A Lonely Place

Cherry

By Bee

Wed, 15 Jul 2015
  • 9392 reads
22 comments
 
It's been said many times that cancer is a lonely place. I always accepted that before, thinking it probably was lonely, but hoping I'd never find out for sure. After all, the big C is something that happens to other people, right? I've learnt a lot these past three months - for instance, ignoring something doesn't make it go away. And cancer is a lonely place. But why? 
 
I'm sure everyone has their own reaction on receiving a diagnosis, but even with a strong suspicion, still thinking it couldn't really happen to me, my initial reaction was shock - followed shortly after, by guilt. Guilt - where did that come from? I thought, oh no, what am I going to tell my dear son, my beautiful daughters? And John? I'm going to die and he doesn't know how to work the cooker!!! Then disbelief kicked in alternating with flashes of shock and fear. 
 
After the biopsy was over with, I collected John from the waiting room and we were led to the rosy room with the comfy settee and the nurse left me to break the latest to the dearest. It was hard to watch his reaction - sort of reminded me of paper being crumpled up and smoothed out again. And then I felt, what? Sorry, I suppose. It was all my fault - shoulda, coulda, all those signs ignored. Foolish. Regretful. Neglectful. Little things heaped up like sugar lumps, every glass of wine imbibed lined up behind my eyes, lumps of lard clogged up my brain with blame. Blame! Just what I needed - I blamed myself, because when you get it, it isn't really just your cancer - it's happening to those close to you, too. And that's where loneliness kicks in. It's going on inside you and no one knows what to say or do to help you. They can't even help themselves. It's such a shutdown word - cancer.
 
We drove home in a daze - him coming out with cliches like, we're gonna beat this thing, and all the while, I'm thinking of jumping under a number nine bus. And then I'm like, bugger! We'd better tell everyone and get it over with, then we can just forget the whole thing. 
 
Telling it feels like a lie because it can't be true while you still don't feel ill and can't believe it, but seeing the reactions is hard to take, and part of you thinks, damn, it must be true, then. I only hope everyone had enough people around them to pour out their true feelings to, because behind the tears came the 'we're gonna beat this thing...' And I'm like, what time's that number nine, again? It's not fair - no one deserves cancer...
 
Up to this point I'd stayed pretty much dry-eyed - too busy mopping up everyone else's tears, but late the next evening when demons lurked round dark corners, it suddenly hit me. I wanted to take a bath but couldn't face the journey from the lounge and up the stairs to nakedness, and I didn't want to be alone with the bad boob. I begged John to come up with me, but  he said, 'No, go on up, you'll be alright.' I said, 'I won't', and burst into tears. I mean, I sobbed up a real snot,  and it did me good to get it out of the system. Plus, John came upstairs with me. It sounds silly, but I suddenly realized I'm rarely completely naked these days except in the bath, and lying back in the water there's no ignoring the boob - so rudely obvious and looking all wrong.
 
Then there's fear - of what? Cancer and what it might mean, or is it the suffering caused by the treatment that scares us? Again, different for each person. Then there's the worry, too, that your children might get struck down with it, but I found out my version of the disease isn't hereditary - a great relief!
 
I also think there is a sense of loss and grief about the whole affair, and adjustments to make as to how you view your body, etc. other people's feelings of sadness and fear to cope with, and even their brightly delivered over-optimism.  It's a lot to take in. But since my diagnosis, I've discovered heaps of human kindness. People don't always know what to say, and sometimes come out with outrageously inappropriate statements, but one thing's for sure, they wouldn't have said anything unless they'd meant well. I told everyone from the start, not to be careful what they say - this whole thing is crap, and there's no way of sugar coating it.
 
Some people always know the right thing to say, though, like, 'I'm thinking of you, sending thoughts and prayers', etc. Or the sending of flowers, a wonderful book of poetry, a chocolate medal and carrot to cheer us up. A happy card. A kitten! A kitten? Yes, a friend bought me a Siamese kitten to give me the incentive to fight. 
 
And sometimes just the right person will come along to sit with you for a couple of quiet hours in a pub, their gentleness and laughter warming your heart. Messages of care and well wishes always mean so much. I've discovered lots of love.
 
To be honest, I've battled against the whole thing. I would dearly have loved to try and cure cancer naturally with diet, and believe if you learn enough and apply it, it can really work. The problem is that you don't know if it's working or not. There are clinics you could go to, to get checked out, but they are out of most people's league, financially - and out of mine, too. In my case, I believe some improvements have been made where inflammation is concerned, but as I've said before, for a cure to work it has to move faster than the thing it's trying to beat, and that's not happening for me. I've held off now for three extra months, but yesterday I signed up for chemo. Feels a bit like giving in, but I know you'll wish me luck.
 
With thanks to my beautiful girls 
and all you thoughtful friends,
 
Deborah xxx
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Comments

Submitted by skinner_jennifer on

Dear Deborah,

what a truelly honest piece of writing. Like you so rightly said. Cancer can leave you in a lonely place, for however much you hear about others having it, no one can fully understand the fight you have ahead of you.

Reading about having the chemo isn't giving in, it's trying to do the best you can in such a difficult situation.

I meditate for you everyday and send blessings your way.

May your angel watch over you through it all.  angel

Sending lots of hugs and kisses your way.

Jenny.

 

Submitted by Bee on

Jenny, you have such a kind heart. Thank you for your lovely words and meditations. You've got me all choked up - in a good way.

xxx

Bee

Submitted by Mark Say on

Very touching, and I'm sure this will help others understand some of the feelings that people with any serious illness endure.

We're all on your side Bee.

 

Submitted by Bee on

I hope that talking about it will normalize it for all. Thanks Mark, your words are very much appreciated.

