Blog – but from the start

Are you a bit of a control freak? Do you like to be able to see all the cards in your hand wherever possible and potentially those of the person on either side of you? Do you feel safer knowing what’s on life’s table, even if it isn’t what you would choose? Do you like to control the controllable? Are you a list maker? Do you know what you’ll be having for dinner tonight? How about in three days time?

I never used to think of myself as someone who wanted control over all of life’s little parts. Organisation and structure have never been really my thing. I have tended to outsource those parts of my life to the Virgos in my world. But if I’m honest, I like to control certain things. I like to control conversations and awkward social situations. I like to arrive way too early at an airport because the thought of running to get to the gate is triggering. When I was teaching, I often couldn’t help myself but maintain control over where the lesson would go, even when my intention was to let the students’ curiosity guide the learning. Now that I think about it, control is something I have always craved.

I feel safe when I (at least) roughly know what’s happening in my life. That’s human, right?

So here are some innocently asked questions that I have been recently asked that have thrown me from my centre:

Do you think you and Magro will eventually move out of your parents’ place?

Will you ever return to Melbourne? Will you stay in Sydney?

Where is the first place you’ll travel overseas when it’s safe to do so?

Do you think you’ll teach again? What other work might you do?

Are you likely to lose your hair again?

What’s the long term plan?

What happens if you get Covid?

If you’d ask me any of these questions prior to my diagnosis I would have had at least some idea of my answers. Five year plan? Sure! Travel definitely on the cards – definitely for several weeks to Sicily, Sardinia and Malta. Will we return to Melbourne? Of course! Many of our family and friends are there and we love the city, if not its weather (although…Sydney…wtf lately). Will you teach again? Hmmm…maybe not teaching but I’m curious about where teaching might lead me. One day we’d like to live in another part of Australia…that was our plan.

So imagine yourself being unable to honestly answer any of those questions. The answer to ALL of these questions is, “I don’t know.” And it feels incredibly hopeless to answer that way.

Even if I do make up some kind of response, my inner voice is still waiving the “Ahem. You have really serious cancer” flag.

Sometimes it feels like cancer owns my future. Cancer will decide my one year, two year and if I’m lucky, an even longer term plan. Cancer has all of my cards in its hand and I have zero control over the game play.

So I look for little things I can control. And I control them. Here are some examples:

I can’t control whether my hair will fall out again but I can shave my head. I can colour my hair bright pink or purple. And I do.

I can’t seem to control my pelvic floor when I sneeze or cough and a little bit of wee comes out. I find this incredibly unfair given I have never even been pregnant. But I can make an appointment to see a physio who will hopefully help me to get that situation under control. I don’t even know if this is related to the bowel cancer but if it is, Alan, you really are a prick.

I can’t control how food tastes in my mouth. But I can prepare meals that look beautiful and smell delicious and I can watch the satisfied faces of my family as they eat the food I cook.

I can’t remember much of anything in terms of days, appointments and events but I am learning to prioritise this sort of organisation because it gives me purpose and boundaries and structure.

I can’t work but I can be productive. I find small ways to help others so I’m not always the one being helped.

I can’t know how sick I am going to feel each day but I can control the way I respond to that feeling. I can rest if I choose. I can also battle through and annoy everyone by complaining about how gross I feel.

I don’t know my future. I don’t even know if I will be alive in two years. But I can live hard and love well in the present and I can forgive myself when I don’t get those right either.

Since my last post was about the anxiety I felt around this week’s scan results, it seems only fair that I report back.

In summary (and I’m going to dot point this shit so as to not bore you or myself to death):

  • The tumour in my breast (Karen) remains unremarkable and hasn’t grown
  • The tumour in my colon (Alan) seems to have thinned slightly on the bowel wall
  • I have no new tumours in my body
  • The liver metastases (Alan’s weekender) show some increase in cancer activity – the ‘spots’ lit up more on this PET scan. This can indicate the cancer is no longer as sensitive to the chemo drug I am receiving.

