How’s that open wound? Fancy rubbing some salt in it?
You know your day is not going well when you’re huddled in a disabled toilet crying in the mirror and trying to catch your breath before someone outside thinks there’s someone dying and/or having sex in the cubicle. And it’s not quite 10am.
That’s how I found myself one drizzly Friday morning. Hyperventilating and snotting all over myself in the loos of a charity event for women with breast cancer.
Several months ago, before the exploding boob incident, my Breast care nurse (or maybe my doctor, I forget) had mentioned that there was an overnight, free event I could go to, run by a breast cancer charity. I’d meet people in similar situations to mine, younger than the normal 50 years+ women with breast cancer, get some information on moving forward (as they put it) and attend some group sessions to share our experiences and challenges of life with and after breast cancer. I’ll be honest, at the time I thought “a night away would be nice. Yes please”. Then I felt guilty and offered to come home (rather than stay at the London hotel) so that the charity could save money, but they explained that it worked better if attendees were wholly ‘committed’. So I applied and got a spot. I felt like, at the very least, I might get a night away from home, guilt-free, and maybe a hot uninterrupted bath and 10 hours sleep.
It never really occurred to me that the ‘course’ (for lack of a better word) would be so incredibly hard for me. It should have. Because it really was.
The day before the event, I was getting cold feet and had considered not going, but I thought it wasn’t fair to waste the charity’s space and time by cancelling so close to the day. I mentioned my fears to my husband but I couldn’t really explain why. We sort of decided that if it was really horrible or not useful I didn’t have to stay and could always leave. And that’s how I found myself crying in the disabled loo in a charity building in central London.
I’d packed for the event, my new standard uniform of leather trousers, leather skirt, couple of slimline polo necks over slimline sports bras and my new coat. I had rare time that morning to put some make up on, wear my nice scarf, and my favourite hat, even. It was thirteen days since my last major surgery. In hindsight, this was probably too soon.
I was walking to the building with the sun on my back and things felt great. No, actually, things felt really normal. A normal day in a normal life. And then I walked in to the building and didn’t know what to say to the receptionist. “I’m here for the cancer party” sounded a bit inappropriate, as did “where are all the women with breast cancer”, in the end I think I mumbled something like “I’m here…charity event…cancer?” And was directed upstairs.
I had my luggage in a small rucksack (pull-along cases and shoulder bags strain my chest at the moment) so I took the stairs and arrived with that awkward mix of cold hands but sweaty armpits when I walked into the room. Everyone (of course not everyone, but it seems like that) was chatting really confidently and in real detail. I could hear people casually talking about their diagnoses, their mastectomies, their risks, what age their kids were, how they drew their eye brows on, hot flushes, exercise, pale skin, make up, no make up, sex, no sex, wigs, short hair, shaved heads, husbands, wives, dating. I could feel the walls closing in.
Looking around the room, there were 90% super short hair cuts. This might seem inconsequential to you but even with current trend for celebrity pixie cuts, most people don’t (in fact) morph in to Cara Delavigne or Audrey Hepburn when they get their hair cut so short hair is still not that common but, when you’re in a cancer setting, things are different. You find yourself doing cancer-hair-maths. This is a quick survey of those around you to gauge (broadly) how long ago they had chemo by the length and thickness of their hair. You’ll later corroborate this when you ask how far through treatment they are (a euphemism for “Have you finished chemo and when?”) so you can work out how long it might take for your hair to reach that same length, work out if your hair actually grew faster etc. Maybe not everyone does this but I suspect a lot do. I do.
Anyway, the room had its fair share of short hair, no hair, head scarves and bobble hats and it’s was clear that this was no headwear convention. We were all here because we had cancer. And I freaked. Totally freaked. I couldn’t believe that these people represented me. That this was *me*. I didn’t want to be them and I didn’t want them to be me. I didn’t recognise myself in them and I I didn’t want to spend two whole days seeing myself as someone with cancer. I go through a lot of my time going to great lengths not to be that, in fact. So I ran out (On reflection, it was very ‘90s soap opera).
After a little while, I went back in and I only ran out two or three more times during the next hour. For hours after that I sketched (badly) on my pad and tried to listen to what was being discussed without crying but it was like reliving the worst days and weeks of my life with my eyelids prized open and the sound turned up (like that bit in Clockwork Orange). I considered leaving but (again) I thought it was a bit cheeky and everyone else seemed to be getting a lot out of it. So I stayed. I’m glad I stayed. I think.
Over the next 36 hours I dog-cried (you know when you cry but try and talk so it comes out like a dog’s got it’s paw stuck in a sliding door? Like that) about 8 times in group therapy sessions. Had four glasses of wine at dinner (that’s a lot for me these days) and went to bed at 11.30pm (that’s like 4am for people without kids and cancer). I can’t honestly say the course was enjoyable but I think it was a good choice to stay. And I think I’ve worked out why.
The week after I was chatting about it in counselling and I was given a good analogy (I normally hate this sort of thing but I’ve thought about it a lot and it’s helped — it’s not the sort of thing you’d write on a fridge magnet, though, be warned). If you have a festering wound on your arm (see, told you), your first instinct is to protect it, to not let anyone to touch it. But when they do, the bandage you wrapped around it has gone all manky and it’s excruciating because you’re not clearing the infection. Every time someone bangs it, it hurts like crazy so you protect it more and more. It never gets better and the arm becomes a no-go zone of intolerable pain. But, if you (carefully) clean the wound and regularly tend to it, it’ll be painful at first but it will start to heal. You’ll always have a scar that will be bumpy and might itch from time to time, but it won’t hurt in the same way.
This course was like taking a nail brush to that mental wound. It was probably a bit needlessly severe, probably a bit soon and it hurt like hell. But, in the end, after all the debris is cleaned away I can start (starting) to heal.
I never did get those ten hours sleep.
I hope you can tell that I’m honestly very grateful to the charity that put on the event for me and women like me, even if it doesn’t sound like it. I haven’t named them as I don’t want to put people off if it’s the right thing for them but get in touch if you want more info and I’ll privately message you.
I’m getting back to work and Real Life so finding time to write less and less, let me know if you want to hear more from me with a ‘clap’ or two and I’ll try and write more…