Bee

Submitted by Insertponceyfre... on

I know i shouldn't focus on the kitten, but look at those fabulous ears!!! Anyway, yes, I echo what the others have said. I'm sure these pieces are helping us all understand things we should understand, and I hope the outlet they provide gives you something back. We are all walking beside you on your journey.

have you given the kitten a name yet?

 

Submitted by Bee on

Those ears are quite spectacular, aren't they? No name as yet. And thank you for the kind words, insert. It all helps - so much.

x

Bee

Submitted by VeraClark on

This is beautiful, Bee. I think you've picked on all the little things that you and other people don't know how to manage - the reactions, what to say, what not to say, how to provide support and actually that just being you (or me, or him) and meaning well is the only way. Am warmed by the love you've been shown and I wish you well with your treatment.

 

Submitted by Bee on

Thank you Vera.

x

Bee

Submitted by love_writing on

What a rollercoaster of emotions...and that is me just reading this. I think this is such a brave and honest thing to do- writing this and your poems. I like how you descibe 'paper being crumpled up then smoothed back out' as John's reaction. And your honest affirmation of

this whole thing is crap

because it is. I'm sorry I'm probably one of those people who dont always say the right thing. But your in my thoughts and I think your amazing.

love_writing

Submitted by Bee on

Telling someone they have your support, is the right thing to say,

and I'm grateful for it.

Thank you, LW.

x

Bee

Submitted by Philip Sidney on

Thank you so much for this piece Bee, really helpful - as well as beautiful, a kitten!  What a great idea. :)

Submitted by Bee on

Thanks Philip.

 

Bee

Submitted by RJF on

This is startling in it's frankness Bee, you are a wonderful writer and oh those ears! Sending love and thinking of you. Rxx

 

Submitted by Bee on

Thanks, R. I'm hoping he'll grow into the ears.

Bee

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

A tough road, Deborah, but it's good you can share and explain something of how it feels. Rhiannon

 

Submitted by Bee on

Thanks Rhiannon 

Bee

Submitted by celticman on

as raw as carrot juice, but your honesty is a palliative. 

 

Submitted by Bee on

Thanks CM.

Bee

Submitted by Ed Crane on

Love-writing talks of a roller-coaster of emotions.

However, after reading you have accepted Chemo, I have to tell you; you are in for a roller-coaster ride, but hopefully one that has a happy landing. My thoughts are with you on this and also everything I can cross I will cross for you.

You talked of reactions to the diagnosis; the reactions of those around you and the feeling of loneliness.

My reaction was: so I guess I won't make old bones, however, I have to say they are getting on a bit now.

It's true I noticed those around me really didn't know what to say or how to react, I guess they all hoped for the best, but didn't want to express it that way. My ex-wife flew all the way from the UK just to wish me the best of luck, that was great, but it made me sad to realise once agian what a dope I'd been for letting her go all those years ago.

I can't say I felt lonely at the time, but I'm a bit of a loner anyway and prefer to suffer inside my own thoughts. Also the nurses in Oncology were brilliant and I think they got me through with my sanity intact and I still consider them as friends when I go for controls.

I think the most lonely I felt was after the treatment was finished and I started to look and feel better. Everybody seemd to think ,"Oh he's OK now." and treated me like I was before. None of them seem or want to understand the fear I've carried inside me for for the last five years. Even after being given the closest thing the docs can give to an all-clear I still worry a bit. Some say I'm being negative, but shit - it's easy for them to say that.

The only people who seem to understand are those who've been through the same thing, we're kind of like "Old Campaigners." Maybe there should be a sort of ex-Chemo British Legion (Or in my case Belgian Legion -- there is one)laugh

I hope you don't mind me writing this, because all I want to say is, I know what you are about to go through and I truly hope it works out well for you and you can look back on all this in five years and say, "Yeah it was fucking awful, but worth the experience."

Lots of Love

Keith xxx

 

 

Submitted by Bee on

Hi Ed.

We've spoken privately and you know already that I value your honesty. Thanks for sharing all this, it means a lot. I'm not looking forward to it, but I hope it works, too. 

Thanks again for your thoughts,

Deborah xxx 

Bee

Submitted by Denzella on

Dearest Bee,

I have just read this and I can so empathise with you  about the loneliness.  I remember how I felt when I was in pain and told by a not unkind nurse that everything would be alright I would soon get used to wearing  a wee bag strapped to my leg.    Apparently they shouldn't be emptied until full because of the risk of infection.  I thought then, no way will I ever get used to carrying on as normal with that thing strapped to my leg.  Then they tried something else also equally repugnant.That was when I was at my lowest because no-one seemed to understand the degradation I felt.Then my daughters would spend a lot  of time preparing a meal that would look appetizing and it broke my heart to see the disappointment on their faces when I just couldn't eat it.  I felt so guilty.   I saw my consultant last week and he said 'I see you've already had appointments with Orthopaedics and Cardiology today I said yes I'm falling apart.  Then he asked if the bit he did was ok I said that was the only bit that was.  He laughed and so did I.  Something I once never expected to do.  Keep strong, keep writing and keep smiling.  Laughter can sometimes help people through their suffering and should be dispensed without needing a prescription.

Sending you much love and laughter although I can't think of anything funny at 4.25 am.  

You are in my thoughts so often

Moya xx  

 

Submitted by Bee on

I see we're both awake so early, Moya. To hear from you is wonderful and your understanding has really made me want to buck up my ideas and get on. I think about you, to, and am gladdened to know you can have a laugh, but then your wonderful sense of Humour is bound to surface no matter what. May it ever be so - it's the thing that gets us through the worst times, and surprises us when we think it's disappeared.

Many thanks for reading, and for your thoughts and encouragement, which mean so very much.

Deb xxx

 

Bee