The Bright Side

Nine days after the end of my demon days, and I must say, I'm feeling rather good. I feel most guilty that I appear to have bounced back quite nicely and wonder if this will be the norm.

So far, I have been schooled in the fact that successive cycles will lead to increasing depletion, worsening side effects, and some grim times ahead.

For now I am, I have to say, kind of perky.

In fact, in the week that's passed, you'd be forgiven in believing I'm in the rudest of health, bald head and missing breast notwithstanding.

Life has seemed to be fairly normal through my immunity period.

I've worked out that people don't have to be perennially contagious and have ventured out of home.

I go shopping, I go next door to work on a jigsaw puzzle with Lyndal. On Monday, Al and I even go away (for one night, at our beach house at the now empty and defunct resort, Couran Cove).

Despite fairly persistent rain, I go walking a few times. Once I go with Nicky and she sees my bald head for the first time.

"You look like a Belsen survivor," she jokes.

"Yeh, don't give me striped pyjamas for Christmas," I say.

At home, I manage to behave like someone perfectly well. I get halfway through a new painting; I bake my first ever Christmas cake (I must say, it looks a treat); I put up the Christmas Tree and even buy AND wrap all of my Christmas presents.

On one night, I cook dinner - my first liver curry because my platelets are so low I am in need of iron. It gets the thumbs up from the family. No, it isn't that offal after all.

We go to trivia - and win! (I just KNEW Bette Midler had never won an Academy Award :)

Who says a battle with cancer has to be a sorry tale?

There are other bright spots in the week: I notice that I no longer have hair under my armpits, in my nose or on my legs. As previously alluded to, Antarctica too is barren (alas, in more ways than one). Like most women I detest body hair. This is definitely a plus!

Yesterday, Friday, I have my six week check-up with Dr Lambley. In case you're wondering, here's a picture I took of him a few weeks ago. I won't be seeing him again for another three months.

Dr Lambley checks my progress and advises that I am right as rain and ready to return to normal activity. I can even consider going back to golf. Yay! Another bright spot!

He tells me that he prefers me to be as active as possible so everyone who's telling me to take it easy, pay heed. I'm allowed to walk 10 kms if I want to. (Okay, admittedly, I then need to sleep for 400 hours, but who cares!)

But I suppose, there's always that undertow - of grimmer tidings.

I discuss some of my concerns about the extent of my treatment. I find myself bargaining - if I have chemo and radiation, do I have to have the drugs?

I've been told that the drug, Tamoxifen is likely to be prescribed. Did you know it's been around for 30 years? Unfortunately, in my research I've discovered that, of the known side effects, one is uterine cancer. Fantastic!

Dr Lambley confirms that there's a 1:700 chance of uterine cancer in Tamoxifen users. I observe that that seems somewhat high. He agrees and says that's why doctors like to keep a close eye on these patients.

Next, our discussion focuses on what will happen down the track as far as my breast reconstruction goes.

I will explain the details when the time comes but for now, let me just say that reconstruction MAY require a surgical procedure involving the use of my stomach fat. If I'm to have a decent 'C' cup or even a 'B', I need to work on a more Danny De Vitoesque physique.

Now, many of my wonderful friends, my sister included, have kindly offered to donate their stores of belly lard to the cause. But sadly, I am unable to accept their selfless gestures.

I must, it seems, farm adequate fat OF MY OWN for this procedure.

This will take some effort. All the usual fatty things I love like chocolate and donuts taste positively vile. I am managing ice cream and there are exceptions, like Nim's baklava, that taste pretty damn good.

But overall, I am being careful with what I eat - not because I care about weight gain, but because things do taste different.

To Dr Lambley, I mourn the fact that, apart from pregnancy and its after effects, I have been pretty much the same size all my adult life. I have dresses I still wear that are 20 years old!

Now I must face the fact that, for at least 12 months, I must aim for Fatty Boombah-hood and frankly, I'm not impressed. I think about all the Fatists I know - it riles me, but it's a reality. I'm already feeling unattractive. Who needs belly rolls as well? And besides, who's going to wear all my lovely dresses, damn it!

Dr Lambley says that this is not a good time to consider calorie counting.

It seems I should unleash the hogs.

"Can you tell me how much more fat I'll need for a B cup?" I ask.

He kindly comes round his desk and squeezes the roll on my stomach. No go. I do have a little fat but hardly enough for an 'A' cup.

When I leave Dr Lambley, I have a referral to a plastic surgeon. I'll meet with him or her early in the New Year to determine the best strategy forward.

Hey! If I'm to be fatter, I want to know exactly what the donut:lettuce ratio is to be. I don't want to end up as big as a five storey condominium if I'm only required to be as big as a sizeable duplex. Do you understand?

In the afternoon, my sister Fiona, drops by. It's really nice to see her as she lives way over the north side.

We have a lovely chat on the back deck, and repeatedly, Fiona comments on my healthy appearance.

Later in the afternoon, I bump into my friend Helen. Once again, she comments on my healthy appearance.

If there's a stereotype of a 'cancer victim', I'm thinking I'm not it.

That evening, I find myself at Elysium with my wig on. I wonder if my hair is screaming WIG! But no one laughs and points so I guess all is well.

Most of the usual gang are there and I find I am having a good time, as though all is normal and all is right with the world.

But all the while, my eyes seek out the various bosoms spread around the room. Is that a 'B'? Is that an 'A'? Short of groping these strangers, I find myself assessing cleavages, sizing up the potential. (I must say, most Aussie women are flat as pancakes! It's no wonder Nicky and Paris were such starlets in their day!)

I am planning ahead. I am imagining my fatty boom bah body with some pathetic size A's clinging like half-formed meat patties to my chest.

