GREAT DEAL on my book, now also in paperback!

GREAT NEWS! To celebrate four years since my initial diagnosis I’ve asked Amazon to make the electronic version of my book available for FREE on the 19th, 20th and 21st of June 2017. If you didn’t want to pay for it, couldn’t afford it or know someone that would like it for free, please put this date in your diary and make sure you have Kindle on your device so you can download it and read it.

If you don’t already have it, you can get the Kindle reader software from Amazon for free and load it onto your laptop, smart phone or tablet.

In response to all the requests I’ve received, I’ve also now made the book available in paperback! Thanks for the challenge everyone. It turns out there’s a fair bit of technology to negotiate but I’m pretty happy with the result. I must admit I’m a book lover myself. There’s just something about holding it in your hands and turning the pages. I like to use little sticky notes to mark the bits that strike a chord and to flick back and forth from section to section. An ebook just isn’t the same.

As part of the celebration for my four years of living, I’ve also reduced the cost of the paperback to just $10 US for the whole of June 2017.

At these prices I’m not making any profit. As you know, that was never my goal. I want to get the book out to those that need it.

To those that asked if it’s going to be available in book stores, sadly, no. Independent publishing means they only print copies as they are ordered, which keeps the costs down. It would need to be picked up by a major publisher to be produced in the kinds of numbers that would get it out into bookshops, so it’s Amazon or nothing.

If you’re concerned about the safety of electronic transactions online I highly recommend Paypal. I used to be the head of fraud for the NSW Police so when I say this is your safest option you know I don’t say it lightly!

Please help me by spreading the word so that as many people as possible can be free of the fear of recurrence, and if you do get a copy and read it, please leave an honest review on the Amazon site. As we all know, the opinions of fellow survivors mean a lot to all of us.
Thanks in advance for all your support.
Love and gentle hugs
Meg

Book Reviews!

There’s something mildly terrifying about writing a book.

In the writing phase I was consumed with craft and content. I wanted it to be simple, but not too simple. Useful and not overwhelming. Helpful and not exhausting.

After completing the first draft I put it aside for several weeks, came back to it and was shocked by how much repetition and useless waffle it contained. I edited fiercely.

A couple of people read through the draft for me, including one very generous friend whose a professional writer. The feedback was good. It was time to publish. No reason not to just jump right in and do it. And yet it felt terrifying! It suddenly occurred to me that I was putting myself out there, open to whatever criticism people decided to hurl at me. I metaphorically chewed my nails as I waited for the book reviews to arrive.

First came the friends. How I love my friends! A couple of them found the time to post their comments on the Amazon site. Here’s what they said:

A very valuable resource for everyone, not only those that have had cancer. There is so much knowledge and information within this book for tools with working through freeing yourself from fear. I believe sometimes when we get caught in fear, there is fog, we don’t seem to acknowledge our own values and get lost in the mist. There is so much within this book that draws on many techniques for working through this and with a lovely sense of humour, it shows Meg McGowan has had the life experience to walk the talk. Thank you Meg McGowan.

And this:

If I could pay $5 to avert one hour of meaningless fear, would I spend it? “Of course!” I thought, and bought this book.
It turned out to be full of practical ideas that I can use straight away on myself and the fearful ones around me…thats everyone alive.
Holding hands with the fear-monster is a sweet image, and does it work?
Well, I tested it.
After reading the book I did a suitable amount of scary-monster hand-holding, then went though a list of scary phone calls, scary conversations, procrastinated tasks.
I’m unharmed, and the quality of my future is now better. You don’t need a life-threatening illness for this book to protect and nourish you.
As a bonus, dandelions will forever look more beautiful, after reading this book.

When I checked today I found two reviews from people I don’t know. How exciting! Here’s what they’ve said:

If a cancer diagnosis feels like too much to bear, you’ll find solid comfort here. The exercises are quick and easy to perform. Yet they are profound and will produce lasting results. McGowan’s book is filled with wisdom that can only have come from one intimately familiar with the traumatizing effects of cancer diagnosis and treatment. I strongly urge you to buy this book. You’ll be glad you did and will, like me, refer to it for years to come. This book is a rare find, and the author deserves praise.

And this:

This book ticks all the boxes for handling the fear of recurrence that is part of all cancer patients’ lives after diagnosis.
It is written clearly and cuts through all the fog that surrounds us when we feel overwhelmed.
As a breast cancer survivor, I think Free from Fear should be on everyone’s Important Items list.
It is an exceptional read from someone who has been there, and understands.

