The Finish Line for Fiona

After literally days of heavy rain, I wake to sun, sun, sun, sun oooohhhhhhoooooooo.

It's a big day today - the last chemo shot for my darling little sister, Fiona, who has been an absolute trouper through her ordeal.

This morning, as usual, I'm picking up my elder sister, Nicky before our visit to the hospital but first I have to drop off a craft box to the local art gallery, Yurara.  My artistic friend, Annie, is one of five artists who has agreed to decorate a box.

(I will be auctioning these at a fundraiser I am organising for cancer research in April.)

But after I have arrived  at the cute timber house at Cleveland's Pinkland's showgrounds and completed my errand, I make an error of judgement as I drive away in my Prius.  I decide to navigate my way over the grass only to find that I am... bogged!

 Nooooooo!  Shit.  My nicely planned and minutely timed day is instantly ruined.

In a dither I ring Nicky to ask her to come and pick me up - thinking I'll sort out the towing later.  At this very millisecond, would you believe, a huge four wheel drive ute happens to pass before my eyes.  Concluding my call I turn and eye the driver, wondering if I look helpless enough.

Sure enough, this Prince Charming stops and before I know it, he has winched me from the bog and I am able to drive away with a toot and a cheery 'THANK YOOOOOU' shouted out of my car window.

It is serendipitous and once I am on the road again, I ponder the Universe and how, while generally, I have found it to be somewhat of an arsehole, sometimes, it does surprise you with an unexpected kindness.

But I really am off with the fairies this morning and it is a frustrating journey I make. Three U-turns and 20-minutes of needless extra driving later, I finally reach my sister's house.

I will cut to the chase.  The visit to the hospital goes without drama.  Fiona has pretty much the same reaction I had to her sixth chemo.  It's all that negative psychology that has you wincing and retching and feeling sick.

The only thing to report is that Fiona had a very kind male nurse called 'Greg' today.  We also had to deal with a very rude female nurse.

After five hours, therefore, Nicky and I are able to leave, confident that Fiona has finished her final, last, never-to-be-seen-again God Willing chemotherapy experience.

On our way down in the elevator I say to Nicky:  "I never want to see a cannular being inserted again."  God willing.

I believe that Fiona had many more 'false starts' than I did in that department and really, she has been incredibly brave.

Much braver than I in fact, because you have to understand, this woman didn't even know what an antihistamine was on her first day of chemo.

The world of drugs and medication was completely alien to her and look what she has endured?

I am incredibly proud of her and simply relieved that this utterly vile period of her life is over.

Fiona's treatment protocol of course, will be completely different from mine.

She will have radiation and only then, a lumpectomy.

She doesn't need a mastectomy because the cancer has literally disappeared before her eyes.

I believe she ascribes this almost miraculous healing to a combination of factors.  Firstly, she was in the rudest of health when she became ill.  Secondly, she has received simply fabulous care.  Thirdly, she follows a rigorous regime of supplementation. And fourthly, she is incredibly self-disciplined when it comes to dietary and other changes.

Additionally, at this stage, it seems Fiona will not be taking the hormonal medication and I respect her decision.

It is a big leap for a woman who routinely practices yoga, who prefers organic food, who is meticulous about her dietary choices to pursue a regimen of daily drug therapy.

What can we do but what WE believe is right for US?

Who is anyone else to tell us that our choices are wrong?

At this point I don't care.  I am just happy, happy, happy that she has finished the most ghastly part of the whole process.

Personally, I think she looks much better than I did at the end of things.  She has handled it all fantastically and I think has bounced back much better than me, overall.

Looking back over the past 18 weeks, I don't know if I have been much of a Sherpa.

I just know she's got through it.

I also know that Fiona is going to go from strength to strength from here.

I believe that, like all my fellow breast cancer survivors, Fiona will gain the clarity that only cancer can provide - about herself and her relationship to her world.

Because cancer, while a foe to be respected, is also a teacher.

