Why It Hurts

“There are memories that time does not erase... Forever does not make loss forgettable, only bearable.” 
― Cassandra Clare, City of Heavenly Fire

As I have done a lot lately, I have tried to write this blog entry many many times before. But once I wrote the last word, something held me back from putting it on here for everyone to see. I can’t put my finger on it exactly - what it is that is wrong with them. Maybe I was too honest, or maybe I was too dark or maybe it was a band-aid job to cover what I really wish I had the guts to say. Whatever it was, those graveyard entries were not meant to be so I am hoping that when I get to the end of this one, I will press “publish” and finally get some words out there into the web universe. I will start with the good news. I did in fact ace my last PET scan which my Facebook world would have found out about many weeks earlier. This is becoming a regular thing and it is truly fantastic to continue on in this state of remission. The whole scanning process is a mental rollercoaster - you go up, you go down and basically all around the entire spectrum of emotions. I am always so shocked how weird I feel afterwards. I feel like I should be screaming from the rafters, cracking open a crazy pricey bottle of bubbles and celebrating this special thing called Life! But I often feel lost, angry and confused by my own reactions. You prepare yourself for every possible alternative and I guess that mental exercise really messes with you. I always recall those precious moments before I head to the hospital to get the results and I always think - “Are these the last real normal moments I have before I take a sudden turn down an incredibly dark road with no way out?” It is always when I am giving my daughter her last hug and kiss and hoping this isn’t our last untainted memory before it all falls apart again. Having to even entertain those kind of thoughts must really mess with your head and might explain the weird place I am often in after this process concludes. So we are still cancer free. What’s next? Ever since a cold and dark day in November, 4 years ago in a fluorescent lit doctors consultation room, I was told I was special, that I was a mutant and that parts of my body wanted to actually kill me. It wasn’t a total shock, I had been expecting it in a way and it also gave a logical reason why a 31 year old new mother would suddenly be fighting cancer with no warning. In a freaky messed up way, it made sense out of the madness swirling around me. It answered the crazy question why my mother and I ended up fighting breast cancer at the exact same time. I had the BRCA 1 gene or as I apallingly read lately in an article - the Angelina Jolie gene. Sorry Angelina but it ain’t yours and there really is nothing sexy or glamourous about this gene. Ever since that day, my journey got a little longer and a lot more complicated. First, we removed my one lone healthy boob to give me some asexual symmetry. It was a good thing I decided that at the time because had I reconstructed the one, I would have been external uni boob, as after all the extra radiation treatments, scarring and surgeries, there is no chance that I will ever be given a new pair for Christmas. This the boob-free body I will live and die with folks. So with two bombs gone, there was only one more to deal with. It has been the harder of the two because of what it signified and of what it would be taking away. BRCA 1 gave me an almost 85% chance of getting breast cancer but it also gave me a 75% chance of getting ovarian cancer. So what does a girl do next? She removes what she has to in order to stay alive because what other choice is there. Now I have been public with my struggles to want a second child and I dreamed that maybe it would become real one day if I survived my relapse. My logical side told me it was impossible and taking risks weren’t worth it after everything but the fantasy side of me kept on dreaming and wishing that maybe it could happen. This dreaming wasn’t helped by my daughter’s strong desire for a sister and her constant questions as to why I couldn’t give her one - just one. It was so hard to hold in the tears whenever she asked me that - knowing the answer that she would just never understand..not now. But after chasing after my little miracle and searching high and low for some doctor to tell me there was a way, I have come to the point of acceptance that this isn’t going to happen. The decision has been made and the grieving must now begin. On Wednesday morning this coming week, I will walk into the hospital and resign myself to the fate that I have been given. No more fighting, no more dreaming. The time for those things has come to an end. Now there is nothing but the eery silence that comes with the reluctant acceptance of a situation you no longer have the strength to fight. It is really quiet now. Only I can hear the tiny aches of my broken heart or the little sobs that I hold deep in my throat so that no one can hear my pain. Like when you squint your eyes up so tight and hard to hold in those tears that so desperately want to flow. Because you know if you let just one tear escape, there is waterfall of pain following closely behind it and you just don’t have the strength to keep it all in and you don’t want anyone to know how much it hurts. That is how I feel right now and that it how I will feel when I put my brave face on. That mask has come out so many times over the last few years that its edges have become worn and bent kind of like my heart feels today. So I will need the strength of a thousand armies and the bravery that only a mother would know. To tell myself why I am doing this - it’s for them I whisper quietly under my breath. It’s to keep me here for them. That’s the most important thing in the world right now. And when the scars have healed on the outside, I will start the healing on the inside and hope that it will all be okay. It will all be worth it because I am here and the pain will be weakened by their love. I just wish it could be easier sometimes….some days feel so much bigger than you can handle and I already feel engulfed by what it waiting for me in just a few days. I just need to keep my eyes on the lifeline that I building through all these decisions that will keep me connected to my little family. I will be alright... I have to be.

OBB

Four Years On...

Four Years On...

"It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace." Chuck Palahniuk

Again my blog has escaped me and I am months past the last entry. I really did like my last entry and I have realized time again that the more chaotic my life and mind are, the less likely I am to find the inner peace to form a single thought strong enough to translate into an entry. This was never a blog of my sub conscious babbling. I have tried so hard to make every entry matter and be something I could be proud of but for some reason those moments of clarity and inspiration are less and less.

