The last few weeks have been strange. I’ve come to the blank page on several occasions and found myself staring into space feeling like I have absolutely nothing to say. Nothing new anyway. No shortage of thoughts buzzing around in my somewhat soggy brain but a feeling of reluctance about writing them down and sharing them.
Surgery a few weeks ago. Nothing to worry about, just a straightforward and final procedure to improve the er, look of things in the chest area. Compared to the ordeal of a mastectomy this latest trip under the surgeon’s knife is really barely worth mentioning – could almost have been called a mini break. One night away from home, breakfast in bed, complimentary paper and no kids. I really know how to live.
The sensible, rational me knew that there was nothing to worry about. That I wasn’t being admitted into hospital as a sick person and so there was no need to behave like one. The sensible, rational me gets dwarfed and shouted down by a neurotic, fear ridden crazy lady and I spent the days leading up the op in a state of real anxiety. Pre-op blood tests are routine for anybody about to go under the surgeon’s knife but after cancer they carry a little more weight. Hardly surprising, par for the course etc but nearly three years on I wonder if I should be managing the concerns I feel a little better?
‘It’ll get easier’ That’s what everyone said in those early, post treatment, days as I stumbled around doing my best to start living in a vaguely normal way again. And it does, kind of. You have days, weeks and if you’re lucky months of not giving illness much thought, you feel fighting fit and warrior like. You hit certain milestones, celebrate life and good health and then get on with the important business of living. That’s the idea, anyway.
I’m yet to master the art of fearless living and doubt I ever really will. The real victory is learning to live with it, link arms with it or simply just stick two fingers up at it. In the nicest possible way, of course..
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