It has taught me to be aware of the every day struggles of people.  Because no matter how big or small they are, it is the crosses we bear that make us who we are.

It is our pain that so poignantly reveals our character.

Our hardest hours are, often, our greatest hours.

Now, my day with Fiona over, I stop at Nicky's for a coffee, helping the twins with a little of their homework.

Afterwards, as I drive home, I realise that the sun is still shining.  More.  I notice a large rainbow spreadeagled across the sky.

When I reach my house, Ben is in the shower washing Spunky who has rolled in something stinking it seems.  I lasso up my wet dog and go for a 10km run.

Returning I cook dinner when Al returns home with the real estate agent in tow.  Al goes off to tennis and by 8.30 pm we have accepted an offer on the block of land we have been desperately trying to sell.

For the first time in ages, I feel hopeful about better things afoot.

Yesterday, Al's twin second cousins celebrated their first birthday.  Next week, it will be the first-anniversary since George's death.

Cancer has made me keenly aware of the the nature of fate, how random it is, the chaos that is, ultimately, its foundation.

It has confirmed one of my long held beliefs:  That the only reliable thing in life is change.

It has allowed me to embrace uncertainty, to not fear the unknown.  No, that's not right.  It has made me aware that there IS an unknown.

What was I before all of this?  Oblivious.  I knew change was inevitable but I did not anticipate it.  I did not really - no, not REALLY - appreciate the tenuousness, the fragility of, well, everything - you, me, here, now.

And after?

After me, after Fiona, what is left, is cancer's greatest gift and that is an absence of fear.

Isn't that just gold?

The rain has eased for now but I believe another cyclone is brewing off the Coral Sea.

Who knows if more storms are coming?

I'm not bothered.  Fiona crossed the Finish Line.  *happy dance, lifting top and showing... um... scars*

Storms?  Bring them on!

One Year After Chemo

 t's a miserable Tuesday morning and I wake to the sound of a howling wind thrashing the trees.  As the day progresses, the rain sheets in.  It's chucking it down!

Today is a big day - one year since I finished chemotherapy and, I suppose, a good day to take stock.

A rudimentary inventory check indicates that the merchandise has been somewhat manhandled but, though dented, is still saleable - all be it at reduced prices.

Physically, I'll have to admit to a few minor issues.

For instance, I wake every morning with arthritis in my fingers which must be 'cricked' a few times in order to get them moving.

I still shuffle to the shower like a Chinese house maid.

The aching feet have become a part of life though and I have found a good technique to deal with them is simply to focus elsewhere.    You know how it is.  The more you worry about a problem the bigger it gets?

I especially notice it when I run.  Last week I had a gloomy moment when I tried to remember what it felt like to move without any pain whatsoever - and realised I couldn't.

But I also have realised that on these days, it's best to think like the little red train:  "I think I can"  therefore "I know I can".  Sometimes this technique works.  Other times, I feel more like throwing myself under that bloody little red train.

I have also accepted the idiosyncratic symptoms of menopause which manifest from time to time: the difficulty winding down; the broken sleep; occasional headaches.

I am short tempered and impatient... oh, okay, I just threw that in.  (I was born a virago.  I admit it).

Other than that, physically I'd say I'm in fair shape.  My aches and pains have certainly not held me down.

My energy levels, for instance, while fluctuating, are sometimes great.  At these moments, I can see my old self.

I mean, just check out what I've been up to so far this year:

• I have signed up for hockey (it's something I've always wanted to try).  
• I walk 10kms most days (or I run).  
• I play tennis on Tuesdays.  
• I have signed up for soccer refereeing again.  
• In September, I've signed up for the 10K Stampede (a difficult obstacle course designed for torture). 
• In October, I've signed up for the 60km End Cancer Walk (with Lee and Louisa).  
• Next month, after missing a year thanks to illness, I am once again entering the ComedyFest.   (Frankly, I think this will be much harder than the Stampede.  It is hard enough being funny with breasts.  Without them I am reduced to sad penis jokes). 
• I have organised a hiking club and once a month, a group of us go hiking in the Great Australian Bush.
• I have maintained my enthusiasm for my book club which meets once a month.
• I have recently dusted off my paints.  It's slow going but at least I have started again.
• I even wrote a poem recently, something I haven't managed to do in over two years.

