by Lisa Lynch
Now don’t get me wrong, they’re very lovely, but the radiotherapy staff are completely different to the chemo crowd. The ‘therapy’ part of each treatment fools you into thinking that the two must somehow be linked, when actually they’re at opposite ends of the cancer stratosphere. In chemo, you can have a bit of a giggle with the nurses while they’re hooking you up to your drip. But radiotherapy seems to be that bit more serious – more of an exact science – so joking about with the staff (while you’re lying on the bed, at least) is a bit like knocking the back of Steve Davis’s snooker cue when he’s about to pot the black for the World Championship.
Anyway, after the acid-trip of hospital appointments, we’re finally all systems go for radiotherapy to begin a week on Monday. And, this Friday aside, I don’t have to go back to the hospital until then. Result or what? I fear I’ll get withdrawal symptoms and start showing up there out of habit. And get this – later this week, I’m even getting the chance to dust off my glad rags to go to an awards do with work. I know! An actual night out! (Is it just me, or are things beginning to look up?) Thankfully there’s still one dress in my wardrobe I can fit into. Quite a busty little number, as it goes. I’m secretly hoping someone will pull me to one side and say, ‘Excuse me, love, but you’ve got a biro mark in your cleavage.’
*
WITH CHEMO OUT of the way, and my health steadily improving before radiotherapy kick-off, there opened a small window in which I could enjoy my mini-break from The Bullshit. And, after five months of enforced sobriety and cancer-captivity, a couple of long-scheduled nights out proved beautiful timing. The first was a yearly industry awards ceremony at which my company had arranged two tables. Anticipating what a big deal this otherwise-standard night would be for me, my boss Kath kept me posted for at least a week with daily emails on what everyone else from the office would be wearing, and arranged a car to collect me on the night.
‘How are you feeling about this, then?’ she asked on the way over.
I bit my lip and furrowed my brow. ‘Nervous. Really nervous.’
‘Nothing to be nervous about,’ quipped Kath. ‘You know how lovely everyone is, and they’re all really looking forward to seeing you.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But the wig. I know a lot of them saw it that day when I came into the office, but you know what it’s like at these things – everyone looking across tables to seek out their ex-colleagues and gawp at who’s wearing what and who’s put on weight and all that. I just hope I don’t see anyone I know, is all.’
‘Well, I’ve put you next to Keith,’ she assured me. ‘And he’s on strict instructions to take you under his wing and look after you.’
‘Ah! Nice one!’ I exclaimed, perking up – Keith being the office Good Guy, and the perfect colleague to be sat next to at these occasions.
‘Mind you, by “looking after you” he’ll probably take that as his cue to get you roaring drunk.’
‘Ha, well it won’t take much,’ I said. ‘Better keep an eye on me, eh?’
Inside the venue, I walked tentatively over to the corner commandeered by our company, tottering precariously on patent heels as though I were four and trying on my mum’s stilettos for the first time. Keith immediately bounded over. ‘Lynchy!’ he roared, his arms wide open as if The Fonz had just walked into the room. ‘You look ace. Come here!’ And he grabbed me for a hug so tight I feared my wig would get irretrievably caught in his watch strap. ‘Ayy, Sarah, look who it is!’ he said, turning to our equally chirpy colleague and pulling her in for a group hug. ‘It’s Lynchy! She’s back in the fold!’
I appreciated Keith’s enthusiasm, and how it seemed to be spreading to everyone else in our corner. People rubbed my shoulders and slapped me on the back and fibbed about how well I looked, and – in light of having read about Sgt Pepper on my blog – a colleague handed me a gift of a cat-shaped doorstop. I should have known that this lovely lot would make me feel instantly comfortable. Nobody talked about cancer, nobody looked at me funny, nobody avoided me … it was just a normal work night out with the usual banter and the usual silliness.
‘See?’ said Sarah. ‘Nothing’s changed!’
‘And ain’t it brilliant?’ I replied.