Over on the Breast Cancer Network Australia site I’m also getting some really great feedback. Time to exhale.

You see, the thing is, even if I now get negative responses, or even if I never sell another copy of the book, it’s all been worth it.

Maybe I should write another one 😀

Here’s the Australian link (Kindle only)
Free From Fear on Amazon.au

Here’s the US site where you can also get the paperback.
Free From Fear on Amazon

There’s a promotion coming up on the 19th of June when the Kindle version will be available for free for three days. I’m celebrating four years since that visit to Breastscreen found three triple negative tumours, so it seemed like a good way to celebrate.

Thanks so much to everyone for all of your support. I couldn’t have done it without you. ❤

Do we get what we expect?

I’m in the void between writing and publishing; that place where you send your baby book out to a few trusted people for what you hope are some minor corrections and constructive feedback.

And then you wait.

Early indications are that it’s readable and useful. I’m still on track to publish either late April or early March. I still don’t have a name I like. I started with ‘What if the Cancer Comes Back?’ but figured most people wouldn’t want to buy it. I moved on to ‘Worried Sick by Cancer’. Same problem. I really want a title that’s focused on what the book will help you to achieve, rather than the problem it’s trying to address.

Having said that, popular wisdom is that it needs the word ‘cancer’ in the title. Something to do with algorithms and search engines and online potential. I really like ‘Fear + Less’.
It’s a book about fearing less. But is this too obscure? And it doesn’t contain the word ‘cancer’. All thoughts and suggestions are welcome.

In the meantime, I’m contemplating the extent to which we get what we expect. I had coffee with a friend that hasn’t been to yoga for a few months. She hurt her foot and ended up in one of those ski boot looking things that they use instead of a cast. She was telling me that when it came off, her whole leg was wasted and that she’s still regaining strength.

Then she said this: “It will never be the same. I’m always going to walk with a limp.”

Hold on a minute. You’ve only had the boot off for a couple of weeks and you’ve already decided that you’ve got a permanent disability. When I asked her why she thought this she replied that her doctor had delivered this miserable diagnosis and that it reflected her own fears, so she saw no reason to reject it.

I reminded her that post-mastectomy I was told I’d be likely to experience some permanent restriction to my range of movement. It was likely that taking two F cup breasts from my body, and the subsequent scars running under my arms, would mean that my arms just wouldn’t be able to do what I was used to them doing. A combination of scar tissue and nerve damage would see to that.

When I put my hands above my head I still need to slightly adjust my left hand to bring it to the same height as my right. That’s it. Oh, I sometimes have some tightness to the left side if I twist. I can also put my hands into a reasonable ‘reverse prayer’ (put your hands into prayer position and now see if you can do the same thing behind your back), and a couple of weeks ago I held something called ‘crow pose’ for a good five seconds.

Crow pose involves crouching forward with your hands on the ground, putting your knees on the backs of your upper arms and then lifting your feet. Google for impressive pictures. Essentially, I can support my entire body weight on my upper arms.

I’m a 55 year old woman whose had a bilateral mastectomy.

I’m also close to four years since my diagnosis and a few months further away from three since my surgery. Recovery did not happen quickly. I still have some issues with my hands and my feet thanks to the nerve damage from chemotherapy and I also get annoying pain across various parts of my chest on a regular basis. It turns out that this is common post-mastectomy. I don’t accept that either condition is permanent.

I think of all the various aches and pains I’ve had during treatment, and all the way back throughout my life. What an amazing capacity our bodies have to heal. I also recognise that some recovery takes much longer. I think we have a mindset that a few weeks is a reasonable healing time because that’s about how long it takes for a cut to heal.

Here’s the thing. Skin heals quickly. It has to. It’s the outside, protective coating for our bodies. Other things heal more slowly.

I was told by my oncologist that whatever nerve damage I had at the end of twelve months was probably my ground zero. Things weren’t going to get any better. Then the radiation oncologist told me that nerves can take up to eight years to regrow. Eight years! So let’s wait until then before writing off my healing capability. Certainly things have improved slowly but if I’d accepted the first diagnosis I’d be focusing on the pain and discomfort and not bothering with physiotherapy to improve my condition.

