‘Joni Mitchell taught your cold English wife how to feel’, says Emma Thompson’s character in Love Actually, shortly before her life fell apart.
I had hoped that motherhood or finding love would do that for me. Teach me to feel, that is.
In fact, motherhood forced me to be better at coping rather than feeling. I remember saying shortly after my son was born that I felt like I had been run down by a train. I don’t think I felt anything else for a long time, but I still picked myself up and I coped. I cope very well.
My experience of love in recent years has been equally brutal: a rush of hope, followed by a jolt of searing pain. Then, a determined nothingness called survival, made possible by a devotion to routine and structure. And work.
Then came cancer.
Cancer came with no warning. And so did the feelings. One minute I’d be holding up well; the next minute feelings would ambush me and knock me off balance. Literally, sometimes.
One day at work, a day right at the start when I was waiting for my biopsy results, I started to bleed. I tried to get home, but the City buildings started to sway as I walked; my eyesight blurred. I sat down before I fell down. I would have called my friend straight away, but it was a few minutes before I could remember how to use my phone.
That was fear.
When I received my cancer diagnosis, I heard something like this:
“You have cancer. You need to have a radical hysterectomy. This means we will remove part of your vagina and you might have problems having sex in future. Your bowel and bladder might also get damaged. Please accept and sign here.”
Loneliness, loss.
During surgery my bladder did get damaged. I endured a catheter for two weeks, incontinence for 3 weeks, and ongoing bladder discomfort. The silent tumour was replaced with persistent ‘ball ache’.
Constant, nagging worry.
I learned how hard it can be when your feelings are not aligned with those of the people around you. People ask how you are feeling, but often they refuse to accept the answer. Tussles with those close to me over how I should be feeling leave me frustrated.
Isolation.
For me, the thought of dying of cancer is very sad, but not always as sad as the thought of living with it. Or living with the consequences, at least. For others, someone not dying is the major concern; the consequences are easily forgotten. The chasm between these two perspectives is vast and it’s lonely on my side.
My fearful, dark feelings are valid. My body is different, unfamiliar. Aches and pains hold ominous meaning. The cancer might return. Achieving what I want in life now requires superhuman strength.
And yet I am alive and my prospects are very good. So, the answer is to bridge the gap between myself and the world around me.
The lesson lies in the other feelings that cancer is showing me. For every dark feeling I’ve had, love, laughter and kindness have been the antidotes.
I have never laughed so much as I did at emails received from friends while I recovered from surgery; visits, packages, and silly messages help fight feelings of isolation. Nothing felt so kind as someone brushing my hair and washing my face in hospital, or someone playing sad music for me to help me cry. Kindness eases sadness.
A needle buddy while I administered my daily injection helped me feel loved and combat fear. Generous, abundant offers of help relax anxiety’s strangle-hold and allow me to breathe.
Cancer has taken away the old structures that held my life together – work, money, routine – and left me with nothing but feelings. These feelings force me to connect with the people around me. And connection enables empathy, which in turn provides the love and strength I need to get me through each day. Connection will help me face the future.
Hope.