Having been shortlisted for an award a few months previous (i.e., back when I had hair), I had been asked to provide the organisers with a photo of myself for them to display on the big screen when the nominees were announced. ‘I know I wouldn’t ordinarily be saying this,’ I whispered to Keith during the ceremony, ‘but I really really don’t want to win tonight.’
‘Photo?’ he enquired, bang on the money.
‘Exactly,’ I confirmed. ‘Nobody’ll believe it’s me.’
‘Aw, give over, Lynchy,’ he said, elbowing me. ‘I’m still going to whoop at your name when it’s read out, though.’ And so he did, loudly and proudly, along with everyone else on our two tables, followed by a token ‘bahh’ when another nominee’s name was announced as the award winner. I made a ‘phew’ gesture across the table and, this time at least, I meant it.
The following week saw the wedding of our good friends Sally and Ivan, at which I squeezed myself into some control underwear and stuck on some false eyelashes for a night of self-conscious dancing with the very unself-conscious Busby and her beau, Guy. Having just begun my daily five years’ worth of Tamoxifen, the hormone-therapy drug designed to limit my body’s ability to produce oestrogen, I was immediately suffering from the menopausal side effect of hot flushes, and spent much of the evening running to the loos to fan myself with my wig and run my pressure points under cold water. Busby and I had earlier devised a covert system of checking that my eyelashes weren’t being sweated off so when, as the night drew to a close, she began wildly waving her hands past her eyes on the dancefloor, I understood that she wasn’t, in fact, doing her best impression of Mia Wallace at Jack Rabbit Slim’s, but instead making me aware that my eyelashes were dangerously close to falling into a Hitler-style moustache.
The awards ceremony had completely tired me out and, given that it was taking a few days to get over, I volunteered to drive us to the wedding to save me turning narcoleptic over my champers and spare us all a costly cab journey home from Central London. On the way home, after dropping off Busby and Guy, P wanted to nip out of the car for a KFC. And so we pulled up on a double yellow line, blocking a driveway (proper bad-ass criminals that we are) and P jumped out for some late-night chicken.
While I waited I took off my wig, using the early-hours darkness as an excuse to be bald outside my flat. Suddenly a man appeared beside the car, gesturing through the window that he needed me to move back a bit so he could pull out. Forgetting myself, I opened the door to lean out and apologised, assuring him that I’d do it immediately – and then sat stunned as he moved a step closer towards me for a better view, looked amused, pointed a finger at my head and said, ‘Ha. You’ve got no hair.’
And what do you say to that, eh? The man was right: I had no hair. Actually, if we’re being pedantic, I did have a wee wispy bit of hair that was pushing its way through at that point, but I’m assuming it wasn’t prominent enough to see in the dark. To him, I probably looked like the female version of the dying, mask-less Darth Vader at the end of The Empire Strikes Back. But still, hair or no hair, I didn’t need him to remind me of my situation, thank you very much – particularly after having had such a lovely night.
‘Some bloke just laughed at my bald head,’ I said to P when he climbed back into the car.
‘What? Who? Where is he?’ snapped P, chucking the warm paper bag onto the back seat.
‘He’s gone now,’ I said. ‘He stepped towards me to look closer at it and everything.’
P got redder, his eyes widening in offended rage.
‘But I didn’t say anything back,’ I concluded, puzzled.
I was upset about the rather odd exchange, of course, but for reasons other than the tactless tit saying what he did. I had missed an open-goal chance to use
a retort I’d been practising since I first started losing my hair. I’m not proud to admit it, but I had been mentally preparing myself for such a perfect play-the-cancer-card moment for months. What I should have done outside KFC was stare back very seriously, giving him my best ill-person face and nodding sagely with slightly raised eyebrows before saying, ‘That’s because I’ve got cancer.’ With careful, drawn-out emphasis on ‘cancer’. Because, let’s be honest, nothing stops people in their tracks like the word ‘cancer’. But instead I frowned, looked at myself in the wing mirror (I don’t know why; it wasn’t like I had to check whether he was lying) and said, ‘Er. Yeah.’ Talk about a missed opportunity. I might have even got a bargain bucket out of the bastard.