In response we will be changing one of my drugs on the next cycle. Olaxiplatin will be added to the cocktail in place of Irinotecan.

How does this feel for me?

It’s interesting how we prepare ourselves for the worst of news and the best of news. I was a bit of a mess the morning before I received the results. Trying my best to Santosha the shit out of it but actually feeling terrified.

The actual appointment sort of felt like a bit of an anticlimax. I know that sounds weird. I received no terrible news and I was given no wonderful news. I sort of just sat there looking at Dr Duenna and basically shrugged my shoulders before trudging off to be once again hooked up to the chemo hills hoist.

Today I am as flat as a tack but otherwise ok. I slept a lot, exercised a little and ate some food. That is what I am capable of today. I accept that treatment continues and that without it I would get sicker. I continue to accept that my body is trying its best for me.

I reject the bowel that continues to produce the most disgusting farts and strangely not enough actual poo in the days following chemo. I embrace both the laughter and the repulsion that me writing about this stuff might ensue. I reject the disgusting taste in my mouth that lasts for at least a week. It’s oral thrush. Ladies, if you know, you know. Could there be anything more disgusting? Yes, there is. Anal warts. I don’t have those. Tick.

So this blog post is a bit of a shoulder shrug. An anticlimax. An information report of the dullest kind. Onwards we go.

In two and a half hours I will lie down for my first big PET scan since treatment started. This is the scan that will paint a picture of the inside of my body. The outcome of the invisible war that has been raging inside me will finally become known.

I had a similar scan about twelve weeks ago when treatment was in the early stages and it had looked promising. It gave us all a boost and helped me to feel like the treatment was working its toxic magic. It should give me confidence going into this scan.

And it does. But I woke up this morning in tears for the first time in a long time. And if I had to put words to the thoughts and feelings they would be: helplessness, a lack of control, fear and an awareness that the stakes couldn’t be higher. There has been no test that I have ever taken that is more important and there is literally nothing I can do to effect the outcome. That is why the phrase ‘finally lost their battle with cancer’ is so infuriating to anyone with cancer. There is no WAY to win at cancer.

I heard about Santosha recently. My yoga teacher introduced us to the term a few weeks back and I found its meaning to be strangely reassuring. At its simplest, Santosha means ‘contentment’. I know. It’s a stretch to believe I am going to find contentment in my current predicament. But there is something very therapeutic in the idea that striving in this particular context is pointless.

For me, it is the understanding that I am where I am, my body is where it is at and I choose to accept that for now, everything is as it should be. My body is doing its best to heal – I am content in this knowledge. I trust. I accept.

And whatever the outcome, that becomes the new point of acceptance. Of faith in my body, of trust in my medical team, and contentment in this beautiful life I am living.

Sound a bit fluffy? It might to you. It probably would have to me a few months ago. But now I find it the most powerful idea I’ve discovered since this shitshow began.

So whilst I woke up scared and crying, I try to focus on my breath which is always here, keeping me alive. A reminder that my body is strong and capable and has been doing its living best for me for 47 years. And even though it is really difficult I ask myself to trust. To choose contentment and acceptance in this place and time.

Spend enough time with me and you’ll begin to notice some slight but significant differences in my person. I’m not talking about the obvious stuff: the buzzcut blonde hair, the chemo pump occasionally attached to my right arm. No, I’m referring to my personality, my social skills, and my intellect.

Honestly, I have never felt dumber in my entire life. My short-term memory is comparable with that of a flea. I find myself halfway through an amusing anecdote and then drawing a complete blank about the point of the story or its ending. If you ask me what I had for dinner last night I will need a few minutes. If you want to know what I did during the day…I will need longer. If you want to know what I did last week, I will need to refer to the calendar hanging on the fridge. I suck at google calendar (but to be fair I wasn’t super good at it in the first place).

I know for a fact that my friends are having to repeat stuff to me within the space of a ten-minute conversation. I can tell by the look of, “Is she serious?” that comes over their face very briefly before they kindly remind me of what it is I’ve missed.

