There's a song in the musical Blood Brothers, called 'Tell Me It's Not True'. In case you haven't seen it, I won't spoil the plot for you - suffice to say, this song comes from near the end of the play. For some reason, it's been popping into my head a lot in the last week or so.
Tell me it's not true,
Say I only dreamed it,
And morning will come soon.
Say you didn't mean it,
Tell me it's not true,
Say it's just pretend,
Say it's just the end,
Of an old movie from years ago,
From an old movie of Marilyn Monroe.
You know, I thought it would get easier. (Or did I? Was I really that naive?) I mean, initially, when I was first diagnosed back in Nov/Dec last year, I drove home in shock. For a brief, fleeting moment I imagined ploughing into a lamp post. I thought I'd never be able to stop crying. I thought the panic, and the sheer terror of it all would kill me before the tumour did, but it passed. I started treatment and still cried, only now it was because of the clear toxic fluid being piped into my veins.
I was positive and hopeful throughout chemo hell, looked forward to the days when I could ride, and revelled in those rare moments of bodily comfort - like the 'old days' when I only experienced pain and nausea on the odd occasions. I cried less, and genuinely felt everything just might be okay. But then came the news that there'd been no change - the chemo had perhaps kept it stable, but now we'd move on to radio-therapy.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, it's been a really tough time. The travelling and sickness, the burns both inside and outside, the time stolen by 'recuperation'. It affected me severely. I finished treatment the first week of June and it's not the end of August! I only stopped taking anti-nausea tabs last week, and I'm now being referred to a stomach specialist to find out why I've got abdominal pain and cramping every evening, and increasingly, in the day time too. It's frightening me. The very thought of more tests. I've got a scan booked for Sept 16th, and get the results Oct 1st. I don't mind telling you that I'm absolutely crapping myself and almost don't want to hear the results.
So I need to stop crying, and re-balance. My eldest said I'd lost my positive spirit 'a bit' in the last month or so, and I owe it to them, and to myself, to find it again. Miracles do happen. So what if the tumour is inoperable, pressing against/interfering with/attached to/without a clear line between it and the chest wall, and brachial plexus. So what if 'cyberknife' treatment is unsuitable for my case. It was 3cm. It was small-cell, slow growing (just noticed my subconscious use of the past tense there). I just need to keep going until they do develop something that will keep me alive. And I really do want to write my novel, and finish my PhD. And own a horse one day... This situation is like a bereavement in many ways, as I feel the physical heart-wrenching pain of loss, and the possible loss of my own life. I look at the kids sometimes and cry for their loss, and my poor husband, parents... it affects so many people, and I never realised how important I was to them. It is also frightening, not knowing what the future holds, and realism is probably not the best way forward here.
What I need is an unabashed, forthright belief that everything is going to be just fine, and in 5 years time, as I sit with my little novel all published and sitting in it's jacket on my shelf, we'll all laugh about that dreadful couple of years when we all went through hell, but learned to support each other, and found our strengths. So if you know where I can get such a belief, please let me know!
On A Lighter Note!
I couldn't ride yesterday (tummy ache yet again), but forced myself to take K for her part of the lesson. She wore her jodhpurs (from S) proudly, and had a great lesson. She's almost sussed out rising trot, and did her first trot without holding on to the saddle! She's going to have one more, with me, before school starts again.
I did do a bit with the horses though. Henry was all tacked up and waiting for me, so I took it all off and put it away, noting how light a saddle is before a 45 min riding lesson. K got to meet Ivor too, and being so friendly she was able to stroke his nose and scratch his chin. Aha! My plan is working! At least one of them will fall in love with horses, and then 50% of the family will want one, and we'll be able to go for hacks on the beach together! Ha ha ha ha ha (evil laugh)!!!
Better start doing the lottery or something, then eh?!