I’ve recently read about some interesting research into chronic pain. People that experience it have a different kind of brain. Researchers can put 100 people through an MRI and detect which ones experience chronic pain by looking at the architecture of their brain. Here’s what’s really interesting; they can also predict which people will develop chronic pain using the same techniques.

It turns out that to some extent, pain really is all in our minds! At least, it’s more likely in those of us with a particular kind of mind.

This is huge. About one in five people report either chronic or sever pain. It’s the reason pharmaceutical companies invest so much money in pain relief. It also explains why so many of these medications affect brain chemistry.

This might sound like your propensity to experience chronic pain is just some kind of genetic lottery, but it’s more complex than that. A whole range of things directly impact the way our brain functions. It’s no surprise that chronic stress can cause exactly the kind of changes that result in chronic pain. People with higher levels of anxiety or depression are also at risk. Some recreational drugs, including alcohol, are also linked to the same kinds of changes in the brain that result in chronic pain.

So what about the brains of people that are less prone? Of course those with a calm disposition, and good techniques for coping with anxiety and stress do well. (Don’t ever let anyone try to tell you that there’s a human being on the planet that never experiences anxiety, stress, grief or anger.)

The robust mind might also belong to someone that used to be prone to chronic pain. These people have usually altered the way they live their lives to reduce stress and anxiety. They probably practice meditation regularly and may also use yoga, tai chi, qigong or some other form of calming exercise routine. Track these people over time and their MRI’s will show physical changes to their brains. They don’t cope with a pain-prone brain by soothing it, they actually change the architecture of their brains to something less likely to experience chronic pain.

Of course, what this means is that even my ‘permanent chronic pain’ diagnosis is now up for argument. It’s just possible that with yoga and meditation I can overcome pain. It’s certainly highly likely that I can reduce it.

I noticed a few months back when a visitor complained of a headache that our medicine chest was full of pain relief medication. I had stocked up on it, having been told I’d probably be taking it for the rest of my life. I couldn’t be sure about the last time I took anything but it was certainly months ago. I didn’t decide not to take the pills, or to endure serious pain. My pain just hadn’t been strong enough for me to want a pill.

There are still times when I consider medication, and still very rare times when I take something, but that’s a long way from six tablets a day. I think my progress is due, to a very large extent, to my daily yoga and meditation.

I also think that part of it is due to my expectation that we can always improve our health. There’s no upper limit to how well we can be. Ultimately, a doctor’s diagnosis is just an educated guess, an opinion based on what they thing other patients in similar circumstances have experienced.

Personally, I’d like to see doctors trained to talk about possibilities rather than absolutes. This isn’t about putting a shine on a bad situation. It’s about being accurate. I’d like to hear them use language like this:

Based on what we know about your condition there’s a possibility that you may have permanent pain or physical restriction and there’s also a possibility that you may not. The body has an amazing capacity for healing and it can sometimes take years before it’s finished the job of recovery. There’s a lot you can do to improve your health and there’s no upper limit to how well you can be.

I suppose we’re still years away from meditation being recommended, in spite of the overwhelming research that proves it’s more beneficial and more effective than any pharmaceutical your doctor can prescribe. Ideally, I’d like to see practices that included a psychologist to teach people the techniques they need to live a fulfilling life. I’m sure that would have more impact on public health than all the pills in the world.

Regardless of where you are with your own recovery, please know that nobody has the right to steal your hope. Doctors that make proclamations about your limits are sharing their opinions, and while they are very well informed opinions they are not a sentence. When it comes to recovery it’s best to keep an open mind. We may be capable of more than we think. Certainly we will never get more than we expect.

A bit of a book

Hi everyone,
As most of you know, I’m busy working on a book about dealing with fear of recurrence. It’s a huge problem for most people that have survived cancer and the one I get asked about the most.

I’m still playing around with what to call it but at this stage the working title is ‘Worried Sick by Cancer’. I thought you might like a bit of a sample from the opening chapters, so here’s a taster:

The downward spiral of distraction

Just about everything I’ve read about dealing with fear of recurrence recommends distraction as a strategy. We’re told to go for a walk, watch a movie, play with the dog or bury our attention in a new hobby.

Some people distract themselves with healthy activities and others use food or drugs or risk taking to try and conquer their fears. Distraction is a ‘flight’ response to our fear.

