This morning I realised that it’s now six months since my cancer treatment finished. Six cancer-free months!!! It has certainly been a time of tiny and big steps forward, alongside tiny and big steps backwards. A new lump was found during my first post-treatment scans in February that made my heart stop for a good few days until cancer was officially ruled out. It was a neon-flashing reminder that while I may now be in remission, cancer is always going to loom large in my life, whatever the next chapters may hold. In these past six months, there has been so much to manage, process and accept. A year's worth of medical checks and procedures are already marked in my diary. The always present fear of cancer returning is something that lurks in the shadows of every day. There is a new ‘me’ to accept- the way I look, the way I feel, and recognising that my body now has its limits as the healing process from chemotherapy, surgery and radiation continues. I am learning to surrender to the timing of my recovery, accepting that it might not be as quick as I would like, but that’s OK. The six month mark feels like I’ve reached a milestone as I learn to live this new post-cancer life- slower than before, paying more attention to who and what nourishes, uplifts and nurtures me, and not wasting a moment on anything, or anyone, that does not. I’m picking up my camera, almost daily now, and also writing again. Producing, planning and dreaming about the projects and work that I want to create, share and be involved in. And amongst all of the heartaches right now, including a flood disaster in the place I call home, there are little slices of blue sky starting to reappear. They are still somewhat in the distance but I can see them now.
Where I stand......
WORLD CANCER DAY, FEBRUARY 4, 2022
Writing and photography have always gone hand-in-hand for me, although I was a journalist for most of my earlier career and long before creating images became my main ‘job’. Words and images have both had a part to play in my cancer journey and continue to be the tools that are helping me to navigate my way through the emotional, step-by step, and at times frustrating, process of recovery. On World Cancer Day 2022 (Feb 4), I put pen to paper to create a thank-you to the friends and family who supported, encouraged, comforted and cared for me throughout my treatment. Even though I have survived, the confronting and devastating journey through chemotherapy, surgery and radiotherapy was, at times, just as hard for them to endure as it was for me. This poem is for them.
A guide to being the support act
When someone you love is diagnosed with cancer, or enduring cancer treatment, it’s perfectly understandable to immediately want to jump in and do whatever you can to help, support, nurture and comfort. To try anything and everything you can think of to ease the pain and fear. Similarly, when you’re an independent, capable and strong person, asking for and accepting help may be one of the hardest things you have to do at a time when your life is being blitzed in a blender and the sand is shifting endlessly beneath your feet. I was sometimes accused of “being stubborn” or “being a martyr” at various times during my cancer treatment. Those ‘misperceptions’ were extremely hurtful, unhelpful and entirely untrue. When I declined certain offers of ‘help’, I was simply being the captain of my ship. I knew exactly who and what I needed to help me navigate towards a safe harbour. And I definitely knew who and what I didn’t need along for the voyage. I also knew that the people who were closest to me were doing more than their very best to be kind, comforting and considerate. And I loved them all the more for it. Others simply didn’t know what to say or do and avoided- or completely cut off- any form of contact. I have never wasted my precious time or energy in trying to find out why. I also encountered people whose words and actions were utterly thoughtless, careless and cruel. Thankfully those occasions were rare. Adjusting to and accepting life with cancer takes time, patience and perseverance. Learning to support someone living with cancer also takes time- and some form of education and awareness. Every individual’s journey, personal needs, family situation, treatment plan and outcomes will be different. If you are part of someone’s cancer journey, remember to tread gently. Think before you speak. Support, don’t smother. Be considerate. Be genuine. And above all, be kind, be kind and be kind. That’s all that’s really needed.
A few words on support, encouragement and comfort
You may find the following information useful if you would like to support someone who is newly diagnosed with cancer or enduring treatment.
