I wake up in the middle of the night because I am too hot, or my toes are sticking out of bed and have gone numb or I want a drink of water or the dogs are barking. In those bleary seconds before I move, I forget I have cancer. My life is simple, unremarkable, normal.
And then I move and the realisation that Life Sucks really hits me because it hurts to move and I instinctively use my right arm to throw off a blanket, full up the duvet, reach for a glass of water, turn on the light.
And my right arm hurts when I use it and there is now some tubing in it attached to a bulb and fluid draining out of it and the plaster which keeps the tube in place is over my scar which itches and in my armpit which means I can't wash properly and the tube is full of icky coloured stuff, which puts me off my breakfast (and lunch and supper!).
And quite frankly, this makes me all a bit snippy and cross.
I sometimes lie there wondering when I will die and what will happen if I do. HWISO and I have had these conversations in the past, slightly jokingly. Now, we have them in all seriousness.
"You are not to stay here" I say. "You have a tendency to shrineage and it will be impossible for another woman to live here after me. It could be all a bit "Rebecca" like."
"But I don't want to get married again."
"You do, if you know what's good for you."
Tears.
"Let's not talk about it."
I am not dying. It is not terminal. There is a lot of hope that I will recover and it will never reoccur. This is a chronic condition, not a terminal disease. For me.
For others, they have no choice. That is why I support this campaign so very much. Let's talk about dying and make sure your loved ones know what you want.
Dying matters.
And then I move and the realisation that Life Sucks really hits me because it hurts to move and I instinctively use my right arm to throw off a blanket, full up the duvet, reach for a glass of water, turn on the light.
And my right arm hurts when I use it and there is now some tubing in it attached to a bulb and fluid draining out of it and the plaster which keeps the tube in place is over my scar which itches and in my armpit which means I can't wash properly and the tube is full of icky coloured stuff, which puts me off my breakfast (and lunch and supper!).
And quite frankly, this makes me all a bit snippy and cross.
I sometimes lie there wondering when I will die and what will happen if I do. HWISO and I have had these conversations in the past, slightly jokingly. Now, we have them in all seriousness.
"You are not to stay here" I say. "You have a tendency to shrineage and it will be impossible for another woman to live here after me. It could be all a bit "Rebecca" like."
"But I don't want to get married again."
"You do, if you know what's good for you."
Tears.
"Let's not talk about it."
I am not dying. It is not terminal. There is a lot of hope that I will recover and it will never reoccur. This is a chronic condition, not a terminal disease. For me.
For others, they have no choice. That is why I support this campaign so very much. Let's talk about dying and make sure your loved ones know what you want.
Dying matters.
Dearest Charlotte, just came on to get an update and am shocked at your news. My prayers and deepest love I send to you. Fight strongly and passionately as you know you can. You have so much to give to yourself and others. You are the rock in a frock and the owner of massively big pants. My inspiration and mentor.
ReplyDeleteI don't know what else to say except I love you. Be brave and strong my friend. We still have to meet and am working on this.
Grace xxx