All forms of distraction will work some of the time and there are some particular types of distraction that are really useful (more on that later) but for the most part, distraction isn’t a reliable response to fear.

Let’s go through this step-by-step.

You’re facing the fear that your cancer will come back and so you try to distract yourself. You go for a walk, watch some television, maybe phone a friend. If you’re like most people the fear comes with you.

You find yourself experiencing a cycle; a little bit of distraction followed by a little bit of fear. You notice the distraction isn’t working. This makes you even more anxious. You don’t want to be fearful and now you’re anxious about being fearful.

You stick with distraction and perhaps even change activities in the hope of stopping yourself from being frightened. It doesn’t work. Or it works just a little bit and then it doesn’t work. Pushing your fear away is like trying to hold it at arms length. It takes strength and effort and it makes your arm tired.

Sooner or later you need to stop trying to push that fear away and then it’s right back in your face again. So you have another go at trying to push the fear away. This is a bit like trying to hold it above your head or behind your back but you know you’re still going to get tired. You’re aware of the tension in your body as you try not to feel your fear.

Now you notice that the activity you’re using to distract yourself is not a source of pleasure. Using it as a distraction has sucked the joy from it. It’s as if you’re doing it with one hand while you use the other hand to push away the fear. You can’t give the activity in front of you your full attention because you need to make sure you keep that fear at arms length.

You notice that even though you’re trying really hard to distract yourself, the fear keeps creeping back into everything you do. Sometimes you get short bursts of time when you stop thinking about the fear, and then you notice you’re not thinking about the fear, which makes you think about the fear again.

You’re frustrated. You’re anxious about being frustrated and fearful about being anxious. The thought occurs to you that feeling this way isn’t good for your health and now you’re really upset! What if the fear of cancer is actually contributing to the risk of cancer!

At this point your fear might escalate, or it might shift into one of the many emotions that grow out of fear. These include the evil twins, worry and anxiety. Both recruit the phrase ‘what if’ to amplify your fear. You might also find yourself feeling angry, frustrated or annoyed. These emotions are a reaction to feeling out of control and fear is their foundation.

Does any of this sound familiar?

Most of us find distraction somewhat useful some of the time. You might be one of those lucky people that can just switch off, but for most of us, distraction is not an effective way to respond to fear.

Distraction is a bit like trying to pat your head and rub your belly at the same time. With practice, you can do it, but it’s not going to become easy or fun. You might develop some pride in your ability to do two things at once. That’s understandable. But you’re still caught in a slow, downward spiral.

Here’s why I think distraction doesn’t work for most people; Remember what I said about your mind trying to keep you safe? Distraction means you’re not listening. Your mind is sending you an important message about staying alive and you’re ignoring it. What does your mind do? It gets louder!

It’s possible that some of our ancestors never felt fear but they almost certainly got killed and eaten. The nervous and frightened ancestors had much better survival odds. We’ve evolved to feel fear and to pay attention to it. When we try to use distraction to avoid our fear it’s only reasonable that our very clever brain will keep ramping up the fear factor to get out attention. After all, it’s the reason our ancestors survived.

The most important thing to remember about your fear that the cancer will come back is this; your fears are not irrational.

You’ve had one of the biggest frights of your life. It was not imaginary. It was real. You’ve had several more frights along the way, probably involving test results, medical procedures and even the unexpected reactions of people. You have had a really, really big fright!

Your highly evolved brain wants to stop you from ever being that frightened again. It wants to make sure you never put your precious life in that much danger again. You’ve correctly identified a major risk to your survival and your mind wants you to pay attention.

Instead of helping you to deal with your fear of recurrence, distraction does exactly what it has always done. It momentarily takes your mind off something. But your mind doesn’t want to forget about cancer. Your mind wants to warn you. So eventually that fear is back up in your face.

Many people describe this as feeling like they are stuck. They get periods of time when things seem almost back to normal and then the fear sneaks up on them, or ambushes them when they’re not expecting it. The methods I’m going to teach you will help you to overcome this pattern.

For some, fear becomes a downward spiral. Each time they experience fear and an inability to cope with it, they repeat a pattern of behaviour. It might be that they reach for drugs or alcohol, experience a panic attack or find themselves feeling tearful or angry. Each experience of fear sends them back around in a circle.

Their mind establishes a kind of neural loop, and this pattern becomes a well-worn track. They now have a one-track mind when it comes to responding to fear and that track leads them to an increasingly frightening place. If this is you, I can show you how to fix this.