The art of listening: If someone with cancer is sharing their fears, emotions or worries with you, simply listen. Don’t offer unsubstantiated medical advice, make comparisons with your own medical conditions or ailments, or share other people’s cancer stories. Especially those that end in death! This approach is not helpful or comforting. Being a compassionate and empathetic (not sympathetic!) listener is one of the greatest forms of care you can offer. Ask the person what they need and acknowledge you understand that this may change as their cancer journey evolves. Thank the person for trusting you. Provide reassurance that all conversations you have together will be kept private and confidential. And make sure they are!
Watch your words: When people would try to be supportive by telling me to “Be positive!” or “Keep fighting!”, my eyes would just glaze over and I’d switch off instantly. Other friends who have had, or are still dealing with, cancer, share the same irritation about continually being confronted with these words time and time again. Even if they are being delivered with the best of intentions. Believe me, when you have cancer you are already doing all these things and more! Cancer is definitely not a chapter in a Pollyanna book. It’s far better to provide encouragement by saying something like, “I really admire your attitude and your courage.”, or, “I think your strength is amazing!” Similarly, if someone is trying to express their fears or anxieties about treatment or their future, please don’t shush or scold them with, “Don’t say that!” or “You mustn’t think like that!”. Phrases like this are dismissive, hurtful and unhelpful. The words you choose to offer encouragement, comfort and support have the power to heal, hurt and uplift. Use them wisely.
Be genuine and realistic: It’s perfectly normal to desperately want the someone you love to beat their cancer and be well again. Trying to be reassuring by saying things like, “You’re going to be OK!”, “Everything will be alright!” or “There’s no way you’re going to die!” is always more about your fears than anything else. These phrases can actually create more fear and, at times, come across as condescending and insincere. Instead, try this approach: “I can’t imagine how you must feel right now, but I’m here to support you in any way I can.” Or, “If you’d like me to be, I will be here to support you every step of the way, whatever happens.” And then make sure you are!
Leave ‘God’ out of it: Saying things like, “You know, they say God only gives cancer to the strong ones.” ,or, “This must all be part of God’s plan for you” or “I’m praying for you.”, will most likely only add to the person’s nausea levels. All of the above comments, are not comforting or helpful unless the person shares the same faith or religious beliefs. Respect that others might not share your views and that in the middle of cancer treatment, ‘God’s plan’ might seem more than just a teeny, tiny bit crappy.
Food support: If you’re offering to cook meals for a cancer patient, check with them first about what they feel like eating. Dishes like your family’s favourite Friday night hot and spicy curry are probably not going to be well received- or eaten- if the person is suffering from common chemotherapy side effects such as nausea, vomiting, diarrhea and mouth sores. The person you are offering to help may also have special dietary requirements as recommended by their oncology team. Sometimes a delivery of fresh fruit and veg, pantry basics or fridge staples (like milk and butter) are just as helpful. When it comes to helping out with food, the best practice is to check first what’s needed.
Acknowledging the fog: Experiencing ‘Chemo Fog’ or ‘Chemo Brain’ is something I was told about at the start of my treatment. When it hits, it’s scary and completely debilitating. Sometimes, I barely knew what day it was. Being asked to make decisions - especially snap decisions- is near impossible. When kind friends would call and say, “I’m at the supermarket. Do you need anything?”, I could sometimes only respond with an “I can’t think of anything right now.” They understood. I wasn’t being uncooperative, rude, or ungrateful. Just unwell and lost in the fog at that particular moment. So please don’t be offended if your kind offer of, “How can I help?” is met with an “I don’t know.” ,or, “I’m just not sure.”. The fog will pass eventually. In the meantime, you may like to text, email, phone or leave your number with a note letting the person know they can call anytime if they need anything.
Make an appointment: Rocking up to someone’s door uninvited, even with the very best of intentions (eg: “I’ve come to cheer you up!”) can place a seriously ill person under unnecessary pressure when they’re really not up to receiving visitors. My Mum was forever turning people away when I was having weekly chemotherapy. I was struggling, suffering terribly with side effects, had very limited energy and the last thing I felt like doing was having to make polite conversation. Close friends understood, acquaintances not so much. If you’re trying to be kind, uplifting and want to visit, it’s a good idea to check first via text or a phone call to see when would be a good time.