But the worst part is that it feels like part of who I am socially is missing. Over coffee with friends on the weekend (I know I did this because it’s on the calendar), I found myself struggling to follow the thread of conversation at times. Or worse, redirecting the conversation back to myself so that I could contribute something. Meanwhile, all I have to talk about is cancer and chemo, and what a fun time that is for everyone!

At times, there seems to be a numbness about me. Typically this exists in the space that is five days post-chemotherapy. I can be listening to or watching something I know in my head to be hilarious and I cannot seem to muster even the slightest physical reaction. No smile. No laugh. Nothing. Similarly, I’m in a conversation with someone and I am giving them NOTHING. I hear what they are saying but it’s as if I can’t quite get a hook on the thread. To compensate, I just start phoning in responses. The poor person must think I am so rude but there is a whole internal dialogue happening for me. “React, you idiot! Laugh. Say something. Ask a question! Do something!!” It’s not that I’m not interested, I just seem to have nothing worth saying within me.

For some of my family and friends, this recent development might actually come as a pleasant reprieve. For the first time in my life, they can get a word in edgewise. I should be content to kick back and let others have a say. But those who know me well understand I won’t go down without a fight.

Apparently, this phenomenon is commonly known as “Chemo Brain”. What a creative and jolly title! Inspired. I’d like to suggest one or all of the following as possible substitutes:

  • The “Unstaffed Lighthouse” Syndrome
  • The “Bottom of the Fridge” Cognitive Profile
  • The “Look at that shiny thing! Wait, what shiny thing?!” Memory/Attention Interplay
  • The “Guess what she’s thinking (Hint: Not a lot)” Emotional Under-reactivity

In the beginning, I didn’t predict chemo brain would bother me compared with the other crap on the treatment shopping list. Friends who have been through it recommend memory assistant apps. I’m probably ready to sort that out now.

In the meantime, if I am talking to you and I look bored I promise, I’m not. I’m trying really hard to hit the ball back over the net. I’m just on a different court.

Work is not an option for me right now. Some days in the fortnight I reckon I could probably phone in an hour or two of sub-par productivity but, in the interests of extending my lifespan, I am focusing on recovery as a full-time occupation. Whilst this might sound idyllic and a bit of a lark, as someone who doesn’t cope well with boredom, it isn’t as simple as just chilling out all day. It needs structure. I need something to do. Every. Day.

Since the Christmas holidays ended I have been building a repertoire of daily activities that make me feel like I am contributing something to the world and something akin to kicking Alan in the dick.

So…we have a personal trainer, Leah, coming to the house twice a week for resistance training. I try and walk Murray most days with the help of a family member (I can’t pick up the poops because of toxoplasmosis). I am reading again and have roped some friends into a book club. We are calling it TOOFAACC “Too old for an actual club, club.” I plan and prepare an evening meal every night except steroid nights when they won’t let me near the knives. I get in the water and swim as much as possible – I want this to become more like lap swimming but at the moment it’s just being in water. I write the blog. I rest when the fatigue hits – usually at about 2pm. I know. It all sounds like really basic stuff, stuff that many of you fit in regularly around full-time jobs and parenting.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe basic stuff is the stuff some of us crave when our worlds are in a state of flux.

It has not once occurred to me to go seeking alternate therapies, prayer circles, spiritual enlightenment, personal development workshops, holistic pulsing, or any other remedies that people facing cancer often embrace. It’s not me. And it shits me to tears when people who know me well try and sell that stuff to me. People who know me better don’t even go there. My open-mindedness has limits. It’s not what I want.

What I crave more than anything, I think, is human connection that is as normalised and familiar, and reassuring as possible. When we do normal stuff together and you are normal around me, I feel normal and well, and like I’m not constantly reminded about Alan.

