Our annual Perry family getaway this year was the most relaxed we’ve both felt in a very long time. It was our first time to Greece. Well, my second really but apart from a Chinese masseuse informing me of the real meaning of my Chinese writing tattoo and waking up one night in the mountains, the rest of my week long trip to Zante with my brother 10 years ago is a bit of a blur so I’ve decided it doesn’t count.
Our days pretty much went like this..
Wake up. Eat. Stumble to sunbed. Fall asleep. Wake up dribbling. Go to bar and order a cocktail. Realise it’s only 10.30 in the morning. Consider ordering a coffee. Laugh and order 2 cocktails. Spend rest of the day alternating between eating, drinking, sunbathing and occupying the little one. Go to apartment. Have good intentions of getting ready and going out to enjoy a night of Greek food and culture. End up drinking and playing cards on the balcony. Go to bed. Wake up… you get the drift.
The only non enjoyable part of the holiday was the flight home. After 2 and a half hours catching up with Netflix and drinking vodka (a Perry holiday doesn’t end until its absolutely necessary.. nuclear war, zombie attack, work etc) we started a bumpy approach into Gatwick airport. The airport was in sight and the holiday blues were a mere few seconds away when the engines roared back into life, the nose went up and we soared back into the sky. The captain called it a routine missed approach or aborted landing. I now refer to it as the time I nearly shit my pants approximately 200ft above Gatwick airport runway.
The end of August signals a milestone for me. Another year older and hopefully a little wiser. Maybe this is the year that I’ll finally become a grown up, although I won’t hold my breath. I’ve lied about my age so many times that I actually forget how old I am. I think I’ll be 32 this year. I can’t get away with 28 anymore unfortunately.
Somewhere around August in between holiday blues and birthday countdowns the Mrs had a reminder about an up coming hospital appointment at the breast clinic.
“What’s this one for?”
“I have no idea” she replied. Note to selves: really must start taking this shit a bit more seriously.
We woke up the morning of the appointment a little hungover. Yes it was a Thursday but don’t judge. Working shifts sometimes means that our Saturday night can be midweek. Plus I had A LOT of birthday vodka to be drunk. It was only as we were walking to the hospital that we realised what day it was. 5th September. A whole year since that first appointment and biopsy.
“Maybe they’re throwing me an anniversary party?” The wife said.
“I hope there’s cake” I replied.
We checked in and assumed the position. I tried to find the book we first read when we were here a year ago but it wasn’t there. If it was I would have bought it. A weird way to mark the anniversary but in a way it would have been quite fitting.
After an eternity we were eventually called through to see the nurse. We went through the pleasantries. She explained the reason we were there was that the Mrs now had open access to the breast clinic. Basically for the next 5 years, the wife can contact them directly without the need for a referral from the GP. Which is a good thing really. It’s hard enough getting past the Rottweilers on reception let alone actually see a doctor.
“Do you have any appointments today please?”
“May I ask what’s wrong?”
“I need a GP referral”
“You can do that over the telephone to save you coming in”
“That’s perfect, thank you”
“No problem. I can get a GP to call you back in 2 weeks time”
“2 weeks? I need the referral to happen before then”
“That’s the earliest telephone appointment we’ve got”
“Ok fine I’ll come in and see the GP, can I have an appointment for today please?”
“Is it an emergency?”
“Not exactly”
“Our appointments today are for emergencies only”
“Ok it’s an emergency”
“May I ask what’s wrong?”
“Yes Barbara you may. I’m about to have a mental fucking breakdown just by being on the phone to you so be a dear and book me a fucking appointment!”
Not exactly word for word but more or less an actual account of a recent telephone call the Mrs had made.
After explaining the reason for today’s appointment and going over the time line of events since last year the nurse asked my wife a question that quite possibly became the unravelling of her.
“So.. how are you doing?”
Now I feel I need to let you in on a few things. My wife is one of the strongest people I know. She’s been a single parent to 2 boys. She’s had to live literally hand to mouth at times. She’s been homeless. And that’s before you even throw cancer into the mix. She doesn’t do crying. Crying is for husbands who secretly watch the notebook when the Mrs is at work…
But everyone has a breaking point.