Respect for personal space and boundaries: I once had a lady approach me in the supermarket who told me how shocked she was when she heard I had cancer and said she wanted to give me a hug. When I stepped back and declined the hug (me being immune compromised by chemo plus barely knowing this person! ) she got so offended, told me she didn’t have Covid and stormed off in a huff! Bye-bye to you too and have a lovely day! Similarly, if someone has lost their hair to chemotherapy, don’t try and touch their bald head or pat their regrowth! Seriously! This has actually happened to me on more than one occasion! The number one rule: Don’t touch or hug unless invited!
Think about the bigger picture: Sometimes it’s not just the cancer patient themselves who is in need of care and support. It could be their family members, partner, spouse or children. Think about offering to take elderly parents to medical appointments or children to school and weekend sports, pets to the vet, the car for its service. Practical support that keeps life running as smoothly as possibly while cancer treatment in underway is always much needed and greatly appreciated .
Leave your own expectations at the door: When cancer arrives and sets up shop, life is not ‘business as usual’. In any way. Please don’t be offended or retort with an “I was only trying to be nice!” if the person you are wanting to support declines offers to attend social engagements, parties, or outings. It’s also unhelpful to say things like, “It’ll be good for you if you get out and socialise!”. Socialising may not be something the person needs, wants or is capable of at that particular time. Understand that declining social invitations is not about ‘giving up’. It is a choice made by someone who is “doing” cancer the way that feels right for them.
These are just a few suggestions that may be helpful, or start you thinking about how you can best support someone on their cancer journey. If you are already one of the wonderful, compassionate, kind and caring people lending a hand to someone dealing with diagnosis or living with this disease, I say thank-you! This world needs more people like you! And if you are living with cancer, I wish you much love and hope you are accompanied on your journey by people who can uplift, encourage and walk with you every step of the way.
**Please note that this article has been compiled based on my personal experiences and from conversations with fellow cancer patients. In no way is it being presented as medical or professional advice.
Grit: Another lighthouse word
Back to the sandy shoreline for this new diptych. I've called this one 'Grit'. It was a word that kept popping into my head yesterday when I was back at my chemo unit for my six-weekly appointment. An ongoing fixture on my calendar for some time to come.
Even though I am now three months post treatment, I always have to find that grit inside myself to walk through those doors. The emotional and physical side effects of this past year are still incredibly raw, often surprising in their intensity and regularly unyielding. I'm also having to learn how to walk alongside the fear of the cancer returning- a menacing, lingering shadow that I suspect will be hovering around for a while yet.
So I'm adding 'Grit' to my collection of 'lighthouse' words that I've spoken about in previous posts. It sits well, I think, with the other guides that I've chosen to help me navigate my way through this tumultuous voyage of treatment and recovery: Determination. Perserverance. Patience. Clarity. And now, Grit. They all have their part to play.
Clarity in the New Year
As my first cancer check-ups for the year loom ahead, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I want to live in this post-illness new year.
The one thought that keeps popping into my head is ‘with clarity’. Clarity. It’s the one thing- the only thing- that cancer gave me and left behind that I am thankful for.
I found out that when you are confronted with the very real possibility of a sooner-than-expected-end-of-life, suddenly all you want to do is live. Really live. The noise, froth, monotony and frustrations of daily routines and responsibilities are obliterated into the background the instant you receive a cancer diagnosis.
As your world suddenly shrinks to accommodate the oceans of courage and determination you need to survive, your focus on who, and what, deserves even a moment of your precious time, energy and attention becomes razor sharp.
There is no longer any blur or haze. No desire to continue trying to cross an ocean for those who won’t even jump over a puddle for you. No reason or logic to devote any waking moment to situations, work or experiences that don’t fill your cup with ‘joie-de-vivre’.
