Almost
2011 Sister diagnosed with and treated for a malignant sarcoma on her leg.
2012 Sister-in-law diagnosed with incurable brain cancer.
2013 Sister diagnosed with and treated for Stage 3 BC.
2014 Sister's BC returns, metastasised to lungs and liver.
2015 Sister-in-law dies.
2016 Father treated for aggressive prostate cancer. Sister dies.
2017 I'm diagnosed with BC.
2018 Chemo, double mastectomy and reconstruction.
Eight years of cancer and death. I just wanted to get through this year without anyone being diagnosed with, treated for, or dying from cancer. 2010 was the last time this happened. I've thought about it every couple of weeks all year, and more frequently as we got closer to the end of the year.
We almost made it. Two and a half weeks to go. The finish line was in sight.
Two years to the day that my husband went round to my parents' house to tell them I had BC, on the day I had my re-excision for margins, my father tells me that his prostate cancer has metastasised to his lungs. Two years to the hour.
It is staggering. Not that his cancer's back, but that for the ninth year in a row, we are here yet again. Prognosis is uncertain at this stage, the spots are tiny, yet to be biopsied and could possibly be held indefinitely at bay with hormone supression. But chemo could also be on the cards, as of course is his death. He's 83 and in very good nick, but I am SO angry, and so defeated. It's not the tragedy of dying of cancer at 47, but after everything we've been through in the last decade it's a cruel, cruel blow.
We're not telling the children now, and we may never, but if it comes to it, how on earth am I going to do it? The youngest two, my sister's kids, lived all their lives with my parents until they came to live with me. They are deeply traumatised, there are ongoing psychological and behavioural issues that are monstrously hard and hugely stressful to handle. Progress is slow and fractional.
Some weeks ago I told my psychologist that while I was making huge efforts to get myself onto an even keel, and making efforts towards leading a life that was bearable, hope was not something I had. She maintained that hope was human being's superpower, and that she was going to continue to try to get me to hope again. Bitterly this demonstrates why I am right. If I dare to hope, if glimmers of hope spring uncalled for from my subconscious, than my reality slaps them back down again. Thank goodness I didn't let hope back into my life. Thank goodness I stopped it when I started to feel it. Thank goodness I caught it and suppressed it. Because how I feel now would be worse, so much worse. If I'd received this news in a state of hopefulness... instead I feel grimly prepared for the horror to come.
It's really hard to see the point anymore.
Almost. We almost made it.
2012 Sister-in-law diagnosed with incurable brain cancer.
2013 Sister diagnosed with and treated for Stage 3 BC.
2014 Sister's BC returns, metastasised to lungs and liver.
2015 Sister-in-law dies.
2016 Father treated for aggressive prostate cancer. Sister dies.
2017 I'm diagnosed with BC.
2018 Chemo, double mastectomy and reconstruction.
Eight years of cancer and death. I just wanted to get through this year without anyone being diagnosed with, treated for, or dying from cancer. 2010 was the last time this happened. I've thought about it every couple of weeks all year, and more frequently as we got closer to the end of the year.
We almost made it. Two and a half weeks to go. The finish line was in sight.
Two years to the day that my husband went round to my parents' house to tell them I had BC, on the day I had my re-excision for margins, my father tells me that his prostate cancer has metastasised to his lungs. Two years to the hour.
It is staggering. Not that his cancer's back, but that for the ninth year in a row, we are here yet again. Prognosis is uncertain at this stage, the spots are tiny, yet to be biopsied and could possibly be held indefinitely at bay with hormone supression. But chemo could also be on the cards, as of course is his death. He's 83 and in very good nick, but I am SO angry, and so defeated. It's not the tragedy of dying of cancer at 47, but after everything we've been through in the last decade it's a cruel, cruel blow.
We're not telling the children now, and we may never, but if it comes to it, how on earth am I going to do it? The youngest two, my sister's kids, lived all their lives with my parents until they came to live with me. They are deeply traumatised, there are ongoing psychological and behavioural issues that are monstrously hard and hugely stressful to handle. Progress is slow and fractional.
Some weeks ago I told my psychologist that while I was making huge efforts to get myself onto an even keel, and making efforts towards leading a life that was bearable, hope was not something I had. She maintained that hope was human being's superpower, and that she was going to continue to try to get me to hope again. Bitterly this demonstrates why I am right. If I dare to hope, if glimmers of hope spring uncalled for from my subconscious, than my reality slaps them back down again. Thank goodness I didn't let hope back into my life. Thank goodness I stopped it when I started to feel it. Thank goodness I caught it and suppressed it. Because how I feel now would be worse, so much worse. If I'd received this news in a state of hopefulness... instead I feel grimly prepared for the horror to come.
It's really hard to see the point anymore.
Almost. We almost made it.
