Ep.19: Cancer v Covid

The perfect homecoming gift, a candle from Al and Kirsten that says it like it is!

Its Tuesday 24th March, 2 week’s after my surgery and we’re due to move house on Friday.  We have nothing packed and the removal firm have just called to cancel on us because last night Scotland went into lockdown and Covid-19 has moved from background noise to centre stage.  But for me I feel like I’m watching the Corona virus story unfold at one remove, it’s just one more layer of surreal which wraps itself round my already surreal feeling life.    I keep having moments when I drift off only to suddenly snap-to and the memory of my diagnosis and everything which has subsequently happened comes flooding back into my consciousness and I’m breathless with the shock of it all.  Each time it feels like waking up to realise the nightmare is real.  I still don’t recognise myself in the role of cancer victim but now I have to add Covid dodger and mover-under-lockdown to that unfathomable mantle.

The seroma on my back (a cushion of fluid which drains from my wounds and puddles in my lower back) is pushing against my spine and its impossible to get comfortable.  I called the Breast Clinic for advice yesterday and was told to hold on as long as possible as they don’t want me in the hospital if can be avoided. I held on another 24 hours but, in between panicky conversations with our buyers and solicitor, I call and beg to be seen and drained.   300mls is drained off and the relief is instant.  I can walk normally again, out of the clinic and into the chaos of how on earth we’re going to find boxes and pack the entire house in the next 48 hours.

Jenny from over the road takes the form of an angel, not only ferrying me to the hospital but bringing freshly baked cakes and a willingness to pack while I lie miserably unable to contribute.  Whenever I’m left alone I lurch into a frenzy of action, knowing I’ll be barked at to behave and rest every time David or Jenny reappears. 

My surgeon calls, our post-op appointment having been rearranged to the phone rather than face to face, the post-op pathology results are in.  Three tumours found as expected but all of them smaller than predicted, 'you don’t sound happy' he says, 'this is a really good result, this is good news'.  I am happy I tell him, I’m just a bit overwhelmed by events.  I feel I’ve disappointed by not being capable of the right response but my emotions are so raw I’m not sure I trust myself to respond to anything just now.

With a heady, stress-laden mix of of rule breaking, socially distant packing (sort-of) and the remarkable compassion and relaxed attitude of Andrew, owner of the house we were trying to buy, all combined with David’s utter determination for us not to be derailed we somehow move.  By Thursday evening we are camped out in our soon-to-be-if-we-jump-through-the-legal-hoops-new home and my bruised and broken body has found a place to recover.  Meanwhile the Covid noose tightens all around and I’m astonished that we managed to move, possibly one of the last house moves in Scotland.

Under Covid lockdown I increasingly find the stories of other cancer sufferers, victims, warriors - I’ve no idea what I am any more – excruciating to listen to.   I can’t cope with the idea that some people, further back in their own cancer journey than me, will have had the pause button pressed on their treatment.  The thought makes me bend double in empathetic misery.  I simply can’t imagine how I would have coped had I been one of them.  I almost feel guilty for my good fortune, for how “lucky” we’ve been with my cancer.  

One evening I find myself curled up with B on the sofa and there’s a plee from a cancer charity, done through the story of a cancer victim, and it completely undoes me.  I weep, clutching her to me while I stab blindly at my phone to donate.  I seem continually caught up by what might have been and find trouble pressing the reset button.    You don’t have cancer anymore I tell myself but it doesn’t stick.  While everyone around me seems capable of celebrating my becoming cancer-free my brain is stuck on repeat and instead of whooping with delight, shouting 'cancer free, get me!' all I can think is 'holy fuck I’ve had cancer, me, I’ve had cancer, how did that happen?' and once again Covid recedes into the background as I become more and more self-absorbed and obsessed with my personal battle.  

'Cancer you’re still a total cunt' I mutter darkly as I limp on, licking my post-op wounds.