Clarity. I have it now. It will be my lighthouse of a word and my compass to help me find my way back to me this year.
Dear Christmas........
Dear Christmas,
Well, hello again. Last year, was a bit of a cliff hanger, wasn’t it? You came and went in a blur of crushing emotions, whirlwind appointments and medical procedures as cancer arrived just in time for the holidays and settled in as an unwanted house guest.
During our time together, I was hanging precariously, standing on the edge of a crumbling and uncertain future. Trying to find light in all the darkness. This year, things will be different.
I’ve decided not to participate in any frazzle, chaos, demands, or bonkers expectations of what you “should” look or feel like when you walk through the door. I will not be shopping frantically, or cooking for days in the sweltering Summer heat, or pushing beyond my emotional, physical or financial limits.
Instead, I’ll be celebrating your arrival with slow and gentle days, simple food, Christmas morning phone calls to far away family and friends, daily sunrise and sunset beach walks and salty, soul-reviving swims.
But mostly, I plan on simply just being here, in my little pocket of the world, with the magnificent people who grabbed and held my hands, when I felt like I was falling into the ocean, and who have nurtured and loved me back to life in a million little and big ways.
So come on in Christmas! There are magic days ahead and I’m so incredibly grateful to see you again.
Love Michelle
XX
Dropped into the blender
“ Life is mostly froth and bubble; Two things stand like stone: Kindness in another’s troubles, Courage in our own.” (Poet, Adam Lindsay Gordon)
“Just put it all behind you.”, “Move on.”, “Keep moving forward.”. I’m hearing lots of these well-meaning comments at the moment as I start to try and assemble a new life, post-cancer. And while I agree with the caring sentiments behind such advice, and am in grateful raptures that I am finally on the improve, it’s still very early days in my recovery.
I was recently reminded by my GP that being diagnosed with cancer is like being picked up and dropped into a blender. Every part of your life- relationships, family, friendships, work, health, lifestyle, finances- are all whizzed up in a shattering blitz of chemo, surgery and radiation. Then, if you’re lucky enough to survive, you’re tipped out and left with the daunting process of piecing together all your broken, crushed pieces.
If I’m honest, I’m finding these early days of cancer recovery to be an uncertain and anxious time. A time of huge change and transition away from the safety net of my tight-knit oncology, chemo and specialist nursing team. A time of dealing with the deep grief, pain, suffering, loss and sadness that comes with the cancer experience. Sorry Christmas, but it’s just the way it is this year!
Eventually, I know that everything will come out in the wash, but it’s going to take time and an ocean of patience. Two things that I’m learning are essential ingredients in putting back together what has come out of the blender.
Days of clearing skies and reflection
I love days like this when the sun is slowly returning, the storm clouds are lingering in beautiful swathes of cotton wool drifts, and the shoreline is mirrored with light and reflections. I walk the beach each day now. Soaking my aching, tired but undeterred spirit in the natural wonders that are all around me, and wrap myself in thoughts of gentle, calm days as the cancer storm begins to subside.
Anniversary Diagnosis Day
Today is the first anniversary of my breast cancer diagnosis. This photo was taken of me soon after that day, when I’d just had my shoulder length hair cut short to prepare for losing it all to chemotherapy. I was facing an ocean, feeling like I’d been hit by a tsunami.
This time last year, I set off to my local hospital for an ultrasound and a “just-to-be-on-the-safe-side” mammogram. I’d had a sudden onset of an ache under my arm and had found a ‘hard’ area just under my collar bone. I thought I had a muscle injury. Work had been busy. I’d been lifting my tripod and camera gear a lot as I raced towards the end-of-year finishing line to complete work for clients. A muscle issue made sense. What else would it be? My GP wanted to rule out a cyst.
