I used to
think that resilience was in small part developed over time, in the, 'What
doesn’t kill you makes you stronger' school of hard knocks, and in huge part,
hereditary. Some people are born with the ability to head-butt the knocks out
of their way aren't they? And some people, well, they find it harder.
I've
always considered myself quite lucky to have a fairly hard head. People would
comment that I was strong, resilient, positive and I just thanked them kindly
and thought that a few of life's little boulders had served me well and the
rest, well it was just how I was made.
I've
changed my mind somewhat.
A year of
Tamoxifen, and it was playing games with my body. The result was that I had a
hysterectomy and oophorectomy (doesn’t that sound like an enormous kick up the
backside?) but for the uninitiated, it's when your ovaries are also removed. I
suspect that many people reading this will already know that.
I was ready
for this hysterectomy. Hell, I'd had cancer! This hysterectomy would be a walk
in the park. There was a 50% chance the surgery would be keyhole. I'd find out
whether it was this, or the more invasive stomach incision, after the op. Frankly,
I was knackered and I crossed my little fingers that keyhole surgery would be
possible and saw the operation as my chance for a bit of a rest. I woke to the
wonderful news that it had indeed been keyhole and thus looked forward to four
weeks of reduced work and increased reading. I admit, I was a little giddy at
the prospect.
The
surgeon and I had discussed hormones. With chemo and Tamoxifen in my back
pocket, the hormone effect shouldn't be too difficult to navigate; my body was
used to it. It had done the premature menopause thing through my treatment -
albeit a 'fake' menopause - and thus this
would all be easy-peasy for a body used to incapacitated oestrogen.
So I
wasn't expecting the volcanic effect on my hormones.
I can
safely say that through all the good, bad and ugly stages of my life, I have
never been so badly affected by hormones. I have never felt so physically and
emotionally down, so helpless, so desperate.
And so
shocked. I really hadn't seen this coming.
I can only
equate it to living in a perpetual out-of-body experience. My brain was telling
me that it was being ridiculous: this wasn't real, no way did I feel like this,
hormones were entirely to blame. And yet my brain was also behaving as if it
was very, very real, making me cry, question everything, hate myself and fear
stepping out of the house. It felt so real, I felt so desperate, it was so
unusual, it was quite terrifying.
But please
stay with me, because it gets better.
The six
weeks post operation taught me something about resilience. It isn't simply
about how hard your head is, everybody gets a curve ball now and again which
hits them where it hurts. What I learnt from this almost surreal period in my
life was that more than a God-given hard head, we need a strategy.
This was
mine:
1. The Mirror
In the
early days of cancer, I used to look in the mirror and – please excuse me for a
moment because I'm not someone who swears but this was really the point – I
used to screw up my eyes, put on my best cross face and say, 'F*** off cancer,
you little bast***, you're not having me, you're pathetic.' It worked. I'd walk
away from the mirror, amused and empowered, and this would dissipate some of
the fear until it lurched back again. And then I'd repeat the process.
I decided
to do the same. I knew the terrible gloom wasn't real but telling myself that
hadn't been powerful enough. So I went back to the mirror, looked myself in the
eye and said to myself over and over, that, this was me. I am not that hormonal monstrosity sitting in blackness in the
chair. I told myself this until it stuck. I told the hormones to 'f-off',
they'd never beat me. I'd beat them. Granted, this sounds like some 10p second hand
self-help book from a sales-driven unheard of psycho-babbling guru - but try
it. Honestly, it really worked for me.
2. Endorphins
I've
always loved sport. I went to a dreadful school academically but it had the
most wonderful PE teacher and it all started there. I've known the endorphin
rush from running for many years. I know that running, and to a lesser extent
other sports, keeps me on the hormonal straight and narrow. For six weeks after
surgery I wasn't allowed to run which certainly wasn't helping my sorry state.
One day, when the last thing I wanted to do was organise a coffee with friends
but knew this was exactly what I should do, pretending everything was
absolutely normal, I texted some of my closest allies. I was on a driving ban
after the op but I politely refused offers of a lift the one mile down the road
to the café, opting instead to walk three miles on my own. I'd walked most days
since the operation with the lovely husband and it was good to be out of the
house but those had been strolls. I'd benefited from the fresh air, taken in
the wonder of the beautiful bluebells, thanked my lucky stars I had him by my
side, but it hadn't done anything for the endorphins. This day I didn't wander
but, instead, I paced the three miles to the café. I could feel my heart
beating faster than it had for days, and could almost touch the darkness –
temporarily – leaving. It was enough to
know that if I could engage the help of my endorphins, the hormones would meet
their match. In short, I needed to walk - and at a pace.
I
continued walking, faster and faster every day. And I even logged my mileage –
it wasn't much, but there was enough to feel I'd done something to take back
control and that was empowering in itself.
3. Help
I'm quite
an independent soul. I don’t often seek advice from people, prefer to sort
things out in my own head. I find that when I talk about difficulties I, 1. feel
guilty: everyone has their stuff going on and who really needs to hear about
mine? 2. feel confused: I generally have firm views of the way forward and
somebody else's advice tends to almost derail my resolve, rather than inspire
me to do it differently and 3. recognise that I'm not as energised by the
conversation as I would be if I just 'had a laugh'. That isn't to say I don't
blurt out my inner most thoughts fairly frequently, but I guess I'm not really
looking for solutions, more for someone to say, 'That's a nightmare. I feel
your pain. Here, have a glass of prosecco with me.'
So I
didn’t confide in my friends until I felt better again. But I knew I was not in
a good place and that it was foolish to be alone in it.
Rather
than simply tell my husband I was down, that the hormones were horrendous and
ask him to sympathise, I said that I needed him to help me. I said that I needed constant reassurance that
this wasn't real, that I needed him to force me out of the house, go for my
'power walk' (I knew the importance but you know, sometimes it was raining…)
and to make me get enough sleep. He was
brilliant. I think that if I hadn't have asked for help, he would have tried to
do the boy-problem-solving-thing which wasn't as effective as giving me a hug
and reminding me that we could beat this thing and of the strategy to do it.
The good
news is, this situation feels a lifetime ago and yet the operation was less
than three months ago. Much of the improvement is due to my hormones calming
down (although not so the renewed hot sweats, jeez…) but some is certainly due
to having a strategy. I'm lucky that I can now run again and I'm back to normal
busy-ness - I'm definitely someone who's better humoured when busy - but I also
feel calmer about this new state my body is in because I have faith in the
strategies. Combined, they are more powerful than the hormones, so take that
menopause, you won't get me that easily.
This is
the strategy which worked for me. I'm sure different things work for different
people – I'd have thought reading would work for me, for example, I love books
and never have enough time to read as much as I'd like, but it didn’t. I
couldn’t concentrate – whatever works for you, I really feel that having a plan
of attack is your best tool to taking back control.
Jackie
Buxton is a writer, editor and teacher of creative writing, living in Yorkshire
with her husband and two teenage daughters. Jackie used her recent experience
of an aggressive form of breast cancer to inform and dispel some myths about a
cancer diagnosis via her popular blog: Agenthood and Submissionville. Her posts
became the frame-work of self-help memoire, Tea & Chemo (Urbane
Publications, November 2015) which receives heart-warming feedback, and has a
five star rating from over 75 reviews. Jackie's recently published first novel,
Glass Houses, is about two women's stupid mistakes, the ramifications and the
silver linings. Her award-winning short stories can be found in three
anthologies, as well as appearing regularly in Chase Magazine. When not writing
or reading, over-seeing house and teens, Jackie can be found running, cycling
or tripping up though the beautiful Yorkshire countryside.
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