Touch of Cancer by Jean Charity (large screen ebook reader txt) 📕

has taken over and even the thought of the simplest activities can overwhelm me. Consequently I am now exceedingly uncomfortable with large groups of people, and veer away from most forms of commitment.
This is in no small measure due to my confidence being knocked very badly shortly after I went into remission. Unbeknown to me, all the chemicals in my system had begun to take their toll and show in my outward appearance, and this was brought home to me very forcibly as I was out taking my very first evening stroll since treatment began.
I was walking by the sea; the sun had gone down, there was a gentle breeze blowing, and it was a lovely evening. All was well with my world as I strolled along, face turned skywards, taking in the wonderful air and feeling of freedom. I felt very happy and complacent. Perhaps too complacent. It was whilst I was waiting to cross the road to go back to my apartment that two young girls in an open-topped car drove past. Their sneering and jeering at me as they went by had me rushing home and confronting the mirror. What I saw shocked me. I had recently received my dose of Mabthera; my new hair was sprouting in all directions; my ‘orange’ eyebrows standing out in stark contrast to my pallid skin, and the fake tan and make-up
I’d plastered on in an attempt to achieve some colour had totally disappeared. I’d obviously completely absorbed it all. I hadn’t realised how gaunt my face had gone; how crepey my neck was; how ILL I looked. It seemed to have happened overnight and I guess I hadn’t really looked at myself properly; certainly not through anyone else’s eyes. In my all-black outfit with my marble-coloured face, I really did look like something out of ‘Christmas past’.
I actually hated those girls then; but in the event they had done me a favour and I immediately took the black clothes off and put them into the back of the wardrobe. It took me a while to actually venture out again after that; and if I’m having a day when I’m showing a weird resemblance to one of the ‘Munsters’, I abandon all thoughts of going
out that day and stay indoors out of sight.
I am no longer the person I was. My attitude to life has changed and I am basically a much calmer person. I am more moody and irritable for sure; but hope these are only temporary aberrations. My eyes have been opened to the simple, really important, things in life and my compassion has increased. Material things no longer hold any interest for me. I now live very humbly and simply without all the trappings I once considered so essential, and in living this way I have found a richness far beyond anything I could have imagined. I have had time to stop and ‘smell the daisies’ and see things which have been right under my nose all this time, and to which I have paid no attention previously.
A couple of years back I was awaiting delivery of some new bedroom furniture which should have been delivered some three months previously (but this is Spain), and when I finally received the telephone call telling me my furniture was ready for delivery I was delighted. However, before I could even speak the man on the other end of the ’phone added ‘but we can’t deliver it because the warehouse holding it has been burnt to the ground and your furniture
with it’. For some reason this really appealed to my somewhat warped sense of humour and as I burst out laughing his very concerned utterances of ‘Is no joke. Is no joke’ made me find the situation even more amusing. I doubt very much that, before my illness, I would have found my furniture going up in flames such entertainment.
But my priorities are now completely different from before and what once mattered is now of little importance. For me, to wake up in the morning and know I am still here is Important; to see and revel in the every-day wonders all around me is Important; to relax in easy company over a drink or a coffee is Important; to watch the sun go down, the moon come up, and the stars appear in the night sky is
Important; to inhale the atmosphere, smell the air, hear the birds sing, is Important: grasping my happiness in the simplest of things to the full, and being true to myself, is Important.
Whilst plans are not in my curriculum any more, I do still spin my dreams, and I hold fast to them.
They are different dreams now. I live in a different world from before. I hear a different drummer and follow a different star. But I like my life this way and, despite all the down-times, what I am never allowed to lose sight of is how lucky and blessed I truly am.


