And then it was 3.

I am 3 years cancer free today. 3 years post what has to be the scariest thing that has ever happened to me. 3 years since the debilitation that was the surgeries and the toxins, the exhaustion and the fear. When I was sick I worried that I wouldn’t make it past 3 months, let alone 3 years so I am happy today. Quietly grateful. Respectful of those who have not been so lucky, and of those who are still in the midst of their own personal hell.
It can be tricky, this “after cancer” business. There is little to prepare oneself for how it feels, how it fits, how it confuses, how it requires us to hang on for dear life until the boat stops rocking. This does not happen immediately after the first clear scan. At least for me, this was not the case. I was caught in the middle of joy and panic, relief and fear, love and hate, admiration and envy. It is a tough place to be.
Expectations of others weighed heavily on me. Everyone has been touched by this disease. I defy you to find someone who hasn’t. Some of us live and some of us don’t. The weight of other people’s loss, for me, was huge. Guilt was strong in me. Survivors guilt, if you will. Navigating feelings of fear and loss, of anger and frustration was challenging for fear of being thought of as selfish for not being more grateful for having survived something that not all of us do. Who do you tell when you feel this way? What do you say without sounding ungrateful?
This was my permanent state of being for at least 18 months after this day 3 years ago. I felt like a horrible person. Of course I was happy, relived, grateful. Of course I knew others had not been so lucky but I was also scared, angry, lost, confused, my body recovering from the onslaught of abuse this disease requires to survive, and I have to say, it was the loneliest of times.
The good news about the passing of years is that it takes a lot of these feelings and makes them smaller, more manageable, easier to navigate. The fear lessens, the anger too. You have days that you do not think of your cancer, then these days can turn into a week, sometimes two or three at time. It is the loveliest realisation to have, these “forgetting your cancer” periods. They make you smile, feel fearless, grateful, blessed. You realise you are making plans again, about your life, your happiness and it feels good. Boy, does it feel good.
I spent the weekend with someone I love doing things that I love to do. I surfed, I swam, I ate, I drank. I tried oysters for the first time and met new people. All new things, new experiences. I had moments being rocked by the most unbelievable feelings of gratitude and joy. I made it.
I made it through the loneliest place on earth and I am finally feeling like I am back home where I belong. I am a different me, a more bloody tired me, but hey, I am here. I am here and I am present and I am loved and I am happy. I am so deeply grateful for getting the chance to keep on living and I plan to allow myself be reminded of this each and every day.
Happy 3 years cancer free day to Me.

There is nothing wrong with us!

I am feeling incredibly sad this evening. Incredibly sad and incredibly ashamed to be calling myself Irish. It is a tough slog to live on this little Island some days and today is most definitely one of those days.

The media is awash with terms I loathe.

“illegitimate”

“unwed mother”

“out of wedlock”.

And this evening on our National News, single mothers like myself, years ago were referred too as “repeat offenders” if they dared to become pregnant more than once.

These women were shamed. They were farmed out to catholic nun’s homes (detention centres), where they were hidden away from view, made work until they bled (literally), and when their child was born it was ripped from their arms and given (sold) to the worthy families (the married ones). If these women came from poverty stricken families, and most of them did they were made stay at these hell holes and were worked into the ground for 3 yrs to “pay back” the nun’s for their “kindness”. Sounds like something from an Oliver Twist movie, right? Except it isn’t.

This week it has come to light on this  holier than thou island of ours that “mass graves” have been found in not just one, but since this evening, two of these “homes”. These “graves” contain in total the remains of  over 1,300 babies. No, this is not a typo.

1,300.

The media are referring to them as graves. Trouble is, one of these “graves” is a septic tank. A tank where waste is thrown. The worst kind of waste. This is where these little innocent, defenceless souls are. Not “buried”. We bury our loved ones.  These are not graves. These tiny humans were thrown away. Dumped. Discarded. Unloved.

I nearly typed unwanted in the last sentence but something stopped me. Unwanted by whom? The nuns? They didn’t want them. The church, oh protector of the unborn? They didn’t want them. Old catholic Ireland? Not them either. The grandparents who shunned their daughters? Not a snowballs chance in hell and my guess is that the mothers of these babies knew that too.