This is why I chose the yoga class run by the local council in a church hall. I knew before I arrived I would be the youngest person there by thirty years. I knew that nobody would be wearing anything by PE Nation or fucking Lulululululemon or whatever that brand is called. I guessed that it would be Hatha yoga. I guessed we might not start with a salute to the sun. I knew people would introduce themselves to me immediately on arrival and then proceed to praise the seventy-five-year-old instructor in the loud whisper that comes with old age, “She’s VERY good.” I knew there would be a high proportion of Margarets and Glenys’s and I was right. I was right about it all.

Not once did we stand. It was all floor-based and focused on an extended Shavasana. People smiled at me and looked towards me to make sure I was coping. They asked about where I was having treatment and loud whispered in response, “They’re VERY good there.” My body felt strong during the lesson and calm at its close. I felt supported by a group of strangers too old to be awkward in a social setting. It felt beautiful. I never once felt self-conscious. I never once had the thought that I wasn’t good enough.

So I’m adding Yoga to my weekly schedule. It’ll be good for my body but it will also be good for Alan to know I’ve added about ten senior citizens to my army. And many of them have had dealings with Alans before either directly or indirectly.

PS. Hair update – my friend Sharyn (at my insistence) shaved my head for me (number two all over) and we then decided to bleach it blonde and dye it lilac. I absolutely love it and I should have done it sooner. A lesson in trusting my gut and being decisive.

This is an experiment. I had my infusion today and I still have Gwen, the chemo pump, attached for another two days. I’m going to try and describe what it feels like. For me. Which is to say, it’s not the same for everyone. Because I was terrified of treatment before I started treatment and I’ll start by saying that it’s not as bad as I imagined. Not even close.

But you know that feeling when you woke up hungover and you weren’t sure if trying to eat was a good idea but you gave it a go? As uncomfortable as nursing that (*insert preferred go-to hangover solution) bacon and egg roll was, you knew that if you could get through it, you’d be in a better place? But then you eat the bacon and egg roll and you know immediately you were wrong. Am I going to vomit? Probably not. Do I feel that any sudden movement could change things either way, yes.

Luckily I am well-equipped with drugs to take for the nausea. It’s just a matter of titrating their various forms and doses so as to not render myself unconscious for days. Not to mention slowing my bowel down to a pre-christmas covid testing queue crawl. A fart lets me know the engine is still running.

Chemo is a disgusting, beautiful, toxic, punishing, tumour-killing monster. At the hospital clinic, we are asked to close the lid after we use the toilet. Just having the stuff coming out of our bodies is risky to others. I’m supposed to use different towels, different hand towels, different everything to the people I live with. I heard a nurse tell a newbie patient she should wipe down the vanity after she brushes her teeth.

Right now I feel so disgusting. I just want to crawl into a corner (very dramatically) and sleep the deep sleep of the dead for the next two days.

And here’s the kicker. Tomorrow I may wake up full of energy and ready to start the day. And if you ask me how my treatment is going, I’ll tell you it’s going pretty well.

But today is basically a loose poo in a packed commuter train bathroom. Unavoidable. Ugly. And because I’ve shared the details with you…stinking up the whole carriage.

According to Bowel Cancer Australia, “Bowel cancer risk increases significantly when two or more alcoholic drinks are consumed per day.” Good to know.

Could those of you who currently drink more than two drinks per day please raise your hand? C’mon. It’s just you and me. I’m not your GP. You can be honest. Lockdown was tough. Covid is a bitch that just seems to linger – a permanent cold sore on the face of the planet. Zoom meetings and working remotely ensure that your home-life and work-life are now non-delineated zones of confusion and inspiration-sapping mundanity. The news is predictable and depressing. The world seems to be stuck in a holding pattern that may or may not end in the near or painfully distant future.

Where does one find pleasure these days? If I’m honest, and let’s face it, I’ve got nothing to lose, for the last two years or so, the sight of a chilled, crisp riesling in an elegant wine glass was as close as I came to feeling joy and excitement at the end of a workday. It symbolised the closure of my day, the permission to relax, some semblance of socialisation, and just the deliciousness of a lovely glass of wine.

