Signing off (for a while)
This will be my last post for a while – as friends will already know, I’ve decided that the blog has become too large a space to share how I feel at the moment and I need to take some things offline and process them in private. With family and close friends, with professionals who are well versed in this kind of, emotional freefalling I’d suppose you’d call it.
It’s probably no surprise to many of you that Christmas and New Year completely floored us. Driving all over the country visiting friends and family, the pressure to “be happy everyone, it’s Christmas!” and I was having problems with my cough, ribs and back and generally didn’t feel well. NYE, even worse. NYE is a time for reflecting on the previous year and wondering what the next twelve months will bring. Well when you have an indication of what may well be a very definite possibility this year, it’s hard not to see the new year in with tears and heavy hearts, not for me but for the people who love me. But then again, I don’t know that do I? Anything could happen. I’m just in limbo at the moment – no treatment plan ahead – may not even be needed for a while anyway but to feel the cancer inside me, ravaging my lungs and making me cough, cough, cough, CONSTANTLY. Maybe you can imagine what that feels like and understand why I’ve hit a very big emotional wall. What do I do? What do I do?
Today I went to see my team at Marie Curie who, purely by the fact they’re qualified in every single bizarre aspect of what living with a terminal illness does to you, are the only ones I can trust with this stuff. Today, I could barely speak or begin to try and verbalise how very, very dark and complex everything feels at the moment. I just sat and sobbed, like I’d not allowed myself to in recent weeks for fear of never stopping. I can’t currently unpick it or rationalise it, so how am I meant to developing ‘coping mechanisms’ which I think I have been able to in the past? I used to have bad days and I always knew they were going to pass. Now, I have a wobble, immediately start thinking it’s something physical -“it’s my brain isn’t it? Radiotherapy hasn’t worked, they’ve been sitting there growing for the last 8 weeks and now I’m going to have a massive stroke or something!” – and realise I have lost the ability to reign myself back in and get back on track. Then start panicking on the tube, have to pop a little blue tablet (some kind of calmyoudown drug) and get off at the next station. That’s not me! How did this become me? It can’t be, and I certainly don’t want it to be. I may have limited time left so of course I want to maximise every perfect day, every perfect moment.
Here is my admission, the honest one. I cannot cope at the moment, with very much, but luckily I have recognised this for myself and am planning to surround myself with people who will know how to help me. And this means I leave this blog for a while and get well again in my head. The blog was only ever supposed to be honest but there is too much stuff I have to figure out for myself before I can cope with any level of honesty with all of you. I’m turning into someone I don’t want to be – someone poisonous and angry and frightened of the world – and I have to nip that right in the bud. If my ‘soul’ isn’t happy and at some kind of peace, then what hope have I got for my body? Which is doing relatively ok, given the circumstances.
So, I bid you farewell for a while. I hope not forever. I hope to be able to return in a few months and tell you all how I cracked the fear that is seeping into my bones every day. I know it’s possible, I know there are still sparks of peace and joy in me somewhere but I need some time with people who know me to see if we can find them again. Goldenballs has, as is always his way, surprised me beyond belief. He’s not a talker, never has been, but occasionally a look or a gesture or a very simple act will have a thousand words behind it, and I just know. Whatever else 2012 brought us – one too many brain tumours mainly – it also brought us our marriage which looking back now, I’m not sure how either of us ever managed without. In my little pit of darkness, he is still a very bright light. And I’m sure in his own pit of darkness, I am his too.
Writing this blog has brought me much comfort and I hope it will soon do so again. Thank you all for reading and I hope you understand. Please don’t fear I have turned into a manic depressive, I can still laugh, work, iron GB’s shirts, feed the kittens. You’ll still find me arsing around on Twitter (of course) so I’m not totally disappearing but it’s mainly talk of Coronation St than cancer. I haven’t lost the plot so you don’t have to avoid me in the street. Well you can if you want. I’m just a bit sad sometimes and I’m going to learn to be un-sad. That’s all.
See you when the sun is out again, metaphorically and physically x