Finish line in sight

I’ve never been good at maths. I’m a words person. Numbers are often like a foreign language to me.

So when I initially calculated how long my treatment would go for, it appeared as if I’d be finishing up in April 2011. Eighteen months since I found the lump.

Nope.

My oncologist (who is thankfully excellent with numbers), just advised that I should be finished treatment by December this year. Almost five months earlier than I’d thought. And better yet. It would be finished before Christmas!

My doc has ordered Nik and I to go on a holiday at Christmas time. “You’ll deserve it,” she said. We had been planning to go away next year for my 30th birthday, slotting it in between treatments and told the doctor so. She said, “Well, you just have to go away twice then!”

Doctors really are some of the smartest people around!

Tattooed lady

Much to Nath, my younger brother's disappointment, I have never really been interested in getting a tattoo. I think it has something to do with my instinctive fear of needles. Or just my brilliant common sense.

But when diagnosed and going through treatment, Nath would say to me that if I can live through that, then surely I am brave enough to get a tattoo. He even designed one for me. I'm, um, thinking about it. Maybe. Probably not...

When I discovered that I'd actually have to get tattooed for radiotherapy, Nath was the first person I told. He was overjoyed. Until I told him they weren't all that interesting. Rather, they would resemble black freckles that would help the radiation team line me up in the right spot each time I needed to get zapped. Still, Nath thought it was at least a start.

Yesterday I got my four new little black freckles. Truth be told, they actually look more like blackheads. Yes, very attractive, I know. I'm sure that before long, I'll forget they're actually tattoos and try to exfoliate them away.

Far from being inked in a back alley tattooing parlour, by a bald man, with a long goatee, minimal teeth and loads of scary pictures on his body, I was tattooed in the sterile confines of a hospital. The nurse dabbed blobs of ink onto my chest, then using something that looked like a big sewing needle, pricked my skin and pushed the ink into the tiny incisions. Not exactly my idea of a fun day out, but it was interesting.

I texted Nath after leaving the hospital. I told him that there's no way I'm ever getting a real tattoo. He thinks he'll be able to wear me down. I'll just let him believe that for a little while.

So now I'm the tattooed lady. But you'll practically need a magnifying glass to see them.

Carrots

Everyone needs a carrot. That’s what my Aunty Cheryl (on Nik’s side) says. Cheryl is an amazing woman for many reasons. But just one of them is that she is a breast cancer survivor.

When I was diagnosed, Cheryl told me to keep my eye on the carrot. You know, that goal or aim dangling out in front of you that you need to strive for.

I’ve already chomped my way through a few carrots. And I’ve got a few more in the vegie crisper waiting for me.

The Mother’s Day Classic Race is one of my next ones. It’s about six weeks away and I’m really looking forward to it.

The one after that falls only a week later. Nik’s and my cousin, Emma is getting married and we are going to the wedding. A party. Something to celebrate. It means I’ll get to buy a new dress. Perhaps not very exciting for some, but I haven’t really dressed up since being diagnosed. I haven’t bought any new clothes either. I’m both nervous and excited about getting a new frock, as my body has changed since I last bought clothes. Plus, by then, I’m going to have hair! It’ll be short, but I don’t care – it means that my ears won’t be pinned to my head under my scarf all day! True, small things, but they’re still carrots to me.

And as I munch through these couple of carrots, I’ll be sure to plant a few more.

Common cancer

To many, cancer has simply become as humdrum as the common cold. We hear about it so often in the media that a lot of people become immune to the word. And more importantly, what the word actually means and entails.

Cancer is as far away as possible from the common cold as you can get. Sadly, not everyone realises this. If only it could be treated with a dose of cold and flu medicine and be cured in a week. Instead, those who know it, understand that treatment lasts a lot longer than a week, and is far more complex than a couple of tablets.

I was talking about this to my oncologist recently. She said that like me, many of her other patients have encountered this attitude. And even she has noticed the shift in society’s opinion about cancer and cancer patients. She was saddened and shocked by this, as she believes that cancer is one of the most serious illnesses around.

Indeed it is. Perhaps more so to those touched by it, patients, family and friends included, than to those who only hear the word. This is why those affected by it need a little bit more understanding. True, no one knows exactly how a patient feels, but a little compassion certainly makes the world of difference.

Power of words

As a writer, words are pretty important to me. I believe in the magic of them, the beauty of them, and the power of them. Words have destroyed people and countries, and they've uplifted them too.
So when I was diagnosed with cancer, I decided to select my words carefully. It actually took me about a week before I could actually say the word cancer - for the first while it was the lump. And then I started thinking about the words that would describe what I'd be facing for the next year or so.
First up, cancer wasn't going to be a battle or a fight. It is a challenge and an experience. I didn't want to have any negative words associated with it. And as time has gone on, there have been many beautiful words that have become part of my cancer experience: hope, truth, faith, support, courage, honesty, strength and love.
It's incredible just how different you feel when you use positive words instead of negative ones. And it is just as easy to use brighter ones than darker ones. But it's also important to know that there's infinite meaning and depth to all words, and this can change depending on how they are used. I'll sign off this post with something I'd like you to consider. It's something Jeff, my father-in-law (melanoma survivor) said to me when I was diagnosed; ''Cancer is a word, not a sentence.''

Support networks

It's funny. And a little sad. You don't realise just how much you are loved and how strong your support network is until something drastic - like cancer - befalls you.

When I was diagnosed, the flood of kindness was amazing. I received cards, letters, donations on my behalf to the National Breast Cancer Foundation, flowers, food (including loads of chocolate), books, CDs, hugs and kind words. Most from family and friends, but some from people I hardly knew. I couldn't believe that so many people wanted to wish me well. Their offerings made me dissolve into tears. But their support also gave me so much strength.

My core support network is made up of my family and my closest friends. They each help share the burden that is breast cancer. Even if they don't know exactly what it feels like, they each help in their own special way.

Even Belle, our five month old kitten is part of my support crew. She's pictured here with my sneakers. She's quite fond of attacking the laces as I get ready for a walk. One of the reasons we got Belle was to bolster our spirits - and she certainly has brought much love and laughter into our home.

But I've found that support goes beyond our inner circle. There's a group of amazing women called Breastcare Nurses, who look out for breast cancer patients. They come and visit you on the day of surgery and stay in touch through the entire treatment process. They are like little rays of sunshine.

There's also volunteers with the Cancer Council Connect service, that puts people with cancer in touch with survivors with similar stories. I've talked to a few women who've been there and done that, and although they are relative strangers, they've helped.

Plus there's a wide world of people out there that know just how cancer can play with your life. They rally together for events like the Mother's Day Classic and the Girl's Night In. They form part of a community that is thousands strong.

Every single one of these people make up a support network - my support team - that helps me through the little things and the big things. And I know I couldn't do it without them.