To add to this, today I sent out an invitation for a small High Tea I am organising in April.  Believe it or not my team has to raise $9000 bux in order to participate in the End Cancer Walk.  That's a huge amount to raise by anyone's standards so I'm hoping that enough people will come along and throw large wodges of cash - maybe some jewels, handbags and a white Pekingnese - in my general direction.

But one of the horrid thing about this cancer is the fact that I have gone up a dress size.  And I now have bags of cellulite on my thighs.  Urggh!!  Death I can deal with.  Cellulite on the other hand...

Come on, you don't see anyone raising funds to help the needy get rid of their cellulite to do you.  And yet, it's bloody depressing.  At 48 I had smooth legs and could get around in my teensy tiny shorts.

At 49 - fuck it - I have to wear very unflattering golf shorts.  Do you ever see Kylie Minogue gyrating around in a pair of knee lengths?  I rest my case.

My vanity has also suffered in other ways.  I have STILL not got used to my hair, so curly that it forms ringlets.  It's so curly I reckon I could have escaped from an episode of 'Roots'.

It's so curly that last week, I spent 3 hours getting it salon-straightened (as an experiment) by my the Follicle Whiz Maria but my splendid 'do' lasted barely 24 hours.

There is also the small matter of those scars on my chest.  I'm afraid my newest addition has turned keloid so it's rather rough to the touch.

But there is probably a much more horrid thing than the blows to my vanity (which was whittled to nothing last year anyway).

I have to be honest and admit that psychologically, I have had my ups and downs.  It has been bad enough for me to go back to the Counsellor at the Cancer Council (Kate).  Who is cool.  And cute.

Yeah, yeah.  It's the old dreary story.  Feeling depressed, down, dark, doomed, despondent, disheartened and debilitated has been disorienting.  

But I have not despaired.

Because as with the issue of my tortured tootsies,  I have learned that D-Moods can be dismantled with determination - and desire.

Today has been a case in point.

Perhaps it's the gloomy weather but, dear reader, I have to come clean and confess that this is the third or fourth version of my intended blog you are reading.

I have been doleful and downhearted today.  This is how I turned it around.

Around noon I went back to a half finished painting that has been sitting in my bedroom and laughing at me for the past week. By 5 pm I had finished it.  (The overcoat is drying still otherwise I would have posted a picture of it for you too 'ooh' and 'aah' over.)

At 5.30 pm I prepared a nutritious meal for my family.

At 6.45 pm, I jumped on my running machine and walked 5 km.

It is now  8.00 pm.  Not only have I turned my bad mood into a good mood.  I have also turned what started out as a bloody miserable blog into one I hope hasn't got you shaping a slipknot out of a bed sheet.

The thing is that, at this stage of this tedious epic, the state of my moods has me obsessing about only one thing (cellulite notwithstanding).  And that is:  How to be Happy.

I don't care about trophies or accolades.  I don't pine for titles or wealth. 

I just want to be happy.  

And in this wanting, one year after chemotherapy, what I have learned is that while we all deserve to be happy, we all need to work at it.

Importantly, we must always assess what makes us happy because those cues - that uplift us, that make us smile, that make us feel whole - can change with the tides.

You see, the days or moments when we can feel good about ourselves, about our lives and about who we are, those times when we can dare to hope for better times or better days, these are few and precious.

And when they are here, we should grasp them with both our hands and be AWARE of why and what makes us feel as we do.

So, one year after chemotherapy - that is the one thing I know for sure.  

Know what makes you happy.  And when you do, work - and work as hard as you can - to make time for those things.  

Would you like to know what makes ME happy?

Then please watch my video:

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rtMjRaeMo8Q

  (And yes, that is Bert Kaempfert).