Please take some time to think about the extent to which you’ve used distraction to deal with your fears. How has that worked for you? Is it a reliable way to deal with worry or do you find yourself cycling back through fear again?

There’s nothing wrong with using distraction if you’ve found it effective. It’s just that most people don’t. I’ll teach you a better way of dealing with your fears so that you can return to the activities you enjoy for their own sake, and not as an escape for your mind’s legitimate concerns for your safety.

* * * *

(c)2017
M J McGowan

 

Onward!

I’ve changed my tag line.

I started this blog just over three years ago. Back then, I optimistically tagged it ‘staying positive following a triple negative breast cancer diagnosis’. I was convinced that having a positive attitude would help me to get through the physical and psychological mine field that lay ahead of me.

It did.

But here’s the thing; I’ve come to realise that as important as positive thinking can be, it can also be a trap. Cancer treatment is hard. There are times when it’s terrifying, and really, really sad. There are days when just getting out of bed is an achievement. If we’re too focused on staying positive it can actually become a source of anxiety and stress; we wonder if not being upbeat is undermining our recovery and then we get anxious about our anxiety and we spiral down from there.

I’ve noticed that a lot of people seem to have become very wealthy by telling us to ‘be positive’. There were days during my treatment when my response to this was ‘I’m positive I’ve got cancer!’ There were also days when people would compliment me on being brave, or courageous or even ‘inspirational’. What concerns me about the positive thinking movement is the tendency to pathologise normal, human emotions and to make us feel guilty for having them.

That’s not to say that having a hopeful outlook hasn’t helped me. I’m certain that it has. I just think it’s important to acknowledge that part of being human is experiencing all kinds of emotions and none of them are bad. Some of them are uncomfortable, even painful, but that’s because they’re a reflection of how we’re feeling about some very difficult circumstances.

If something awful happens then sadness is part of how we get through it.

I sometimes wonder to what extent the depression epidemic is linked to enforced cheerfulness. Surrounded by upbeat social media and the highlights of other people’s lives are some people left feeling that any kind of sadness is some kind of failure? It the pressure to be outwardly cheerful while inwardly suffering part of the problem? I think it could be.

I’ve also seen a kind of haze around breast cancer, where there’s an expectation that our ‘journey’ will somehow enrich and reward us with new insights and a relentlessly upbeat perspective. Perhaps we need to acknowledge that while those of us that survive will certainly be changed, not all of those changes are cause for celebration.

I am happy to be alive. I’m also sad about the loss of my breasts and the ongoing health issues caused by treatment. This doesn’t stop me from having a great life but I think it’s part of what needs to be acknowledged. Perhaps instead of being positive all the time we should aim for contentment. This feels less forced. I am not happy all the time but I am generally content. I do have things that make me sad from time to time but they don’t overwhelm me.

I find that acknowledging uncomfortable feelings when they occur, making room for them and sitting with them for a while allows me to honestly process those feelings. I also find that when I forget to do this and try to run away from them they just seem to get stronger. I used to try to distract myself from uncomfortable feelings and now realise it was an excellent way to suck the joy out of whatever activity I was using for distraction.

The great irony of welcoming all of my emotions as normal and healthy is that, on the whole, I am much happier. Giving myself permission to be frightened or angry or frustrated has allowed me to recognise that all of my emotions are part of the richness of being human and that how I respond to those emotions is up to me. I can be angry without taking it out on someone else. I can be sad without that sadness dragging me into depression. Most importantly, I can have all of these emotions and know that they won’t give me cancer.

Stress is definitely bad for me but there are few things more stressful than trying to pretend to be happy when I’m just not feeling it.

And so I’d like to apologise to anyone that thought this blog was a prescription for suppressing any emotions other than happiness. Positivity is, for me, about developing a hopeful attitude to the future. It’s not about being happy all the time.

The most important thing I can do with an emotional response is to ask myself if it’s helping me to live the kind of life I want to live. In this regard, emotions like fear can actually be really helpful. Remembering treatment and being frightened about recurrence is a great incentive to me; it reminds me that I’ve made a lot of changes to my life, including a better diet, losing weight, daily yoga and generally being more grateful and mindful. I honestly believe these changes will improve my odds of survival.

And even if they don’t, they will improve the quality of my life, so they are definitely worth doing either way.

