It is now over three months since my diagnosis of an aggressive form of breast cancer, and I had no idea how short a time it would take for this horrible disease to change my life and rob me of my identity.
For over twenty years I have been Finance Director and part owner of a small, successful business. OK, it’s true that, in recent years, I had been wanting to do less and head towards retirement, but I was still very much involved.
I was also Vice Chair and Communications Lead for a local voluntary group, the Friends of Rochester Churchfields and Esplanade (FoRCE). I had been involved since 2020, when I came up with the original idea of transforming a neglected corner of a local park into a welcoming and meaningful space. That idea has grown into a beautiful sensory garden as a tribute to the women’s suffrage movement and a place enjoyed by the whole community.
Just a year ago, I was in the Canadian Rockies, undertaking hikes of up to sixteen miles a day, up and down mountains, and thoroughly enjoying life.
Three months ago, I was looking forward to a long weekend at the Le Mans 24 Hour motor race in France. That was cancelled just hours before we were due to leave, in the light of a flurry of tests and appointments.
Today, after three cycles of chemotherapy, my life couldn’t be more different.
And it’s not just that I feel ill. Little by little, cancer seems to be stripping away the things that made me feel like me.
I feel constantly sick and my sense of smell and taste are all over the place. Basically, everything tastes the same… horrible.
Even the thought of food makes me feel queasy, and savoury favourites such as Marmite or salted peanuts either have no taste at all or taste rancid.
I’m really missing coffee and wine, but both smell absolutely disgusting right now.
I’ve lost over a stone in weight. I suppose that’s not such a bad thing as my BMI is now spot on – but I don’t need to lose any more…
My head is all over the place as I can’t think straight, have trouble finding words, and have problems concentrating because of ‘chemo brain’.
Some days I struggle with going up the stairs in my house because it feels as though my body has been filled with wet cement.
I knock things over and have broken several glasses because the chemotherapy has given me pins and needles in my fingers, and I constantly surprise myself when I type and a random jumble of letters appear on the screen.
I don’t recognise the woman in the mirror because her hair has gone.
And half her left eyebrow.
Who is she?
Well, when she started treatment, she promised herself that every day she would make a point of getting dressed properly, rather than spending the day in pyjamas or slouching around in old clothes. I know she always ties a funky scarf, turban-fashion, around her head, even when she’s home alone, to try and maintain some dignity.
When fatigue allows her, she tries to keep up with some of her housework and family history research, but both seem to have fallen by the wayside for now.
I know that she dreams of normality: going to a fancy restaurant where the maître d’ shows her to her table, pulls her chair back, and introduces her to the butter.
Or lacing up her hiking boots and striding across the countryside, with the promise of a pint of beer and a packet of crisps in a rustic pub at the end of the day.
Spending time with family and friends and enjoying watching her grandchildren grow up.
I know she is still me, but for now she finds herself transported into a parallel universe.
The question is, when – and how – will she get back?
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