All Clear

I received a letter a few weeks ago telling me to arrange a blood test and then on the 21st of September somebody would contact me to discuss the results of my scans and treatment.  For a little while now I had put everything behind me and tried not to think about my results but reading the letter made me panic a little…and so how I usually deal with letters like this is to shove it in the messy drawer and forget about it for a little while.

I did go for my blood test, and I did mark on the calendar that somebody would be phoning me for the appointment. The 21st is the anniversary of losing my Mum, so already I knew I would be feeling a little wobbly that day, but I knew changing the appointment wasn’t the answer and I needed to know. On the 14th however my phone rang with a number that I knew would be something to do with my treatment. When I answered I expected a nurse or an administrator instead I got the top consultant for Thyroid Cancer…and at that moment I could have thrown up a little in the bin but thankfully I didn’t.  Instead, my voice went very high-pitched, and I started to shake a little bit and draw nervous squiggles on a piece of paper. She explained that she wanted to speak to me herself and that she was actually on leave next week so seen as my results were in, it made sense to call me.

Consultants have this habit of chatting away in medical terms not actually saying to me “It was successful!” or “It was unsuccessful!” Instead, they skirt around the issue and confuse you into a state where you’re left scratching your head wondering what on earth, they just said to you.  I asked the questions I needed to know “has it gone?” and “will it come back?” 

It had gone and it was unlikely it would come back; this is what I wanted to hear. It’s news you dream of hearing, but it’s weird.  I put the phone down following my call and cried…and I can’t tell you what I felt like. I felt relieved obviously but also kind of numb because even though you’ve been given the all clear, you’re also fully aware that your body let you down, that you don’t feel like you anymore and that there will now always be this reminder that it happened…and it can happen again. Every lump, bump, headache, pain would now be “is it? Could it be that again? What if it’s bad?” 

What do I need to do now? Was another thought I had. Do I give up alcohol, stop eating cake, exercise daily, take up running? Cut out caffeine? Eat nothing but Broccoli? I’m still figuring this one out. In the aftermath of my results, I told everyone, and I had lots of wonderful messages congratulating me. People encouraged me to celebrate, said I must be buzzing, relieved, over the moon, so happy. I am…I really am but like I said I feel strange…in the aftermath I found this, and I think it fully sums up how I feel right now. I don’t know who wrote it, but they echoed exactly how I felt at that moment and how I continue to feel since. It said this…

“I think the hardest part of cancer treatment is at the end – when everyone assumes you’re “cured,” and you no longer need their help. You’re in your weakest, most devastated state, plus you no longer have the mission you had when you began this journey: to the kill cancer. The cancer is toast, but so are you, and now, like a soldier at the end of war, you need help putting yourself back together, only everyone has gone home since they assume the war has been won.” - Anonymous