at the point of dusting off the dirt and grime and my foot is absolutely safe on second base. I'm not quite at waving to the crowd stage - but I'm only mildly winded. I just need a moment to catch my breath. Most importantly, I feel happy. Relieved. Determined.

All things considered this last chemo hit hasnt been too bad....or have I already started to forget? Wait a minute! It was hideous! Well, definitely the most unpleasant in terms of symptoms anyway. It's funny how your memory fades as you start to feel better. I guess thats a good thing? Allows women to give second children a go, athletes to return to the gym the next day and people like me to walk back into that Oncology unit.

Besides, there are the ever small gains I am quietly celebrating knowing I get to keep them. Today it was brushing my teeth. You see only a chemo colleague will understand the agony of trying to brush your teeth while your gums are throbbing and so incredibly sensitive that on really bad days you can only press the super soft toothbrush gingerly into your mouth and hope it can clean something. No back and forward scrubbing, just a tentative push of the bristles coated in a gel toothpaste called Biotene followed by Biotene mouth wash. It's not at all refreshing nor satisfying and there is no minty fresh blast at the end of the process. Often you are dodging festering mouth ulcers or at least their potential and using dental floss is a distant memory just in case you break the gum.

But today, day 13, I was feeling so positive about my progress, I ditched the soft toothbrush (bin!) charged up by electric toothbrush and I scrubbed the hell out of my teeth using normal persons toothpaste - twice! Oh the joy! When it was over I actually, and I'm almost nervous to admit this, let out a good old country style YEEEHAH and gave myself the thumbs up sign to my own reflection. Yes. It's true. But I am celebrating EVERY gain people and that's just one example of a long long list. The next few weeks are going to be fun!

So what's next in terms of treatment? Well, I have to technically finish this cycle of chemo. How long that actually takes is anyones guess but as I'm feeling as good as I am right now, I'm thinking days rather than weeks. Of course getting my hair back etc. will be much longer than that, but I'm already planning my first new pixie style in that respect. Its funny, my Grandfather whom i was actually quite close to growing up always called me 'Baldy'. I have no memory of him actually ever using my real name. I was Baldy even beside him during the last days of his life. I know he loves this new look of mine and to be honest, Ive grown into my baldness myself and have enjoyed the freedom of styling and hair products and ghd straighters. Don't get me wrong, looking forward to hair but for me, being bald has just been another aspect of cancer that began as a challenge however has in fact facilitated discovery of other things about myself. Things i would have never known otherwise.

I also have a lot of hats :-)

I am waiting on what is referred to as 'planning' for my radiation therapy. I've hassled the Cancer Care people so much wanting them to lock in a start date for me, that they 'politely' advised that they have record of my MESSAGES (said between clenched teeth) and there was no need to call again, someone would call me. Uh oh - the old don't call us routine! But I need a start date! A start date means I have an end date! And that's important to me.

In the meantime I celebrate my gains, I spend time reflecting on what the last 3 months has taught me and making plans and goals for what I want the future to bring. I continue to embrace the time I spend with people I love and doing things that make me happy. It seems so simple but i know when life speeds you up and sweeps you along - it's easy to dismiss or be distracted.

So I ask you my friends to share with me this week appreciating something small about your health - your strength, your sight, what you can smell or touch. The fact that you can run to chase your kids or the bus or along a stretch of road. If you want to change something, achieve something or make something better, dont wait until tomorrow. Do it now. It doesn't need to be big in fact sometimes the smallest personal change has the greatest impact. It also only needs to be noticed by you. Share with me finding the time to notice the sunset and when your favourite song comes on the radio, turn it up and sing it at the top of your lungs. Have a fabulous week. I love you x