It was snowing in Manchester over the weekend and watching the fluffy flakes slowly swirling, I was struck by the sudden realisation that it *really* is December. Questions about what I’m doing for Christmas have taken me by surprise – but the snow, and trees which are now strikingly sparse, have jolted me into the real world, reminding me that my treatment is in its second winter and that somewhere along the line, there has been spring, summer and autumn in between.
My head has been buried in dates on letters that I mustn’t forget, and on days, and weeks. Mentally counting down – crossing off sessions, cycles, stages. At first, it seemed lingering, stretched out, and now? The monthly reviews and chemotherapy cycles are routine.
There have been engagements, babies and new jobs for friends and colleagues. Ask me about treatment and I am able to recount exactly when things took place; from egg freezing to radiotherapy and even dates of seizures – other things, well, they are much fuzzier. I have a system for working things out using new parameters – what was my walking like? Did I have a crutch or walking stick? What about my hair?
Tomorrow I have an MRI scan, the results of which will determine what happens next. My last scan was four months ago, and positive, so apart from a very drawn out, stubborn cold (four weeks and counting!!) and a general increase in fatigue, there have been no significant changes. No reason to think that it will be bad news, and yet, I am battling an internal dialogue that goes from ‘it will be fine’ to ‘what if’. Neither wins, and they both just hang there. In the air, and in my head.
I will, of course, report back.