10


ATTITUDE AND TRIBUTES





Attitude when coping with this illness is, I have realised, very important.
When I was first diagnosed the translator for my Oncologist (who was also his assistant at the time) took me on one side and said ‘you will get through – you have the right attitude’. He then went on to tell me the story of a lady they had treated some years before. Despite all their efforts her cancer had spread vigorously and finally they could do no more for her but feed her palliatives and keep her as comfortable as possible. She was totally hospitalised and they forecast only a few days left for her. Apparently she had this wonderful attitude: she always managed a smile for the doctors and nurses; she never moaned about her condition; and she never gave up on it. Her spirit, he said, was indefatigable and her positivity amazing. As was
her recovery…When they had given up all hope for her (which they do not do easily here) her cancer suddenly began to abate of its own accord, and she is still here today living a cancer-free life. He told me the Medical profession could find no logical explanation for this; but they were convinced her own attitude had been a huge contributory factor. She never gave up. She never lost hope. And nor should we. Miracles do happen, every day, and often when least expected.
We just have to believe and go forward with a positive attitude.
To a degree, through the loss of many friends and family (far too many), I had been well prepared for my cancer; but the most horrific was my step-sister-in-law who died just before her 34th birthday. Today she would not be allowed to suffer in the way I saw her suffering back in the 1970s. Her endurance, her determination, and her courage, had to be seen to be believed. She never gave up her fight;
never gave up on her faith, even when she was so ravaged her physical side was almost unrecognisable. As we both worked full-time in those days we never really got to know each other until her illness; and one of the last things she said to me was; ‘I’m frightened. But one good thing has come out of all this. If it hadn’t happened you and I would never have become so close. I’m glad we have.’
Such generosity of spirit is rare indeed, and I will never forget her words.
I admired her so very, very much. The thoughts of her have helped me on many occasions, and her inner light and spirit which shone through has been my inspiration. She left behind a daughter who is now a doctor in the medical profession…and so her light continues to shine.
On my first draft of this writing I added in the following paragraph:

If messages reach the ‘other side’ then I have one for her: ‘The forget-me-nots are still flowering.’ Who knows, she may receive it.
And she will understand.

Since then, whilst chatting just generally on the phone to my ‘clairvoyant’ friend, prior to our finalising our call, he said: ‘A lady has just ‘‘come’’ to me with the most enormous bunch of Forget-me-nots. She said they are for you. You are to treasure them.’ His words were so moving they made me cry. But you must make of this what you will. I relate my life now to BC (before cancer) and DC (during cancer). Four months BC my closest friend died from breast cancer. I’m not going to disclose her real name in case it should cause any distress to her family; and so shall call her Louise. From the moment we met (only circa 12 years before) we had a wonderful affinity. Our lives seemed to have been remarkably parallel, and when something untoward struck one of us, a similar event would soon follow with the other. It was quite uncanny.
Louise and I shared our laughter and our tears, our opinions (which sometimes clashed) and our cigarettes and red wine. I can always see her eyes smiling across a table at me when I’m pouring from a bottle of red wine (which I am just back to drinking by the way). She was the most elegant, well-groomed and tastefully tuned-out woman I
have ever met, and always looked immaculate from head to toe. She only ever wore few colours (cream and black being the prime) and when her hair thinned she bought Paddington Bear hats to match. She looked like a sophisticated little doll in them. Throughout her illness, albeit it took her time and effort – she was meticulous about putting on her make-up; and even right at the end in the hospital her nails were immaculately manicured and varnished and she insisted on having her own pillows with her from home.
She was highly intelligent, one of the kindest people I have ever met, and over-riding her not-inconsiderable beauty were the most incredibly enormous brown eyes. Exceedingly chic, it was her continued grooming throughout her illness which impressed me; and when I’m
feeling really lethargic and too lazy to make an effort with myself her influence comes to bear and (not always, but often) I will be spurred into making that effort.
Though very different in looks, we could almost read each other’s minds and thoughts would often pass between us when in company. On one occasion at a party, Louise entered a room in which I was standing talking. We briefly caught each other’s eye and the next minute were both out of the door running helter-skelter down the drive in our high heels and the pouring rain, giggling like schoolgirls.
Not a word had passed between us.
Although we would rile each other at times, I loved her like the sister I never had.
Shortly before she died she insisted on giving me a beautiful bright red woollen scarf. After first getting approval from her daughter that she wouldn’t find it insensitive, I wore it to Louise’s funeral. I have no idea what the other mourners thought about my turning up in bright red – but that didn’t matter. I knew Louise would have been pleased. She had a great sense of humour.
There was an expletive she would use. It’s a word I normally can’t stand to hear, but she would say it so elegantly that, coming from her, it was different. Somehow the dignity and panache with which it was delivered made it effective yet totally inoffensive. One day I was being hassled by people and feeling quite unwell, when into my mind came the words: ‘Tell them all to f . .