I wasn’t worried in the least. I had no history of breast cancer in my family. No cancer-like symptoms, except night sweats, which I’d put down to the start of menopause, and an overwhelming tiredness, which I attributed to the end-of-year fatigue that always seems to set in just before Xmas. I was fit, healthy, happy and active. Nothing to worry about at all.
Within an hour of arriving at my appointment, I was being told by a kind and gentle doctor that the pictures in front of him showed breast cancer. I had a biopsy on the spot. Tumour clips were also injected into me and a relentless storm of tests, scans, specialist appointments and treatment planning began. I could barely breathe.
This past year has shattered and upended my life. Changed me, and the people I love and care for the most, completely and utterly irreversibly. I see my life now as being divided into chapters- ‘Before Cancer’ (BC), ‘During Cancer’ (DC) and ‘After Cancer’ (AC). The ‘AC’ chapters are still being written as I continue to piece together a new life from the remnants of what cancer has left behind.
I am approaching my future, whatever that may entail, in the same way that I have been dealing with cancer this past year. With patience, with perseverance and an ocean of determination, to wade back into the water and come back to life.
Let's talk about hair
You’ll have to forgive me, but today I need to have a little rant about what NOT to say to someone who is trying to recover from-or still enduring- cancer treatment. Especially in regards to hair!
To those people who feel the need to shriek in my direction when they run into me at the supermarket, at a local cafè or walking down the street, “OH MY GOD! Look at your hair! It’s coming back all grey!”, or, “OH MY GOD! Look at your hair! It must feel so good not to have to worry about it anymore!” Please stop and consider this.
Losing your hair to cancer treatment is extremely confronting and incredibly distressing. It is not a choice, or a fashion statement, or a new look to “embrace”. It has nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with feeling constant fear and no longer recognising yourself while you’re being poisoned, chopped up and radiated for an extensive period of time.
For all the years it took to grow my shoulder-length hair, it will take even longer for it to come back. It is a matter of patience, perseverance and acceptance. So instead of commenting about my post-chemo hair status, how about opening the conversation with, “It’s nice to see you looking well again.”, or, “It’s nice to see you out and about again.”.
And to all those lovely people who think before they speak, I thank you. Your kindness and thoughtfulness never goes unnoticed and encourages me to keep looking in the mirror and still see myself in there somewhere.
The horizon will look after itself
“Just take this step. The horizon will look after itself.” (Charlie Macksey from The Boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse.)
Eleven months of soul-destroying, relentless and life shattering cancer treatment finally finished yesterday.
I am beyond broken and faded, but so very, very grateful to still be here.
And most importantly, the cancer is gone!
What lies ahead? I have no idea.
So I will start gently, by coming out of the darkness that I thought would never end, and simply breathe in and breathe out.
That is the first, and only, step I need to take right now.
The place that the tide will turn
“Never give up. For this is just the place and time that the tide will turn.” (Author Harriet Beecher Stowe)
I need to remind myself of this today. Even though I’m in the last few weeks of cancer treatment, this final haul feels very, very heavy. And what lies ahead feels so uncertain.
Today was a tough treatment day.
But I am tougher.
Just what the doctor ordered
This long weekend means I have a much needed break from my daily radiotherapy treatment regime.
So on this warm, sparkling beautiful Monday morning, I could think of no place I’d rather start the day than right here.
From the moment my toes sank into the sand, this morning’s before breakfast beach walk was just all kinds of wonderful.
So much more than just what the doctor ordered!
The cure for everything
Today’s radiotherapy session was tough, for all kinds of reasons.
So a post-treatment stop by the seaside on this beautiful, blue-sky afternoon was much needed.
I’ve decided that breathing in salty breezes and soaking up ocean views are the cure for everything.
A morning to savour
One perfect day for a post chemotherapy, post surgery, pre-radiotherapy cafè outing!
Up until now I have not been well enough- or feeling confident enough- to sit for a while and really enjoy some cafè time. Chemo sickness has always cut short any previous attempts, but today the waves and sunshine are beckoning and I am so ready.