These mothers. Mothers like me. Mothers I know who spent lifetimes wondering where there very loved, much wanted babies were, with broken hearts and damaged souls. These mothers wanted their babies, just as much as I wanted mine. Only difference between us is that I was born in a slightly different time. I was born in a time that didn’t lock me away, though the shame was still there. Shame put on me by my government, and by the church that resides here and by everyone who told me that it was a “shame” that I couldn’t make my son’s father stay.

I am sad today. I am sitting here wondering what on earth it must have been like to have had your child ripped from your arms and sold to the highest bidder. I am sad wondering who those 1,300 little people were and why in God’s name (literally) did they end up in a septic tank?

There is nothing “illegitimate” about my son. I am perfectly happy being “out of wedlock”. What I am sick to the back teeth of is the resurface of these terms used to describe my family.

THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH US. THERE WAS NOTHING WRONG WITH THOSE MOTHERS WHO WERE FORCED TO LIVE IN THOSE HORROR HOUSES AND THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING WRONG WITH THOSE 1,300 BABIES WHO WERE JUST AS BEAUTIFUL AND DESERVING OF LOVE THE SAME AS THE REST OF US.

This country needs to be dragged out into the sunlight kicking and screaming and the sooner it happens, the better.

 

Happy with my health care, and my boobs.

It’s not everyday that you will read a blogpost praising our health care system, so sit back and enjoy because today is the day.

I presented with chest pain back in November. It bothered me, (I thought I was dying), so I went to my doctor. After a thorough examination and lots of questions, she, not I, concluded that I had costochondritis, inflammation of the cartilage that sits in between your ribs and breast bone. It mimics heart problems and hurts like a mofo. I was prescribed anti inflammatories and told it would clear up in due time. And so it did. 

Because of my experience of thyroid cancer my doctor decided as well as the meds to send me to CUH, the hospital where I had received my cancer treatment and care. Here I was referred to the Breast Care Unit to be seen by a consultant who specialises in, well, breast issues and stuff. Referral was made the end of November and I was seen January 17th. Very speedy by anyones standards. It should be noted that due to the financial hell a cancer diagnosis brings, I no longer have the privilege of private health care insurance, so my care is in the hands of our very stressed out public system.

Anyway, because my pain cleared up, and because I have become really good at not sweating the small stuff anymore I put my impending visit to the breast clinic to one side and went about my days, which I may add have recently begun resembling the days spent before my whole cancer business, which is rather nice. January 17th rolled around and off I went, on my own. Again.

You would think I would have learned my lesson by now!

Always bring a person!

Boobs were given a good feel. Consultant was very happy with what he felt (I know!), and just because I am a woman of a certain age I was sent for my very first mammogram.

Hands up which of you has had one! Mother of God, they were squished within an inch of their lives! In a bunch of different ways and angles. No stone left unturned kind of thing, no boob either. Because I have spent so much time as a guest of this lovely establishment my thoughtful consultant discharged me and told me that my doctor would ring me if there was any need for concern and happily sent me on my way.

I have to say I honestly did not give it another thought until the following Tuesday, January 21st, four days later,when I received a letter with an appointment for today, January 27th, only 10 days after my mammogram, for an ultrasound and repeat mammogram at 9.30 am. To say I was taken aback is an understatement. When you have already had cancer and all the tests and the biopsies and the waiting,oh God, the bloody waiting , you have this fear that sits ever so presently inside you and taps you on the shoulder if you so much as cough, so you can imagine the almighty punch in the arm that it did give. Even my 12 yr old son, who probably has the same fear, noticed my reaction to the letter and questioned what it was I was reading. God love him. I wonder if it is something he will ever overcome.

Anyway. I tried not to panic. I tried to keep it all in perspective but I couldn’t help fear why it was I was being brought back in, and so quickly, when I thought my boobs were OK. With my thyroid cancer I was a newbie. I was freaked out of my head and had no idea what to do, who to ask, what to ask. This time? This time I thought, screw this, I am not waiting until Monday to find out so I picked up the phone and rang the hospital and the care I received from the wonderful nurse who took my call could not have been better. She listened to why I was calling. She pulled out my file, spoke calmly and clearly and told me exactly why I was being brought back. No passing me off to someone else, no telling me to wait until Monday, no telling me not to be worried, she just told me the truth. You really can’t beat the truth. Not when it comes to your health.