CHAPTER 24
Escape to the country
December 2008
So then, sex. (Thought that’d get your attention.) And, more specifically, the wig on/wig off question. Oh come on, of course you’ve thought about it. I did nothing but think about it, once the wig-wearing reality had set in. Don’t be fooled, here. It’s not like P and I are having loads of sex at the moment. Cancer doesn’t really allow much room/energy/desire for sex, and even simply knowing that The Bullshit is in your life kind of kills your mojo. But the wig-or-no-wig issue has been something I have, on occasion, had to call into question since my barnet did a bunk, and it’s something I thought about once more the other night while watching The Sopranos.
Remember Svetlana, the one-legged, chain-smoking Russian home help? And remember the episode where she has sex with Tony on the sofa, while her prosthetic leg rests against the wall? Well, it got me thinking about what’s worse: having sex with a woman without her prosthetic leg or without her wig? In the bigger picture, having no leg is obviously far worse than losing your hair through chemo but, thinking short-term, I’m tempted to conclude that most people would find a wigless partner more of a turn-off. Because, let’s be honest, did you really spend your last shag looking at your other half’s legs?
Fortunately P is only interested in wig-off mode. And for more than just sex. The moment we get home and our front door closes behind us, he’s quick to whip off the syrup, despite the not-so-hot nature of what’s underneath it. I’m still surprised by this. Not surprised that I’m married to a man so wonderful that he prefers his wife au naturel, but surprised that anyone can possibly prefer to see me the way that cancer intended. Since chemo ended, I’ve been busy convincing myself that the worst is over. Because, as much as I’ve trivialised it here, among the worst parts of The Bullshit for me has been – and continues to be – having to let other people see me like this.
I really wish I could have done a Kylie and fucked off to France for the duration of my treatment. Granted, with the paparazzi intrusion and all, she had more reason to turn recluse than I have, but that’s not to say that I don’t want to shut myself away any more than she did. And fair enough, I’m no Catherine Zeta-Jones in even my finest moments, but I am the kind of girl who only ever wants to be seen at her best, and not just looks-wise. So now that The Bullshit has washed its hands of my appearance, leaving me bald, bloated, blotchy and with a hefty dose of the blues, it takes hours of persuading – not to mention preening – myself before I’m game enough even to head out of the door.
And yes, the worst of the treatment is over (at least I hope it is). But, as P and I were forced to discover last week on our lovely break in the Lakes, no matter how far up the motorway you drive, and however little space you leave in your suitcase, cancer still finds a way to come with you.
*
WITH SGT PEPPER being spoilt at her grandparents’ house, P and I took our first chance in months to escape for a few days on our own, away from the familiarity of the hospital and the chemist where we collected my prescriptions and the walls of our flat. Ordinarily, we’re rather good at recognising our need for a break and buggering off somewhere different for the weekend, but cancer had, of course, put paid to that kind of stuff – and so we wanted to make this one count.
Now chemo was over we had a blissful interval before the next round of treatment, and we had assumed that this would be our opportunity to regain a bit of normal life; to enjoy a mini-break Lisa & P style, with gorgeous food, lovely wine, a stack of DVDs, country walks and loads of sex. And while we got the first three right, my dwindling energy levels saw to it that our walks – and our mattress gymnastics – were pitifully short.
But, of course, there was more to mine and P’s frustration than our OAP-like bedroom antics (hell, the little nookie we managed was still a distinct improvement on the previous few months). Because escaping to the country unfortunately hadn’t meant escaping from cancer. And by Friday, the tormenting thought of what was yet to come loomed large over the Lake District. It’s like I told Mr Marbles: the Bullshit is as much a mental battle as it is a physical one. The medical world may know how to kill off a tumour, but it doesn’t know how to rebuild the self-esteem that the tumour-busting treatment ruined in the process. So coming to terms with the magnitude of breast cancer, and the way it’s changed your life, body and personality beyond recognition is an absurdly difficult task. And it’s bound to overwhelm you every now and then, leaving you and your husband weeping into each other’s dressing gowns on a Friday night in a hotel room in the hills, utterly unimpressed by the spectacular sunset that’s competing for your attention.