But I struggled to stop at one glass. I would plan to but found myself pouring another because…why the fuck not. Don’t get me wrong. I hate the feeling of being drunk. I rarely allow myself to get drunk. The hangovers are just too brutal past 40. But two glasses? Most nights I would have at least two. Maybe three. Maybe four. Ok, stop gasping you Judgy McJudgersons! I wasn’t necking the bottle or anything. Four wines in as many or more hours.

However, it occurs to me now that whilst I was busy justifying the fact that I wasn’t quite an alcoholic during the lockdown, I may have given myself bowel cancer. Shit.

But let’s not blame the victim too much. I still fall well within the ‘surprisingly young to have bowel cancer’ category – according to almost every doctor I come across. And also…I didn’t know alcohol could cause bowel cancer. If I had to guess at the causes of bowel cancer I’d probably put smoking before alcohol, alongside…I dunno…eating too much steak?? (Sidebar: both of these are also really significant risk factors for bowel cancer. Just saying.)

And look, I know not all of you drink alcohol, and some of you really are telling the GP the truth when you say it’s just a glass with dinner a couple of times a week, but even ruling all three of you out of the group, the rest of us don’t ALL have bowel cancer.

Here’s the thing though. I already have bowel cancer. And I STILL love wine. Will sipping from the poison chalice really have that much impact now? According to the oncologist I need to go easy. And I am. Just prior to diagnosis, my liver sent my brain a strong “Lay off it, bitch” message and the sight of alcohol instantly repelled me. I was feeling so sick and the thought of a drink made me feel even sicker.

With treatment, gradually I started to feel better. I still wanted to enjoy the social side of an evening drink so I tried alcohol-free wine. The people who tell you some of these wines are really lovely are flat-out lying. They suck. And I’ve tried quite a range.

Now I am drinking reduced alcohol wines in smaller amounts. And it works for me. Am I making my cancer worse? I don’t know. Probably. Are you shaking your heads in horror at the negligence I show for my own health? I don’t know. Probably. Do I give a shit what you think? I don’t know. Probably. Will I be having a half-strength Pinot Gris at 6pm tonight? Yes, definitely.

Public Service Announcement: Bowel cancer risk increases significantly when two or more alcoholic drinks are consumed per day.

There. You’ve all been warned. Now…who fancies a G&T?

You know in horror movies when someone goes into the attic and pulls an ancient doll from a dusty trunk…the doll has a missing eye and about seventeen crazy looking hairs on its head. Well, I don’t look exactly like the doll. I still have both eyes. Sure, almost no eyebrows, but I have eyes.

My hair is going and it’s disappearing fast, all of a sudden. When the chemo plan was initially explained to me I was told there was a chance I could lose my hair and weirdly, back then, that didn’t phase me too much. Of course, given the depth and range of the shitshow in which I found myself, hair loss was probably the least of my concerns. Weird how things change.

I have never thought of myself as particularly vain but my hair falling out has honestly been one of the most emotional, upsetting phases of this whole cancer thing. For months it looked like it was just thinning and I might get away with a slightly less bulky ponytail. Right now I’m covering my ever increasing bald patches with the world’s smallest high bun. Imagine a pimple on a pumpkin and you’ve got the ratio about right.

My hair falls out all the time but those times when I am washing my hair in the shower are the most confronting. A few weeks ago I pulled my hands down after rinsing the conditioner and my hands looked like something out of Teen Wolf. I couldn’t even see the skin on my hands for the amount of hair. It was shattering and pretty soon I found myself slumped on the tiles, sobbing. It took me about ten minutes to gather myself and get out of the shower where I was promptly confronted by the sight of my scalp in the bathroom mirror. And I lost it once more.