Since I last wrote, I went to Canada with my daughter to see my family which was both therapeutic and lovely. There is something so effortless and comfortable about being with your clan - just like the soothing feeling of your favorite pair of sweats. And it fills my heart with such joy to see my daughter so in love with her cousins. She thrives so much around them and it brings out the extrovert in her. It makes it that much harder to deal with the distance and the fact that we only see each other once if not twice  a year if lucky. My side of the family is very small and we need to stick together.

I also started working a reduced workload which has as predicted been very hard to do. I struggle so much with just letting go and saying no. I want to deliver and I want people to feel they can rely on me. Being on sick leave doesn't exactly instill that vote of confidence that I am after. But I am really trying this time and not losing out on the opportunity that I have been given. Rest, relax and reboot are my aims of the day. I am also embarking on a happiness project because I have realized that I am not exactly where I want to be. The last four years have taken a clear toll on me and I know myself well enough to know when I am not being the person I want to be. I so desperately want to be that person who squeezes everything out of life and appreciates the good stuff. I continue to live in this perpetual state in which I numb the world out through white noise. I am here of course and I smile, laugh and say the right things but inside I feel so bloody tired of making light of it all. So I will see how it goes and if anyone is curious, I am reading "The Happiness Project" by Gretchen Rubin. It is definitely worth a read if you want to clear out your physical and mental clutter.

And to finish off - it has been a big week for me but I forgot to properly acknowledge it so I am doing it now. Firstly it was my 4 year cancerversary which is both a painful reminder of all the struggles and suffering I have endured but also a huge celebration that I am still here and cancer free. Not everyone is so lucky and considering the extra bonus round I had, I am especially grateful to be here. It is so weird when this day comes around - it makes me sit back and revisit all those events that took me to today. The roller coaster of emotions that range from shock, fear, bravery, anger and finally relief. My cancer story is a patchwork quilt made up of so many colors, textures and experiences that will stay with me forever. In addition, we also had the International Triple Negative Breast Cancer Awareness Day which is of course of importance to me and my family. TNBC is one nasty ass bitch that tends to target young women and be much more ruthless in its wrath. We currently have no targeted treatment for TNBC unlike the other more common kinds of the disease so research remains essential to getting to a point where there is a specialist kind of black ops treatment available that will kick TNBC into another stratosphere. But for now I will remain hopeful and optimistic that the kind of experimental treatment they used on my relapse (and that so far has worked!)  will become the norm and TNBC will no longer have the sinister reputation it does today. I thought it was fitting to roll back the clock and repost my first ever cancerversary entry on this blog. I think it so fittingly captures the raw emotion, denial and shock that comes with a cancer diagnosis especially one that came with absolutely no warning. It is strange re-reading my own words and how much more optimistic and less weathered by trauma I was back then. That girl who wrote those words could teach the me of today a thing or two.  So let's hop in the time machine...

Four years ago in a hospital exam room in Oslo,Norway:

Me: So I just wanted to come in to make sure everything was healing ok – you know me worry worry worry about everything.

Nurse: I see you are alone today. You usually always come with your husband but he isn’t with you today.

Me: No – I didn’t want to bother him with a routine appointment.

Nurse: Hmmm…

Doctor: Well everything looks to be healing fine but I think you should sit down. (She stares blankly at me, looks at her computer screen and takes a breath). I have some bad news.

Me: What do you mean?

Doctor: We have found malignant cells in your biopsy. You have breast cancer.

Me: What does that mean?

Doctor: You have cancer.

The shock took over and I was trembling with fear. I handed my phone to the nurse and told her to call my husband and tell him to come now. There was no way I could get the words out to him myself. There was no way I could tell him what had just happened. The next minutes that ticked by felt surreal and like I wasn't really there, as they told me what I would need to be ready for and that so many women survive breast cancer these days.

Me: I am sorry but I am not listening to a word you are saying. I am somewhere else.
Doctor: Ok. I am sure this all very upsetting for you.

Truth be told I was using every ounce of energy to hold the pieces of myself together and not fall apart…not yet. A million questions zoomed around my brain – none of them good. It was just so hard to believe it was happening to me. The moment my husband arrived in the room, I felt more secure. I wasn’t alone. He was so strong, my anchor and just sat down beside me, held my hand and asked the right questions. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t cry – he kept it together for me which gave me so much strength. That is the type of person you want beside you when your world crumbles – a sturdy stable refuge when everything else is spinning out of control around you.

When we walked out into the corridor, the tsunami that had been growing in strength and momentum finally crashed. I ran into the washroom and dialed my mother’s number. It didn't matter that it was the middle of the night, I needed her. She was the first person I told those three words to (amidst uncontrollable sobs of the deepest pain I have ever felt) – I have cancer.

Those three words changed my life. They changed how I looked, how I felt and how I see. Of course it was predominantly a nightmare but I have gained such deep insight into myself and life. An insight that would have taken a lifetime to learn. So it is not all bad.

So one year on, I am happy to be able to call myself a survivor. I am here, I am breathing, I am living. And in the words of my husband in those dark early days, “ We will beat this, no matter what.” And we did.

Love, OBB