My tag line now reads ‘living well following treatment for triple negative breast cancer’. You can still go all the way back to the beginning of this blog and read about my treatment and all of the things that have happened in the last three years. My focus from here on in will be on living well and staying well. I’m hoping I can find plenty of interesting things to write about.

Three Years Today!

It’s official.

Three years ago today my husband and I sat in a small office at Breast Screen with a doctor we’d never met and a counsellor I’d seen twice before to receive the news that I had triple negative breast cancer.

I was pretty sure before the appointment that I was going to receive a cancer diagnosis. I’d seen the three (later four) suspicious cloudy blobs on the ultrasound and read the concerned face of the doctor taking the multiple biopsies.

I’d cautiously and reluctantly read up on breast cancer but I’d never heard of triple negative breast cancer. I thought they’d tell me there was no urgency and that I had several weeks to think about what I wanted to do next. Instead the doctor asked if I had my usual doctor’s phone number on me so that I could get a referral to a surgeon as soon as possible.

“The cancer you have is much more aggressive than most breast cancers. You need to regard treatment as somewhat urgent. I wouldn’t leave it more than two weeks.”

My father died of bladder cancer at 58. I used to imagine how odd it was going to be to reach 58 and realise I was now the age that Dad was when he died. Suddenly 58 felt like a worthy goal rather than a curious milestone. I was convinced that I was going to die.

I wandered my garden sobbing. Not since my Dad’s death had anything been so upsetting. This was a kind of personal death. No more dancing through life as if it was going to stretch on and on for decades. No grandchildren. Perhaps not even being here for my daughter’s marriage. All of the joys of my future, suddenly squashed under the weight of a cancer diagnosis.

In a cruel twist of timing, my daughter was in China at the time, holidaying with her Dad and his partner and the love of her life. We had already had days of painful discussion about whether or not to let her know that there concerns about my Breast Screen results or whether to wait until she came home.

On the one hand, we didn’t want to spoil her holiday but with social media we knew that keeping it a secret was going to be impossible. My close friends were supporting me through the weeks of anxiety. (I still wonder why I didn’t just see my doctor and have the biopsy done privately! I would have had the results in days and not weeks. Shock.) Zoe was bound to pick up on the fact that something was wrong and to be very angry about not hearing the news before everyone else.

So I made the hardest phone call of my life.

With the experience of a police officer whose given death messages I told her plainly and quickly. There’s no point drawing this kind of conversation out. It just builds anxiety. Of course she wanted to get on a plane and of course I convinced her there was nothing she could do here. But how I wanted to hold her.

The next day she posted to Facebook: “I know I should say something deep and profound here but all I can think of is ‘fuck cancer’.”

It was a gift. I’d dug my own grave and was stretched out in the bottom of it. I was convinced that my father’s DNA, the stress of my previous occupation and the usual collection of unhealthy habits had collided.I was going to die. And then with one angry sentence my daughter turned me around.

I climbed out of the hole and decided to fight. I decided to do everything I possibly could to beat cancer and to stay well. I spent hours on the internet researching triple negative breast cancer. I read books about cancer treatment and dealing with chronic illness. I started this blog. I hoped that writing about treatment would help me to stay on track (it did) and that perhaps sharing my experiences would benefit other women (it has).

It can be difficult to find information about triple negative breast cancer that isn’t terrifying, so I also started a Facebook page and started sharing information about current research, along with small chunks of inspirational thinking that helped me to avoid falling into hopelessness.

Back then I compared fighting cancer to climbing a mountain. I’ve got a better analogy. Cancer is like suddenly discovering that the path you’ve been walking on is unstable. It collapses beneath you and you slide, quickly and dangerously, down to the bottom of a deep, dark pit. On the way down you get injured. The extent to which you get injured is partly determined by how you handle the fall. The rest is luck.

When you get to the bottom you have to make a decision: Stay and die or try to climb back out again. You know the climb will be long and difficult. You know there’s a risk you could back-slide, or wind up right back where you started. You don’t know whether to go back the way you came (because at least you know the risks) or to try climbing out using a different path. So many choices and none of them are clearly better.

As you climb you find there are other people on the same journey. Some of them shout out advice to you but you don’t know if their progress is any better than yours. Some of them fall past you and you never see them again. Some days you feel like you’ve made great progress and other days you slide back towards the pit, terrified that the slide will go all the way to the bottom again.

