The aftermath
After I rang the bell to mark the end of 12 rounds of chemotherapy for stage 3 bowel cancer to the applause of my treatment team, I walked out of the hospital to wait for the side effects to kick in.
I was bedridden for days, neuropathy had built up so much that even while writing this, 3 years on, the feeling in my fingers and under my feet is limited.
And just like my hands and feet, I was numb. As the weeks went by, my body and mind slowly started to recognise that I wasn’t going back in for my fortnightly 3 days of chemo. I became more comfortable with the idea that treatment was over. I still had to wait 3 months to find out if the treatment was effective, and I wasn’t going to be discharged from oncology for at least 5 years. Still going back for tests every 4 months to check if the cancer has come back. I was very hesitant for a long time, even when my PET scan came back clear, to say I was “cancer-free”. But regardless, the routine of hospital, sick, recover and repeat had stopped, and I found myself flooded with every emotion I couldn’t grip onto or find during treatment. It was terrifying.
I was praised throughout active treatment – surgeries, diagnosis day and chemo – as being stoic. I certainly wasn’t trying to be. At the time, I found the whole experience surreal and at times mildly amusing. 3 weeks into moving interstate to regional Tasmania, I got an X-ray late on a Friday afternoon that sent me straight to emergency, where I was prepped for a lifesaving 6-hour major surgery. That surgery removed a quarter of my bowel, a large cancerous tumour and left me with a colostomy bag and staring down the barrel of 12 rounds of chemotherapy. I was 31 years old and otherwise fit and healthy.
Two months after my diagnosis, one of my close friends, Katie, also received a bowel cancer diagnosis. She was 33 and a new mum. Sadly, she is not here to coauthor this piece with me to inject her humour, warmth and zest for life. Katie passed away 6 months after diagnosis.
When it came time to process all that had happened to me and the grief of losing Katie tightened its grip on me, I was a mess. Outwardly, I was supposed to be “better now”, a phoenix that had risen from the ashes with newfound wisdom on life, and ultimately, I was to be grateful. Oh, so grateful. The expectation that I was now going to live it up because I survived cancer felt hollow and odd. I craved routine and small, regular moments. I wanted to be able to drive to the groceries, go for a walk, cook a meal for myself and do household chores. I wanted to work. I wanted a simple, boring, small life. And yet what was raging inside me was anything but simple, boring or small.
I tried to put cancer away. In a lot of ways, it seemed easy. My type of chemo meant I didn’t lose my hair, and while my side effects were bad, they were all invisible. Even the surgical scars that litter my body from 4 surgeries are hidden. I could walk through life, and no one would pick me as having experienced cancer. For a long time, I found this maddening. I wanted to scream I’VE HAD CANCER. I don’t entirely know to who, but I wanted people to know. That quickly changed when sharing my experience was met with the completely understandable discomfort that comes with talking about cancer, illness and death. Topics that seemed like small talk to me now.
I saw a psychologist, tried to articulate my feelings to family and friends. Got back into exercise, failed and tried again (I repeated this cycle for a long, long time). I did mindfulness, went back to work, and found outlets for my grief through volunteering. I planted a veggie garden and got back into my hobbies. I pushed myself to make new friends and to travel again (I found this incredibly scary after being so immunocompromised for so long + covid). It felt like I wasn’t doing enough because it “wasn’t working”. I would be brought to my knees in tears because of a smell or a sensation. Each day was met with a flurry of emotions quickly cycling their way through me. It was a quick flip from feeling awe from deeply recognising the beauty of life, to literally bawling my eyes out in the supermarket car park. It was exhausting.
Time. Time. Time. I needed to give myself time. I still need time.
Survivorship for me sees so many conflicting feelings and realities uncomfortably coexisting in me. It’s hard to explain and even harder to let cancer muggles in.
I am both okay and not okay. Grieving and joyful. The same and different.
So, I let the feelings come. I let them exist. I watch them swirl inside me, and I trust that I can cope. They do pass. And the more I put this experience into words and share it, I have found beautiful moments of self-acceptance amongst the fear, sadness and anxiety. And at times, I encounter wonderful people who are comfortable letting all my messiness be there without needing to fix it or move it away or find the silver lining. I can breathe out and be.
