So rather than tell you about my tatts (how badass am I?), the big news is that my ex-husband has tried to muscle in on this dying game. My kids, who have endured years of us being at loggerheads over anything we can find to fall out about, are not amused that we’ve taken things to this extreme. He went and had a heart attack. But just as I caught cancer-lite, he had a mild one. We’re both destined to mediocrity, even in the death stakes. Being an average Jo does have its advantages!
It had already struck me that cancer is a bit like Game of Thrones. What with the all the baring of boobs, fixation with dragons and continuous impending doom, the only thing that is missing is copious sex. Usually with people who are not your spouse. But may still be related. I’m fine with a hard pass on this aspect… (If your mind just went somewhere it shouldn’t, I’m onto you!)
But after a conversation, it took on a new dimension of similarity. Inter-familial sacrifice.
My daughter declared that if one of her parents had to die, better it were me. My ex remarried and has another child, not quite a teen. So better he survive, as their half-sibling is too young to lose a parent. Very altruistic!
My son was more personally affected by the latest news. He has declared that he is obviously genetically doomed to an early death. I pointed out that his chances of longevity would be improved by adding the occasional vegetable to his diet. And maybe slightly less processed meat.
I do think the cat would be the most devastated of all the kids. He has dedicated 8 years to a rigorous training program in door-opening and food-bowl filling, and I have been his star pupil. (Although both his parents have graduated cum laude).
Don’t be aghast. After all, Philip Larkin wrote the parenting handbook I relied on. You know the one:
“They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you.”
The kids all did a good job of getting out as early as they could, with uni/boarding school, and the girls have declared their intention not to procreate. So Philip can rest easy that some heeded his words.
But the kids are not the only ones that get to suffer. I think they have overlooked the upset my current hubby (definitely an upgrade – we don’t need to live a hemisphere apart to avoid psychological warfare) might suffer. (His life would be a lot easier, admittedly, but where’s the fun without the challenge?)
His ex wife developed bowel cancer, diagnosed too late and whilst she survived a couple of years post diagnosis, died last year. He told me he feels like a jinx. I told him he’s not that magical (marvellous though he is – I wasn’t allowing him to build his part up). We were half a world away throughout her illness & treatment, but it took him a good couple of weeks to break the news about me to his son, as he was so worried it might re-trigger his trauma.
Whilst I like to think of this as my own personal drama, it has been a stark reminder that any health issue, little blip or full-size blimp, affects more than just the star. (That’s me, by the way).
People have shown amazing kindness, too. In my line of work, I see daily acts of compassion. But to have it directed at me has been a genuine (surprise) and source of strength. My job is to look after the people that look after people. Not the other way round.
And the number of people who have reached out has been rather delightful.
And generous.
I signed up for Dry July pre-surgery as the meagre bit of reading I did about breast cancer indicated there is a strong link between alcohol and the tit blitzer. Then, still high on general anaesthetic drugs, confined to the house, but not directly supervised, I signed up for Step Up to Breast Cancer for the month of August. You can sponsor me – I have managed to squeak past 10,000 steps each day. Even though it has meant marching up and down our street at 9pm in the rain on more than one occasion. And invoking the ire of my beloved (current) husband who needs to get up at 4.45am…
Yesterday I saw a post on Instagram by Dr Liz O’Riordan (the breast surgeon with breast cancer – who I came across via the You, Me and the Big C podcast). It was emphasising how important exercise is in warding off recurrence. And enlisting people to a Lakes to London challenge in August. I can blame neither drugs nor alcohol. And yet, I signed up.
Obviously I won’t be doing the actual Lakes to London challenge. The only travel I will be doing is to Adelaide, back and forth to the radiation oncology ward at the RAH. But I hope to run, ride, swim or maybe just walk over the course of the month. And I’ve set my target as 300km (although secretly I’d like to do the full 500km).
So I’ll be having radiotherapy for 4 of the 6 (or is it 5?) weeks. (Detail has always been my strong point *cough*).
But it’s virtual.
What could possibly go wrong?