A far better day today. I feel tired, probably because, as my Nan suggested, the uncertainty over the diagnosis has been a mentally exhausting exercise the last few weeks. But I'm glad that this process is almost complete and the next phase - treatment - is beginning.
Of course, this leads to its own set of considerations.
I'm talking about how cancer will impact on my independence, my sense of "having a life" - something everyone cherishes. And I'm no different.
Admittedly, my life wasn't deeply imbued with meaning or anything like that before this all happened. I'm not a doctor, a charity worker, nor someone important really in that sense. It centres more on spending time with my friends; playing on my Xbox; going out on the weekends; trying to find a girlfriend; football; working. The usual things mid twenties guys do. Yeah... really not that meaningful now I write it out, but nevertheless my life is still mine, and still open to being changed, rocked and improved at any point because, well, it is free. And I like that.
It was scary thinking that that sense of independence and individuality would fade away, and I'd be reliant on my parents again (as much as I love them), staying away from work and staying in the family home, unable to just do normal things nor have the freedom to do the things I enjoy.
With this in mind, and the freshness of the "side effects of chemotherapy" conversation in the back of my mind, next Friday was beginning to feel like a seminal moment when my independent life was ended, thereby mentally positioning this week as my "last week of normality for a while", like a lightbulb beginning to flicker before dimming and going out.
Now, part of the weird thing about having cancer is that you can find people all around who have shared the same experiences. In the beginning you feel a bit alone. You can feel like your life (and, of course, life for those closest to you) has shifted seismically, whilst the rest of the world meanders on. But you do find people online, and through friends of friends (what the modern era somewhat clinically refers to as your "support network") who will just talk to you, and make you realise that you're not abnormal, you're not alone; other people have been there, gone through it and come through. It sounds cliched, but it's a massive help to find others like you.
You also, of course, have your friends. They may not have much experience with cancer. But that doesn't matter. They're there. And it doesn't do them anywhere near the justice they deserve to say that they have been absolute stars. As they always were.
More than anything, this experience has reignited my belief in humanity. It's astonishing for me to see how helpful and lovely people are at heart, how the fundamental good I still think is extant in the human condition is evoked by awful situations and, ultimately, how much of a leveller cancer is.
One of the people I'd met through this unfortunate state of affairs inspired me today, and broke me out of my fears about losing independence.
Of course life won't be exactly the same. But I've accepted that now.
Moreover, what chimed with me from our conversation was that, for her, it was the normality, or the preservation of it as far as possible, which kept everything ticking over.
Normality.
Going to work. Seeing friends. Doing whatever you used to (within reason). Just adapting to the situation you find yourself in.
And, on hearing that, all I thought was this: I've always been good at adapting.
Suddenly it didn't seem so bad, to learn you can work, you can see your friends, you can exercise, you can do most things. In fact, it felt a bit like a brightness edging into view behind the large cloud that's hanging over (but not enveloping) my life at the moment.
I've spoken a lot about how I'm determined to get through this. It's clear that, once all of the treatment starts, I'll have to see how I feel physically, and things won't be quite the same for a while.
And I'll resemble a Triad / Shaolin monk for a bit, too.
Though I may currently be adrift in a sea of hospital appointments, the spectre of infusions of hardcore drugs and hair loss, I'm going to do my utmost to do all of this on my own terms.
As I do with most things.
I won't be living with cancer; cancer will have to live with me.
And it's only a temporary lodger, subject to a 4 month eviction order.
I'll hold onto my independent life like a barnacle to a submarine: without losing that independence; without losing my drive; without losing my life. In both senses of the latter phrase.
T
