Meltdown

In the interests of truthful blogging I confess the following:

1) I pick my nose. A lot. During a second date 100 years ago in Dunedin, Mr X asked me to stop picking my nose. No subtle hint or joke to disguise his bald command. "Stop picking your nose" he said. If I knew then that he would ditch me two days before Christmas I might have told him to stick his cheap offer to split the bill up his jacksie and flicked my booger at him as I stomped away. But of course, I didn't know, so I murmured something timid like 'sorry, it won't ever happen again, please don't go, I'm a really lovely person, honest'.

I get that nose picking is socially unacceptable. Nobody does it on the bus. Some people try it in their cars. Difficult on a bicycle, impossible on a scooter. Trouble is, it's such a pleasure. Tell me I'm wrong.


2) I interrupt people when they are talking. A lot. Trouble is, most times what I want to say is much much more important and interesting than the boring thing they are taking too long to say. Which doesn't make it okay. But it does explain why I had to keep interrupting the lovely doctor I saw today. "First, when treating cancer, we need to address your nutrition and supplementation and Sue (Levin, my potions guru) has that sorted for you. Second, you need to address your emotional issues. When you're ready you might like to think about unresolved conflict, stress, anger and built up resentment that might have caused your body to turn on itself. Thirdly we need to rebuild your immune system. Ask yourself, why your body has failed you by letting the cancer grow. Consider environmental factors. And lastly, you might not be ready for it yet but you might like to think about some one on one movement therapy whereby you are taken through a series of movements that can heal your organs and internal systems." Guess where I was ready to interrupt? Emotional issues? Moi? If I didn't before, I do now. Movement therapy? Only one of us would make it out of the room alive.


3) I am just a teensy bit tired of this. Not a lot. Just a teensy teensy tiny bit. Trouble is, I know it makes better reading when I'm SuperSach taking on the world but the truth is this afternoon I had a Memphis Meltdown. You see, after the doctor I went to the wig place and chose my new hairdo, I went to the fake boob shop and bought a fake boob and fake boob bra and fake boob togs and as I drove away a brand new thought struck me. Like a bolt from blue it pierced my consciousness and once it was in, it got stuck on repeat. I will never be the same again. I will never be the same again, I will never be the same again.


I know that my life will be better. I'll be stronger mentally and physically and I'm truly lucky to be experiencing the support and love of a wonderful community of family and friends. But I really loved my old life and the only thing I'm afraid of is not getting it back.


How long will it be before I'm not that 'lady who had cancer'? I don't care about the cosmetics; they are just manifestations of the internal carnage. But what if the good Doctor is right? What if my way of coping with life, which I thought was serving me so well, has contributed to my illness?


Two fabulous things came out of my meltdown. As I was lying in bed late this afternoon with tears rolling down my cheeks, I waited for C to comfort me with words of wisdom.


Me: "I haven't been on holiday, everyone else is going on holiday, I didn't get to go to Holland and San Francisco with M and V, I'm not going to Raglan for Christmas, I'll never be the same again, I miss our children, where's my Mum?, I killed that poor little mouse right here beside my bed, the poor little mouse whose cousins died for my Herceptin......"


C: "Shall I go and get us some fish and chips then?"
You may think I'm taking the piss. But this approach is what I love so much about my husband. He knew that words are trite and useless, whereas action and crumbed blue cod are often the answer to life's problems.


And the second wonderful source of encouragement and hope came from the girls in my book club. I told them about the good doctor and his thoughts around the reasons and causes for cancer. Two of my friends thought he might be on to something and three said 'bollocks, what a load of shit'. Perfect. We had a rational debate, with plenty of 'on the one hand' and 'furthermore's, followed by lots of laughter washed down by delicious burnt cake and red wine for them and Earl Grey tea for me.


I'd like to pick my nose right now. Chemo makes it bleed all the time, and my entire right nostril, like my tongue and uvula (sounds ruder than it is - it's safe to google Grandpop!) is covered in ulcer like sores. But for now, I won't. I mean you're here, aren't you? And I don't want you to dump me two days before Christmas.