So here I am, at my favourite seaside cafè with my greatest supporter, my 82-years-young Mum, savouring a relaxed and delicious breakfast, sipping perfect coffee and soaking up the most magical ocean views.
Blessed and grateful don’t even begin to describe what this morning means!
Time for a check-up
Today is RUOK? day in Australia when we are being asked to check-in with family, friends, colleagues, neighbours and anyone else you know who may be living on their own, facing challenges or living with a crisis situation.
I know from my cancer experience that sometimes the hardest thing to do when you’re in turmoil or feeling alone is to ask for help. Sometimes, having someone simply ask, “Are you OK?” is the start of a conversation that stops the sand slipping rapidly from beneath your feet.
I am completely overjoyed that my cancer has been blitzed by chemo and surgery. I am beyond grateful that I am about to start radiation as the final phase in my treatment. But I am realistic enough to know that I have a very long road to walk back to “me”.
I admit I barely recognise the exhausted looking bald girl who stares back at me from the mirror these days.
The changes to my appearance over this last nine months has been extreme and incredibly confronting, to say the least. But I am still me, tucked away inside somewhere.
And I know that I could not have got to this point in my treatment without the love, support, encouragement and care that I’ve received from my amazing friends, family and community.
I am also acutely aware that it has been a harrowing journey, at times, for those closest to me.
So if you know someone who you suspect might be doing it tough right now, for whatever reason, please reach out to them. You never know how much it might help someone just to ask the question,”Are you OK?”
Washed up......
It has taken all my strength and more to navigate my way back to the shore. But somewhat miraculously, I have been tossed back, emerging through a heaving, tumultuous tsunami of loss, grief, pain, despair and fear.
I am raw, shattered and completely exhausted. But no matter how broken I feel right now, I am still here.
The cancer that silently invaded my body and stealthily stole away my life piece-by-piece is now gone. Blasted away by a brutal regime of chemotherapy coupled with life giving surgery.
Daily radiotherapy will be the final step in a few weeks time to mop up anything lurking unseen below the surface.
Then I will breathe again, begin to heal and start over…….
Thank-you........
Its been a while……
I’ve had bit of tough time of late and an extended stay in hospital to deal with chemo complications.
I am still trying to be determined, patient and realistic about this whole cancer experience.
Please know that I am so grateful for all the lovely messages of support, kindness and care that I have received, even though I may not always be able to respond or engage much right now.
Thank-you with all my heart.
Life is composed of light and shadows
“Life is composed of light and shadows and we would be untruthful, insincere and saccharine if we tried to pretend there were no shadows.”
Walt Disney
I am learning that there are high expectations from well-meaning people, (and some medical professionals) of how I should “be” while I am living with cancer.
“Be Brave!”, “Be Strong!”, “Be Positive!” are on repeat in almost every conversation. Talk of despair, frustration or sadness is often hushed over with a “You mustn’t think like that!” or “ Don’t say that!”.
But the reality is that, in the darkness and fog of relentless and painful weekly treatments, crushing physical and emotional side effects and constant whirl of medical appointments, it is not always possible to meet others expectations of how I should “be” at this time.
So instead, I am choosing my own way to ”be”. And that is:
-Determined.
-Patient.
-Realistic.
These words are the ones that motivate me to keep going, acknowledging that at the fringe of all the dark moments and days (and there are many) there is a glimmer of light, no matter how feint or wavering. And I will move towards it in my own time, in my own way.
A bunch of sunshine
This glorious bunch of sunny sunflowers was given to me by a dear friend, just before I headed off for my first surgery last week and after a really tough few rounds of body-and-soul-destroying chemotherapy.
While I’ve been tucked up in bed recovering, these beauties have been making me smile every time I look at them.
I hope they bring some sunshine to your day too on this beautiful Autumn Friday morning.