I like to share as you probably now know. It has become my regular practice to force loved ones to witness the hair loss. Poor Mel and Magro have each been called into the bathroom to view the post-wash pile of hair which increasingly resembles the roadkill of a medium-sized marsupial. I stand there semi-naked, pointing at the base of the shower and saying, “Look at it! It’s a lot!” to which they have no choice but to reply with, “Yep. It’s a lot.” This awkward exchange is somehow helpful to me. A load shared etc…

So it’s only fair that I share with you, loyal readers, as well. Look. It’s a lot of baldness, isn’t it?!

 

More dignified people would keep this image to themselves. Dignified has never been my thing. Instead, I choose public acknowledgement. It’s a FUCKING LOT OF BALD HEAD!!! And you can’t even see what’s under that comb-over.

“Why not just shave it off and get it over with?” I hear you (quite reasonably) ask. Well, here’s the thing. I’m not finishing chemo any time soon. As far as I am aware, the plan is for me to continue with treatment for the foreseeable future. In which case, this shit ain’t growing back. And believe me when I say this…I am not one of those Sinead O’Connor types who is going to be rocking the bald head. My ‘natural beauty’ isn’t going to be outshining the large, pale walnut that is my naked cranium. I imagine my future to be akin to dressing up every day as a six-foot-something, praying mantis and just casually going about one’s day.

And not just that. Most strangers on the street don’t know I have a chronic illness and I quite like it that way. Even you lot seem surprised when you bump into me that I look pretty normal and surprisingly unsick. Once I lose my hair I will adopt that much more recognisable image of the cancer patient. And while it might help me to jump the odd queue, it’s not ideal.

Sure, I’ve been stocking up on head scarves and I will consider wigs. But it’s not the same.

Some of you reading this have already been through this whole hair loss due to chemo shit. And having seen your photos, I think you pulled/pull it off beautifully. I’m going to take all the leaves out of your books and try to style it up as best I can, then just grit my teeth and walk out the door. In the meantime, if you see me walking down the street with strands (chunks) of hair falling behind me, just smile and wave and let me pretend it isn’t happening for a little bit longer. ‘kay, thanks!

PS. I kept getting a red line under my typing of the word ‘shitshow’. I have since added this word to my laptop’s dictionary and I suggest you all do the same. 2022 is already requiring its most regular use.

Two weeks ago I had just apologised to the man in the chair next to me at the infusion centre. By some miracle I had fallen asleep, and woken myself up with my own rhinoceros-level snoring several times over. The poor guy was actually trying to run a business from his chemo chair – laptop, second screen, phone, the works. He was very kind and understanding about my snoring and we got chatting.

Both of us were raging about the current management of Covid in our state and country – how the government is relaxed about it to the point of ambivalence, no, neglect.

My new friend then said something that had been bubbling away in my subconscious for a while. “You know what really shits me?? That you and I, and everyone else in this room are considered less than. We are the ones who will be listed as having had a ‘pre-existing condition’ and are somehow less countable in the daily numbers.”

It’s as if we are sundries in a game of cricket. Those of us who are already managing health concerns are not attributable to any player’s score. Our deaths and ICU admissions are a by-product of what for many others is ‘just like a common cold’.

Lucky them.

I am isolating for a week because a much loved family member contracted Covid while we holidayed together by the beach. I may or may not get Covid and I may or may not have a lot of trouble fighting it because I have almost no white cells left after chemo. But not just that, I can’t have chemo this week because I would be putting every other patient at risk. The flow on effect of this disease in the lives of many people is huge and scary.

So I want to say thank you.

I see you. Those of you who:

  • wear a mask the way it is intended to be worn
  • distance where possible
  • don’t read the restrictions looking for the potential to cut corners and interpret them in a way which means you get to socialise indiscriminately
  • get vaccinated because you care about the health of everyone and because it is your civic responsibility
  • listen to and advocate for scientists and medical professionals
  • have booked in your booster shot
  • check-in wherever possible
  • monitor for symptoms
  • seek testing when required (and god knows it aint easy to get tested at the moment)
  • isolate when you test positive or are a close contact
  • work in health and emergency services…you must be burnt out on every level

Covid is running through my family right now like it is for many families. I know that I am probably going to get it…it seems unavoidable. But it’s worth mentioning that the thought of getting it without an active immune system (despite being triple vaxxed) is absolutely terrifying. I seem to use that word a lot lately. The thought that despite my cancer diagnosis, Covid might be the thing that ends me is real. The medical teams do not offer reassurance in this matter. They are clear. Monitor for symptoms. If your temperature is raised, try to get into hospital.