I had breast surgery when I was 23 yrs old and because of this I have a significant amount of scar tissue. Scar tissue can cause calcification, and I had a lot of it in one of my breasts. It is rare for this to be cancer but nonetheless it can occur and there was enough of it to concern the consultant. So, that is why my presence was required this morning and why the nurse told me it was important that I show up.

I tried not to worry over the weekend but I did anyway. I had thought the lump in my throat had been nothing either and look where that had gotten me.

This time I enlisted the help of my best friend. She cleared her schedule and told me she would meet me there.

Those of you who know me well know how hair obsessed that I am, and part of this affliction is my addiction to hair spray. It is safe to say that I contributed to the hole in the ozone layer over the years. I have to have it on my hair. 3 or 4 times a day even! If I was stranded on a desert island and did not have hair spray I would not survive. Bear with me, this is going somewhere! 

Saturday I ran out of hairspray. This never happens. I coped on Sunday by not leaving my house but the thought of not having it on Monday was too much so I rang my bestie and asked her to bring some with her to the hospital. Yes, I am that bad! She happily obliged.

My appointment was for 9.30 am. I walked through the door at exactly that time. The radiographer was waiting for me. I was brought in and my boob was subjected to the squishing 3 more times. After the first x-ray she studied my film very closely. She wasn’t saying much of anything. Decided to shoot it form another angle. Still silent, and then another. Upon finishing the third she looked up and asked me if I always wore my hair down. Yes, says I, thinking it an odd question. By any chance do you use hairspray? Um, ya, I said, wondering where she was going with this. She then wanted to know if I had used some this morning, to which I replied, no, and explained the lack of it at home. She told me that she had to show the film to my consultant who was next door waiting to do my ultrasound and she promptly left. I was shown to the waiting room, back to my friend who had a can of hairspray for me in her bag. We must have looked like two giddy school girls when I told her that my mammogram results had something to do with hairspray. Two minutes later and the lovely radiographer came back laughing to herself. Turns out it wasn’t calcification at all. What had shown up on my film from 10 days ago was hairspray particles that had fallen on my breast when my hair had been moved. This was absent today as I had not used any! No ultrasound needed, I was free to go but not before we gave the doctor a laugh as I pulled out the can of it out of my bag. To say I was relived would be a massive, huge, gigantic understatement because I am only just feeling back to my old self since I first noticed my tumour 3 years ago.

The F**king hairspray! Ladies, be warned. Do not use before a mammogram!

Lastly, to get back to why I wanted to share this with you in the first place, it must be said that the speed and care and attention that I received from the breast clinic was second to none and no matter what else is going on with out health care system and how broken it may be I am left with no doubt whatsoever that if something had been wrong it would have been found and taken care of in record speed. It really does make me feel a lot better about this country we live in and I know these days this is sometimes hard to say.

Suffice it to say, I am not cured of my hairspray problem. The first thing I did was spray the shit out of my hair, and the second? Why, I bought myself a new can. Rome wasn’t built in a day, y’know!

My Response to Minister Reilly.

I thought I had written my last piece about my cancer. I am 14 months away from my first clear scan. The shock has subsided. I am sleeping again at night. I am back to work and am even interviewing for new posts at work. My son has stopped shadowing me and the look of worry and fear is all but a distant memory on loved ones faces.

I was done processing this horrible thing to have happen to me. Or so I thought.

Yesterday an article was published in The Irish Independent. I’ll quote a few lines to explain to you my outrage at what the article and who it quoted was saying.

Our Minister for Health, Dr. James Reilly has gone on record saying that in the future medical cards will no longer be available to those suffering with cancer who do not have a terminal diagnosis. For those of you reading this outside of Ireland a medical card covers doctors fees and prescription medication needed to assist in the treatment of whatever kind of cancer you have. For me that meant a sense of massive relief as it was a huge burden financially off my shoulders, giving me one less of the many, many things I had to worry about as soon as I noticed my tumor 3 years ago.

Currently every person who has had the horror of being told that they have cancer is eligible for this card regardless of the kind of cancer you have.

According to the article …

“SPECIAL medical cards are no longer being automatically given to people with cancer on low incomes unless their diagnosis is terminal.”

