The Temple

So no blog last week.

I'm afraid it was just too much.

Is that an admission of weakness or an honest response and responsible reaction to the rather hefty burden of the antibiotics I was taking the week before, on top of the five accumulated chemo rounds? I'm going to be kind to myself and own the latter.

The antibiotics were (probably) necessary in order to prevent the rather 'fruity' (to put it nicely!) cough I had picked up, from becoming a full blown chest infection and thus landing me back in hospital. They (probably) worked as I didn't/haven't yet developed a chest infection, or for that matter any other type of infection (let's hope I haven't just spoken too soon there...!). But the antibiotics did send me half way round the bend.

That probably isn't a very PC way of putting it but adequately describes what was going on in my head the week before last. It felt likely my mind was fracturing and I was losing myself to an unknown (and not particularly pleasant) part of my personality. I started taking the antibiotics on the Monday and it wasn't until Wednesday (and 48 hours of mental turbulence) that I thought to look at the leaflet to check the side effects...

Eek!

At 50cm long, the leaflet looked more like a scroll when I'd finally finished unfolding it. Both sides were covered in closely printed 8 point text and most of that text listed the possible side effects...

Among some really ugly warnings about impaired liver and kidney function and gastrointestinal disturbances was a section on the possible mental side effects, "Altered sense of reality, anxiety, depression, hallucinations, nightmares and strange dreams" were all listed. It didn't give a likelihood of these quite scary side effects occurring but I'm pretty sure anyone who read the last blog entry would agree, I was certainly suffering from at least some of them!

And now I'm just exhausted.

Taking the antibiotics on top of the chemotherapy and bearing in mind that it was then only three weeks since my sojourn in Ealing Hospital (and all the drugs they'd plied me with there!), I think the tiredness I am now experiencing is only to be expected.

My poor, brave, embattled body.

I'm in awe of my body. I do on occasions feel a bit betrayed by the cells which went rogue and mutated, growing into the Lump; the cancer (always now with a small "c") which had started to worm it's way from my breast to the rest of my body via those poor old lymph nodes. But the rest of my body... It is an amazing, biological machine. So complex and incredible; so beautiful in the way it works, in the way it keeps trying to heal no matter what is thrown at it. And strong. Despite the last six months of treatment. It's ironic that I was apparently so fit and healthy back in May (I walked 100 miles after all) and yet if I hadn't found the lump, I was probably only a couple of months away from the cancer escaping to other parts of my body thus becoming secondary breast cancer and rendering itself 'incurable'.

But I felt so well.

Now I do not.

The cure has made me more ill than I have ever been in my life. By increments I have become unrecognisable to myself (inside and out). I have lost almost all my hair (there are a couple of tenacious eyelashes and eyebrows on each side hanging on in there and the hair on my head keeps trying to grow back (incredible perseverance from those follicles!))

And yet...

I have learnt so much about myself. I have rarely felt so loved and supported. I have discovered how much I enjoy writing. And I have finally tried standup (and enjoyed it so much that I will be doing it again). My priorities have changed and continue to evolve. But most of all I now have the utmost respect and love for my body (which definitely includes my mind - the chemo has conclusively proved them to be part of the same homogenous whole).

Last chemo (number six) today. One more ride on the rollercoaster. I have reached almost total inertia now and everything is much more of a monumental effort. But one of my walking mates on Twitter (thank you Chris!) pointed out that Sunday is the Winter Solstice and from Monday the days will gradually get longer again. At his very simple but inspiring suggestion I will hang on to the coat tails of the sun and use the returning light to me to guide full recovery.

HAPPY WINTER SOLSTICE EVERYONE - may the returning light inspire you too :oD

The darkest hour

What a week!

Last Wednesday (26th December) I made my standup comedy debut at The Cavendish Arms in Stockwell. A five minute set of funny stuff I've noticed about cancer and the road to recovery...

On Thursday (27th), Macmillan won the Brand of the Year award at the annual Marketing Society awards ceremony in London, for the "No one should face cancer alone" campaign. The ad I'm in is a major part of that campaign and the post on the Marketing Weekly website had the photo of Vikki (the real life Macmillan nurse) and me taken from that ad.

I remain very proud of the work we all put in on that one minute of finished film. And there is nothing about my own performance I would change in light of what's happened. Nothing.

On Friday (28th), I had chemo round five - the second dose of Taxotere (Doxataxyl). Down to earth with a horrible bump and still descending.

Before now, I could never understand those who chose not be fixed at any price.

Now I do. I am now in the chemical depths of this penultimate chemo round and those of you who've stuck with me through all of this (thank you, by the way) will know that I've largely managed to deal with the aftermath of and treatment for, breast cancer with a positive frame of mind and a sense of humour (albeit a bit on the dark side). But right now I am in a dark place. With a severe sense of humour failure.

One of the many side-effects of the Doxataxyl (Taxotere - the T of the FEC-T regime) chemo drug appears to change my perception of the world, both physically (my eyesight is definitely different - altered somehow - not my eyes but the connection between them and my brain I think) and metaphysically. This change in point of view has shifted my personality. For the time being, I am no longer the person I know.

It probably sounds a bit bonkers and I know this is just a temporary shift (well, I hope it is) but I have now asked myself the question, "If I'm not myself, if I can no longer exist in this life as the person I know, do I want to carry on living as someone else?"

I've never thought of myself as having a particularly strong personal identity before. I always thought that I was a bit of a chameleon, drifting from situation to situation; person to person, merely adapting myself as closely as I could to the circumstances and individuals I encountered along the way. But, it turns out, that's one of the character traits I hold most precious. That and compassion, humour and a sunny, positive (sometimes annoyingly so, even for me), optimistic outlook. Would I want to continue to exist if those things were removed from my make up?

No.

It turns out (surprisingly for me) that I do not want to survive at all costs. If that cost is an alteration in my personality so fundamental to who I am, that I was no longer myself, then I would rather cease to exist than become a stranger to myself, my family and friends.

It's a bit of a knotty one though...

Because if I was no longer the person I am (I'm still here in the background and can feel the shift back to old me starting to occur as the chemical effects of chemo number five very slowly begin to wear off), then how would I recognise that I'd ever been anything else? And who's to say the new Annabel wouldn't be immediately adamant about staying? And remaining as long as possible, thank you very much? Hard as nails, grumpy and next to no sense of humour. Great.

Enough of this introspective nonsense (that's her!).

The title of this week's blog is from the saying "the darkest hour's before the dawn" and that's where I am now with the chemotherapy. It's just over two weeks until the final dose and I can almost see the first light of daybreak in the sky... Almost.