Your medical team fly in from time to time and drop supplies. Sometimes these make the climb easier and sometimes the weight of them makes you want to sit on the side of the slope and cry.

Way up ahead, towards the light, you can see researchers building bridges and stairs. If only you can stay climbing long enough to reach them.

More people slide past you on their way back down. You want to call out encouragement to them. You want to tell them not to give up and to climb and to keep climbing, but part of you knows that everyone has to make their own decision. There are no right answers.

Finally the edge of the cliff seems within reach, but you’re so tired. This is when a lot of people give up. You know that. It looked closer than it really is. It seemed within a days reach but that was weeks ago. The people that love you are up there in the light, calling down to you. They’ve been there the whole time. Even when you couldn’t hear them. So you keep going.

One day at a time.

Just keep going.

And then the ground starts to become less steep and your progress feels more certain. There are days when you can actually start to enjoy the scenery. Recovery seems possible, even likely, but you can’t trust it. You keep going.

I don’t know when I made it over the edge of that cliff. Was it today? Was it a few months ago when my doctor ordered my three year scans early and I got the news I was cancer free? I don’t know. I feel as if I’m out of the pit now and back on solid ground. Life gets back to being about gardens and friends and good food and laughter. We talk about cancer as if it’s history.

But here’s the truth.

Once you’ve had that path drop out from under you it’s unlikely you’ll ever trust solid ground. It seemed safe the first time around, just before you fell into the pit. You know now what other people don’t; the path can always drop away at any time. This was always the truth. Maybe this is what they mean by ‘ignorance is bliss’. We would all prefer not to know this.

And so we all make a decision. Do we stay frozen by fear or set out on the path again?

Slowly, slowly I have crept forward over the last year, testing the ground beneath my feet. Eventually I decided I will never be able to trust it. I also decided that it’s okay. Not trusting it has made me exquisitely aware of the beauty in the every day.

I sit here typing, sharing my thoughts with people I will never meet, watching the sun warm up the winter garden. There’s a heavy dew this morning and the light is refracting. When my daughter was tiny we would watch the rainbow sparkles and call them fairies.

Today has music and ageing cats and Graham’s sourdough. Today has laundry to fold and firewood and theme music. Later, we’ll head out to lunch with my very adult daughter and her lovely partner to celebrate his birthday. We’ll catch up with his lovely parents and eat great food and laugh.

Life goes on.

 

I am grateful for still being alive.

I am grateful for all of the people that helped me get here.

Thank you.

All of you.

Whether you’re someone on my medical team that provided primary care, one of the many amazing nurses that supported me or one of the cheerful receptionist that greeted me (never doubt the difference you make).

I am grateful to all of the people that contributed to my care and recovery; to the woman at the wig library, to the staff at the local restaurant (Reef) that cheered me on, to the stranger in the waiting room that said “You look great today!” when I had no hair, to the young woman behind the Coles checkout that cried and hugged me. To everyone that smiled and didn’t look away. Thank you.

Thanks to all my virtual friends, whether through this blog or Facebook or the BCNA site. Your support and humour has often been a candle in the night.

To all of my real world friends, old and new, that hugged me and held my hand and drove me to treatment and took me walking and fed me and loved me. I am truly blessed to have you all in my life. And to those that stepped back or moved away, I wish you every happiness and please know I understand.

Special thanks to my yoga teacher, Emma, and my massage therapist, Maryanne. You have both made significant contributions to my physical and emotional recovery.

To Mum, for being stronger than I knew you were and for stubbornly refusing to accept the possibility of my death. I love you.

To Zoe, for telling cancer where to go and for being my single greatest reason for living. For continuing to study hard and live well when you had every reason to fall in a heap. Mummy’s better now, Sweetheart. I love you more than all the leaves on all the trees.

And finally to Graham. I don’t know how I would have coped if this had been you and not me but I couldn’t have done it better.

For starting all of this with “You are not your breasts and nothing is more important to me than keeping you alive and if you have to lose them then that’s what we have to do.” For being the only person that could make me laugh when I’d given up on laughing. For helping me to really understand why a good marriage is so much better than being alone.

Most of all for this:

The night before my double mastectomy, when I asked you if you wanted to kiss my breast goodbye, you said, “No. I’m over them. They tried to kill you.”