That simple question made her realise that actually, she wasn’t doing quite so well at the moment. She cried. I cried (again this isn’t anything unusual). There had been quite a few issues going on with her work recently that haven’t been helping either.
“So how long did you have off work since you were diagnosed?” The nurse asked, when she could get a word inbetween sobs and snot.
“About 2 months”
“2 months?”
She seemed incredulous.
“Most women have up to year!”
The fact is that after 2 months the wife went down to half pay and 2 months after that she would have been on nil pay. Even now, if she goes sick she’s still on half pay. If you work for the government these days you literally cannot afford to be ill.
We sat with the nurse for about an hour and a half as the wife unloaded. She referred her for some counselling and strongly urged us to go and speak to the Macmillan nurses as well.
We left the clinic and walked over to where the Macmillan nurses are based.
“I’m just gonna pick up a few leaflets and then we’ll go” the wife said.
We had some leaflets in hand and were about to leave when a lovely lady kindly asked if we needed any help. Before I could say “nah, we’re fine thanks” the wife broke down again and we were being ushered into the quiet room for our second unexpected counselling session of the day.
“I feel like a fraud” she repeated, not for the first time.
Guilty because she ‘only’ had a lumpectomy rather than a mastectomy. Guilty because she never needed to have chemotherapy or radiotherapy. Guilty because other people have to endure so much more. Guilty because she’s ‘fine’ apparently. Guilty because she never lost her hair.
The nurse listened. She’d heard it all before. “At the end of the day Alison, you’ve had to sit in front of a consultant and be told you have cancer. Forget the treatments and everything that comes after, that in itself is a massive thing to have to come to terms with, plus the fact you have a rare cancer with a lot of uncertainty for the future and not many answers, so stop being so hard on yourself!”
A year ago when she was first diagnosed and we were presented with our shiny breast cancer ring binder, we were given details of various groups she could join.
“Bosom buddies?” She said at the time, “that sounds like my worst fucking nightmare!”
Not only now was she agreeing to a counselling referral but on the advice of this lovely nurse, was considering joining one of these groups.
I’ve been with the Mrs the whole way through this ordeal and I often describe things in regards to ‘us’, ‘we’, ‘our journey’ etc. Truth is, I can empathise but even I don’t fully understand what it must be like to be told you have cancer. It was a punch in the stomach for me, I can only imagine what it must have felt like for her.
“Maybe going to one of these groups is what you need babe?” I said.
“Yeah, I think your right” the Mrs agreed “ive got visions of it being like an AA meeting ‘Hi my name’s Ally and I’ve had cancer’ kind of set up”
“Possibly” I said “i think it’ll do you good. But just in case anyone asks, you drink no more than 14 units a week, just like we tell the doctor, ok? I don’t think we’re ready for judgement and AA just yet”.
Cancer really is a bit of a cunt. Not only does it affect your physical health but it can eat away at your mental health too. Something that the majority of us don’t really pay that much attention too. It changes you. What you thought was important before suddenly becomes meaningless. And people handle it in different ways. Us? We chose the vodka and piss taking route. That’s not for everyone. But however you choose to deal with it, eventually you come full circle and have to face the same things. It really is ok to NOT be ok.
So, a year down the line, what does the current future hold for us now? The first of yearly mammograms is almost upon us. The Mrs is really looking forward to having her tits squashed to resemble pancakes again (could you imagine a similar screening test for testicular cancer? Makes my eyes water even thinking about it). Then we eagerly await our 4 monthly trip to the Royal Marsden in November.
However, before all that there is an even bigger hurdle we have to face. A 5k inflatable run that drunk me thought would be a really good idea to sign up for. I still have no recollection of me ever agreeing to it and sober me thinks I am a massive twat. Maybe I should stick to the recommended 14 units per week instead of per day?
FML.
Mr&MrsP and the big C 