This afternoon, my friend Mary and her parter Jo visit. Guess what? They comment on how well I look too!

Mary battled advanced cancer four years ago. After a mammogram found a lump of 1.5cm, the doctors told her not to worry about it. 13 months elapsed before she realised the lump had grown to 8 cm, it was right through her lymph glands and had invaded her breast tissue.

Interestingly, as it was already too late, she had the option of avoiding the mastectomy and was put on the same regime as I'm on, TAC.

Here is something I learn today. Not everyone has the same amount of lymph nodes under their arms! Some have a few, others have, well, an armful. I bet you didn't know that!

I also learn that I am handling this a lot better than Mary did. (She was really, really sick). It's the first real case I've found for why early detection is optimal: it just means that your body is a little healthier and up a little more to the challenge.

At least that's what I'm hoping if my general perkiness right now is anything to go by.

All in all, if this is a roller coaster ride, at the moment my cart is cresting a small hill.

There's no doubt there'll be plenty of spewing and screaming round the last wild corner, but for now, hey! I'm looking on the bright side.

Missing Out

It's a glorious Saturday morning and as I wake to greet the day, the first thing that pops into my mind is what I'll be missing out on today.

Yesterday, Al and I should have been on a plane to Newcastle. We should have been on our way to the wedding of my best man-friend Tim. A bachelor since I first met him at the tender age of 18, Tim has finally met the girl of his dreams, Amanda. She's much younger but what is age? She's tall, slender, beautiful. She's highly intelligent and interesting. But none of that is important. What is important is that she loves Tim and Tim loves her.

And today, they are walking down the aisle at a function centre in Maitland, where Amanda's family have a farm.

In the arc of my development from young adult to old crone, Tim has been a constant in my life, the older brother I never had who has always been there to lean on.

As far as friends go, he is the 'Gold Star' variety, a boy who didn't suddenly peel away from me when I was 'with man', who has taken an interest in my life, no matter what.

And over the years, I've got to know his wider family, including an eclectic collection of hugely talented relatives whose combined personalities could power a small city, such is their energy.

You can imagine how I have felt over the years, knowing Tim is probably the nicest, kindest guy I know, and seeing him SINGLE! What is wrong with women, I've thought over the years. Why can't they see what I see?

I mean, come on! This man is a genius at Scrabble. Surely that speaks for itself! He's also tall, slim, looks half his age and he can sing, god damn it.

As he approached his 50th birthday, I have to admit I had all but given up. I imagined Tim as a cranky old bachelor with hair growing out of his ears, sitting on a rocking chair with only a blind, farting dog for company and maybe bellowing at the neighbours to turn down their blasted music.

Or I imagined he might meet his soul mate in a nursing home, where he would pull out a beaten up guitar and so impress Mavis, Ethel or Kitty with his vocals that one of them might want to shag him. Never give up, right?

Then almost out of the blue, my patience - and the patience of all of Tim's friends - was rewarded. Tim met Amanda. Cue some Lionel Richie song. No, actually, that's rude. Cue a really cool jazzy love tune, with lyrics possibly involving the prolific use of the word 'baby'.

You'll understand my excitement when Tim announced his engagement earlier this year and I was so eager, I couldn't wait for the invitation. Long before the majority knew the details, I had early intelligence of the date and venue and Al and I duly set about booking airfares and sorting out accommodation.

When the invitation finally did arrive, the dress was described as "Vintage Floral" and I got to choosing my dress straight away, researching countless internet sites until I found something appropriate.

In fact, it was the first dress I ever purchased on-line, bought from a store in the UK for a song.

When it arrived, sometime in July (I'm sad to say), I found it was a little tight across the bust.

This is what is funny in hindsight. I recall at the time thinking, "Oh, it's a bit tight but I'll starve myself for a couple of days so that Paris and Nicky aren't completely asphyxiated."

You see, I was convinced I could lose a few inches across the bust with some mindful dieting.

I am laughing now, thinking how The Universe must have been grinning with sly mockery. Foolish woman. Little do you realise. Lose a few inches? Ha Ha Haaah. Try 715 grams.

Because as things would have it, I am not, in fact, to wear the dress - now so tight I can't even do up the zip.

I am not to be in Newcastle, excitedly getting ready for what would have to be one of the most important weddings in my life.

I am not to catch up with the suite of Tim's family and friends who I've lost touch with over the years and I was so looking forward to seeing again.

I am in my very low immunity period and it is simply unsafe for me to be on an aeroplane as I am so susceptible to germs.

There's been a whooping cough outbreak in Melbourne. All it takes is one cough.

I've discussed it with Dr Choo. I've talked it over at length with my friends.

Instead, I have sent a telegram that I hope will be read out with some feeling by Mark, Tim's best man.

Instead, today Al and I will go down the Coast for an outing away from the Redlands - my first in over two months - for lunch on a balcony in Burleigh (safely away from the stinking, bacteria-carrying, germ infested crowds). Yes, even you, Miranda Kerr!

Instead, tonight, I shall content myself as I toast Tim and Amanda with my heartfelt wish that their love will withstand the test of time. (Shit! I wish I withstand the test of time!)

Because I realise that this is part of what illness is about.

It is about dealing with disappointment and missing out as cherished plans are overwritten.

It is about letting go of opportunities and consoling yourself with an alternative - "Oh well, I can always watch the video".

It is about waiting for hours in your party gear for the bus, full of happy, drunken passengers on their way to the Biggest Event of the Century, only to see it whoosh past, missing your stop and leaving you gagging in the fumes of its exhaust.

What can I do but sit down, compose myself, and wait.

Surely, another one must be along soon.