Wednesday, 21 November 2012

In which I am absolutely terrified.

Today I get my scan results. I think. Logically I know that they will say that the liver tumours have shrunk - if nothing else. I know that my liver isn't as swollen - I can't feel it protruding for a start and the liver function tests showed huge improvement. I also know that the aim of this first stage of chemo was to get the disease under control, before we go for shrinking the tumours, then (hopefully) localised treatment. And I am confident that the first objective has been achieved, if not some of the second. And as chemo trashes all cancer in its wake then my lung mets (this is cancer kid speak for metases - or secondary tumours) and colon cancer should have taken a knocking too but of course I am still terrified. Terrified that it will have failed and everything is worse; and here's my secret fear also terrified to hear the truth that there won't be a miraculous 'it's all gone' result. But God how I have fantasised about that moment; imagining telling everyone that joy of joys it's all gone. I am the lucky survivor, that it is all okay. I am, of course,  in reality more likely to win the lottery than get this response, and I don't buy a ticket. So yes I am scared. 

I should be used to this feeling as a lot of the time living with cancer (or any life threatening disease) is living with constant fear. It is having to shrug off negativity on an hourly basis. It is being grateful for a night without bad dreams and for not waking up thinking about cancer. It is being envious of other people for their happy cancer free lives and reminding yourself that "into each  life a little rain must fall" but wishing, just wishing, that you hadn't had such a deluge. It is finding yourself crying for no reason and begging God to let you survive. It is talking to the air. It is living in hope and trying not to drown in despair. It is the horrible realisation that you probably won't see your kids grow old and trying to come to terms with this. Trying not to imagine their pain if you die or your partner's or family's or friend's. Longing not to put anyone through that, and feeling a little bit self indulgent for thinking about it quite so much. 

And it is, of course, laughing and shouting and bickering and just doing stuff because all the time that cancer is in your head, life goes on. Dogs have to be walked, kids have to be fed and vice versa. 

But on days like this it's hard. The tension which is ever present is so palpable and I just want to have it over. 

Wish me luck. I'm going in. 

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