Breast cancer lesson number 47: The importance of being normal

For those of you currently splitting your days between the waiting room and the living room, I am delighted to report that there is life beyond these walls. I have seen it. I know it’s hard to imagine. But, it’s still there, being interesting, just like you left it.

The truth is, daily walks, daily planned-in box set viewing and almost-daily hospital visits – although vital for post-surgery recovery ­–­ do not a life make. In recent weeks, I have felt more like an observer on my own life, rather than a participant in it. If health allows, however, and you are brave enough to open the door to the other side of you (the pre-cancer normal), I would encourage you to do so – right now.

By normal, I don’t mean dull. By normal, I mean the bits of life you enjoyed before cancer swept in and took them away. Yes, be selective (you may wish to live without the ritual of Friday night pizza). Yes, make adjustments (I am seeing more friends and having more laughs than ever before). But make normal your base and, you’ll find it’s the hospital appointments that start getting in the way – not the other way round.

Since the day I was diagnosed I have made a conscious effort to not be a cancer patient (she says writing a blog on the subject!). I don’t want to hide away with only my thoughts for company. I don’t want to be defined by the clinic and chemo dates in the diary, because I know that when the dates stop coming, life can go from being very busy to very lonely overnight. I want to use the time cancer has inadvertently gifted me to cherry pick the bits of life I love and shut the door on everything else. There’s a lot of truth in the phrase, ‘you are what you do’. Give yourself over to cancer and you’ll forget the life you’re fighting for.

The great thing about rediscovering your ‘normal’ is that something you’ve taken for granted for years suddenly becomes more exciting and beautiful. Take Thursday night. I had a theatre date in the diary and I was determined to keep it. It’s probably worth mentioning at this point that my taste in theatre is acquired. While I do love my musicals, a bit of Shakespeare and the odd sedate play, I also like to explore the world of immersive and promenade theatre. Those of you who know me well will know I’ve been kidnapped by vampires in Barbican car park, sent on a mission underneath Waterloo station and electrocuted (mildly) in the name of art. If it’s rather strange and often devoid of a coherent plotline, I’m there.

While I was making my way to Shoreditch Town Hall basement to watch Philip Pullman’s Grimm Tales, I was trying to remember why it was I’d booked it in the first place. As I approached the theatre it hit me – or should I say the wording on the poster did. It was immersive. That meant involvement. Instead of my usual nervous excitement, I suddenly felt completely vulnerable. I didn’t look even remotely ill, so how would I be able to keep my arm, boob and tummy protected when surrounded by focused actors and curious theatre-goers. I didn’t feel ready.

The great news is, that rather running for the exit – or back stage to find someone who could furnish me with a big ‘don’t touch me’ sticker – I grabbed a glass of wine and had a wonderful evening with a friend. While I would have loved to have found a seat in each of the rooms and, while I slept well that night, I found being at an event where only one other person knew what was going on beneath my clothes really exhilarating. Cancer wasn’t centre stage and, you know what, I loved it.

Of course, there is a small note of caution. It is worth remembering, you’re still not normal, even though you’re playing the part. I was reminded of this on Friday night when having a takeaway with friends at home. I ate my usual healthy (or not so) Jackie-sized portions (at my usual fast Jackie pace) and enjoyed some of our engagement Champagne and wine. It was only later that I realised the body corset/curry combo was not a particularly good one. I didn’t enough have space for water and was still reliving the experience 24 hours later. A few less mouthfuls and a lot less speed, and I would have been fine.

People talk about discovering their ‘new normal’ after finishing active treatment. I have around six months to go and think it is important I use this time to go back to my version of normal so that I can work out what I want my ‘new normal’ to be. I know it will include a hair cut every eight weeks (once there is something to style. I am already craving the smell of product knowing I won’t be there as a client for a while). I know it will include immersive theatre. But I know it will be different. It has to be. There are already 40 things on my Brighter Life list for starters and I am determined to complete each and every one.

I know it will be busy, but I know it will be better. And, there won’t be a single cannula, oxygen mask or blood pressure cuff in sight.

 

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