Health Minister James Reilly has now confirmed the applications and renewals for these cards now face new scrutiny and national eligibility criteria is being applied for the first time.

In other words, if you are not dying you are not having a card.

I mean no disrespect to anyone who has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. I thank my lucky stars every day that my tumor was caught in time and has allowed me the privilege of many years to come. This is not what this response is about.

It is the following paragraph that did me in. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. My heart beat like the clappers. The rage in me come flooding to the surface. In the article, already telling the majority of cancer patients, like Me, that he, as our “Health Minister”, was kicking us when we are down, Mr. Reilly actually said this…

“In the past it was the decision of the chief executive of a health board. It was his discretion not a doctor’s discretion. They were given out for all sorts of reasons.

“In some cases this was because the person had cancer. In the past cancer struck terror into the heart of people and the prognosis was very poor.

“It is now a very different condition and ranges from being a desperate diagnosis to not such a bad diagnosis at all.”

Let me repeat the last 7 words very slowly…NOT.SUCH.A.BAD.DIAGNOSIS.AT.ALL.

Yes. You did read that.

No. It is not a typo.

Obviously spoken by a man who has never heard the phrase, “I am sorry but you have cancer”, spoken to him at all.

Mr. Reilly,

Let me tell you a bit about my, “not such a bad diagnosis at all”.

It was horrendous from the very day I noticed my tumor, until the day back last May when I had my first clear scan. Some days the horror and fear still reside. Not just in Me but in my 11 yr old son who was 9 yrs old when I had to sit him down and tell him that his Mum, his only parent, his whole world had cancer. A cancer that had taken a mother of one of his classmates 2 years previous and had shattered the entire school where she worked, with 2 young girls, who are still not over the horrible loss, and I suspect will never be.

He was terrified that I would die. I was terrified that I would die. My parents were terrified that I would die. My brothers, my friends. Are you catching my drift?

No. My cancer was not terminal. I cried in relief for months that it wasn’t.

Yet, I still had to take leave from my career. A career that had just taken flight after years in college. All of a sudden I was taken out of the game. I was cut open on two separate occasions and pumped so full of toxins that I had to be isolated from people because what they gave me was that damaging to others.

Imagine for a moment what it was doing to me.

After 3 months my place of work no longer paid me and I was trying as best I could to live off sick pay, which was a third of my regular wage. My situation in life had not changed a bit. I was still a single parent. Still responsible for all my bills. Still had food to put on the table. Clothes to buy my son. Books for his school. Uniforms, shoes, summer camps. Rent to pay. The list was endless. The bills relentless.

Shall I go on?

I had cancer and I was terrified, but do you know what kept me up at night? What gave me the night terrors?

The financial disaster that my “not such a bad diagnosis at all”, pushed me into.

My bills were late when they never had been in my entire life. For the first time I had to avail of the book grant at my sons school. The back to school allowance. My family had to buy my groceries. Pay my phone bills. Take my son on beach trips with them as I was too weak from treatment somedays to climb out of bed.

My “not such a bad diagnosis at all”, brought me to my knees in ways you could only know if you yourself had been handed one.

My “not such a bad diagnosis at all”, robbed me of my last few fertile years. My self esteem. My self worth. My mental health. My joy. And replaced it with a fear that seeps deep into your bones and probably won’t leave me for a very long time.

This medical card that you have taken off us. This medical card was the one saving grace in my life. It still is. I cannot convey the relief in not having the expense of all those many, many, many doctors visits while I was sick and all the pills I had to take and still do. One of which I will need to take for the rest of my life. This year I have been on 3 antibiotics as my immune system has been so compromised I am picking infections up all of the time. Without my medical card I would not have been able to have gone to my doctor last month as I am still trying to claw my way out of the financial hell hole that my “not such a bad diagnosis at all”, put me into.

How dare you. As a doctor. How dare you.

As a Minister for Health. How dare you.

As a member of the human race. How dare you.

I am left with nothing else to say, except maybe you should be thanking whatever God you believe in that you have not yet had the pleasure of, “not such a bad diagnosis at all”.

May good health and fortune be with you.

Regards,

A Kick ass, strong, not afraid to tell you how it is, Cancer Survivor.

UPDATE: My blog was mentioned in the Dail – see the video.