And the next day when they took the binder off to check my wounds and I had horrible tubes sticking out of me with bags attached to collect the fluid and even the thought of it all made me gag, you didn’t leave the room and you didn’t flinch.

You’ve never flinched. You’ve grieved and you’ve worried for me but you’ve never looked at me as if I was damaged. I’m just Meg to you. I love you. I didn’t think I could love you more than I did when all this started. I was wrong.

I was going to use today to wrap this blog up and say goodbye. I thought it might be time to move on, but I’ve realised that owning the whole experience and integrating it is part of my recovery. It’s healthy to keep hold of the whole experience and to move forward informed by it. Life can be better after cancer.

On to the next thing.

Love to all.

I am deeply and humbly grateful. Thank you.

Meg

Three Years But No Party Please

It’s three years today since my first ever routine mammogram with Breastscreen found four triple negative tumours in my left breast.

Three years is an important milestone for anyone that’s had triple negative breast cancer. Just about the first thing you learn about this type of cancer is that it’s rare, aggressive and more likely to kill you inside the first three years.

The good news is that once you make it to three years that risk drops. Make it to five and your risk is back to being the same as the general population. So triple negative is the worst breast cancer to have, but the best one to beat.

I’ve let friends know. I’ve put a post on Facebook reminding them that if my diagnosis three years ago prompted to get a mammogram then they’re now overdue for the next one. It might save their life. It saved mine.

Other than that it’s just a quiet, rainy day at home with my husband, listening to Idea of North CDs, watching the cats fight for warmth of the fire and eating homemade sourdough. We had a great night out last night with friends but it wasn’t about my three year ‘mammoversary’.

I’m very happy to still be alive. I’m deeply grateful to have made it to three years. But there won’t be a party.

It’s been a long journey. (Yes, I know there are those that hate referring to it as a journey but there you go.) I’ve navigated the rough bits by focusing on the present, being mindful and being grateful. I’ve had wonderful support from so many people, including some that I didn’t know until I started up this mountain. They’ve kept me going.

It’s been one foot in front of the other for so long. Some stretches have been easier going and some have been one step forward and two steps back. I just kept going.

I’ve lost friends along the way. Some were taken by death and some left of their own accord. I still kept going.

Like all great quests this one has changed me. I don’t look the same; no breasts and this amazing head of silver hair. Thinner. But the real changes are on the inside. I don’t think I’ll ever go back to taking my health or my life for granted. I think I was happier not being quite so intimate with my own mortality, but I think my life is now richer and deeper for that knowledge.

All sorts of things that I used to get wound up about just don’t bother me anymore. I take great joy in the smallest things. I have no need of overseas adventures or marvellous distractions. I am fortunate to have a partner that loves me, a daughter heading off into the world to make her own mark, a few close friends that love me the way I am, a home, a bed, a garden.

The journey has cost me. It seems my hands will not recover from the peripheral neuropathy (although they are better than they were). I still get strange gaps in my memory (but perhaps this is just age and nothing to do with chemotherapy). I will never complain about growing old. It sure beats the alternative.

The hardest challenge is to trust my recovery. I know that at three years my risk is reduced. I also know that there’s still a risk, and that there will always be the possibility that cancer is what ultimately kills me. Have I won the war or simply the battle? How to know?

I hear from friends that thought they’d beaten it only to have it come back many years later. There are no guarantees. So there’s no party tonight. Maybe I’ll feel differently on the 10th of July. That’s the official date of my original diagnosis. I guess it’s not really three years until then.

Probably not.

I think I’ll curl up on the lounge with Graham and watch a funny movie. It might be one of the children’s movies that got me through some of the roughest patches.

Mostly I have this feeling that I’ve been so focused on getting up the mountain, of putting one step in front of the other, that I’m finding the peak a bit disconcerting. There’s nothing here but vertigo, and a two year journey down the other side.

It’s also an opportunity to thank everyone that’s helped me, including all of you, the people that take the time to read my blog posts and the people that make the effort to leave comments. All of you have helped to motivate me to keep writing when I thought I’d give it up. One of the most gratifying things has been to know that sharing my journey has helped you with yours.

Surviving triple negative breast cancer is possible. I think doing it with gratitude and joy is possible. My heart felt thanks to all of you for encouraging me to stick to my values and keep moving forward.

Life goes on.

Until it doesn’t.

Every day is precious to me now and I don’t take anything for granted.