So to those of you who are tired of isolating and distancing and wearing a mask and getting tested and booking in for your latest jab…I see you. I feel seen by you and your efforts. I feel protected by you. And it gives me strength and courage.

On behalf of all of us with pre-existing conditions, who also happen to be fucking amazing, intelligent, funny, loved, contributing members of society, THANK YOU.

PS. An update on my cancer: the breast cancer is indeed a cancer but is going to be left where it is for now. It is tiny and mostly pre-cancerous in nature. Operating at this time would mean opening me up to further risk of infection and I would also require radiation which sounds like another ‘unfun’ ride I’d prefer not to join. We will monitor the Karen situation for another six months. It’s possible the current chemo cocktail may have an impact on the little bitch anyway.

Dear Magro

Three and a half years ago I swiped right on a smile. Just that. An open and honest face with a cracking smile. For three and a half years I’ve taken the piss out of you for not including a single word in your dating profile but the truth is, unless you’d been wearing Trump’s MAGA cap in the photo, the smile would have been enough. I had a read on you early as a really, really quality human.

We loved each other early, both of us clumsily but confidently blurting it out in an almost comedic moment of mutual realisation. And from that moment on, it has been the easiest, safest, most natural thing in the world. You and I. Best friends and lovers. Just two highly uncoordinated, relatively nerdy individuals, making the rest of the way through life together the best way we know how; surrounded by the people we love and making each other laugh.

And then Alan.

The most unwelcome threesome guest to ever arrive on a doorstep.

I suspect that being in a close relationship with someone recently diagnosed with cancer is on par with having the cancer yourself. I know that sounds like a big call but I reckon I’m not far off with this. Hear me out…

You take responsibility for all of the information and dates and appointments and doctor details and shitty superannuation/insurance stuff.

You too, don’t really understand everything yet but everyone else is asking you for details because they want to give me space. You listen intently when the medical people are talking because you know I’ve been distracted by a shiny thing on the floor. And then we talk about it all afterwards so that I understand. And then you explain it to everyone else because I can’t seem to remember all of it.

You tolerate and choose to laugh at the levels of disgustingness that come with having the poo-carriage brand of cancer. Honestly, the flatulence is unforgivable. Even if I do have cancer. Do you even have any nasal hair left?

You too, are terrified.

You too, secretly grieve the future that we thought would exist for us. And you reimagine a future that is even more incredible because of what we are learning about life right now.

You witness my emotional breakdowns and cry with me; I love that you aren’t scared to do that in a cafe amongst friends or strangers. This stuff seems to grab us when we least expect it, doesn’t it? I love that you aren’t a tough guy. I love that you share the emotional load with me.

You moved away from your family and friends for me so I can be closer to mine. Given how much you need them right now, I want to acknowledge how hard this must be for you. And your people have become my people and I love them too. And thank them, especially you, Jess.

For all the ways you hold me in this entirely new space in which we find ourselves, I am in the rarest of positions. I have truly struck gold in you. I have loved hard before, but never with this much confidence. I have never been surer of anyone in my life.

Almost every single person I introduce you to remarks on what an incredible man you are. I know I joke about you being Saint Magro but you bring more than your fair share to this deal and I sometimes find it a little confronting. It’s hard to measure up, especially right now when my story is taking up so much space in this relationship. By the way, how are YOU?

Loving you and being loved by you is a privilege and the most joyful thing I’ve ever experienced.

Also…I still don’t know what to get you for Christmas? Perhaps another box of 100 vomit bags??

Love Gibbo

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