After the gut-wrenching heartache of the previous night, the following evening P slept for two hours while I got myself back into the beautifying business of shaving my legs (all that talk of never whinging about doing it again was, of course, complete hooey) and preening the unusually straight pubes that had made their way back to my bikini line; all in an effort to appear ever so slightly more fanciable to my poor, sex-starved husband, who’d spent the past five months married to the uglier sister of George Dawes. And I’d forgotten what a palaver personal grooming was.
The menopause-inducing effects of Tamoxifen weren’t doing much to help me in the looks department either, but I wondered whether my fall from femininity had less to do with my lack of oestrogen, and more to do with the simple fact that I was just out of practice when it came to being a girl? Cancer does not a woman make. Nor a man, for that matter. When you’re in the throes of The Bullshit, you’re neither man nor woman – you’re a being. A being with one function: survive. There’s just no space for anything else. Not shaving your legs or waxing your bikini line. Not spraying yourself with perfume or fake tan. Not choosing a pair of earrings in the morning, or making sure your bra matches your knickers. And especially not sex.
Later, with the grooming finished, we headed down for one of those amazing, drawn-out, drunken dinners where you talk for hours on end, completely ignoring the rest of the room. It was the first time we’d dared review our story so far. We talked about everything, from the day P grabbed hold of a lump in my left boob, to the horrors of my treatment. We talked about changing everyone’s lives for ever as P made that impossible phone call to my dad with news of my diagnosis. The first time I looked down after my mastectomy to see the alien circle of skin where my nipple once was. The way none of us knew what to do, how to react or where to put ourselves when I fell so ill after the first chemo. The look on Jamie and Leanne’s faces when they saw how the second chemo was affecting me. The first time P had to unblock the toilet of masses of my thick, blonde hair. The tantrum I threw at Tills when trying on my first wig. The helplessness of my father-in-law, and the chicken broth that he wished was a cure. The people who’ve been so fantastic and supportive, and those who’ve suddenly disappeared. And the way I used to refuse even to fetch a paper without first straightening my hair, and how ludicrous that seems now that my looks and self-confidence have sunk to their lowest.
It’s only when you break it down like that, daringly pausing to remember the enormity of what you’ve been through, that you appreciate how completely bloody incredible you’ve been to endure everything you have. After six months like that, P and I
ought to have been throwing ourselves off Scafell Pike, let alone crying into each other’s arms before ordering room service.
Right back from That Day In June, I’d become used to having good weeks and bad weeks. And, in neat little units of one week, it was an emotional ride I could handle. But what was becoming increasingly testing was not knowing from one moment to the next whether I’d feel happy or upset or frustrated or angry or worried or tearful or whatever else. It was a bit like having PMS all the time, only without the periods. And I was wary of it getting the better of me. There wasn’t a lot I could do about it – with five years of Tamoxifen on the cards, it was something I was going to have to get used to – but I wrestled with the kind of person I feared I was becoming. I desperately didn’t want to become one of those volatile, temperamental people that I’d always had such trouble with. Though Tamoxifen’s other side-effects were hardly going to be a picnic – weak bones, weight gain, hot flushes and dryness in places you could do without being so desert-like – each of those things I could do something about. The mood-swing stuff, however, was something I had little means of reasoning with.
Marbles insisted that I shouldn’t give myself such a hard time about something so difficult to control. The trouble was, my emotions just weren’t that easy to separate. And so we concluded that it was okay to feel several conflicting things at one time without staring down the barrel of multiple personality disorder. It was okay to feel angry that I was spending so much time at the hospital, yet experience pangs of Stockholm Syndrome when my schedule of appointments decreased. It was okay to feel ecstatic that the worst part of my treatment was over, yet pissed off that there was still more to come. It was okay to appreciate the seriousness of my upcoming radiotherapy, yet find the YMCA position hilarious. It was okay to forget about having cancer for one wonderful minute, yet find myself angry when that moment passed. It was okay to want to spend a lifetime in the Lakes with nobody other than my husband, yet occasionally feel disappointed that we wouldn’t have kids of our own to share it with. And it was okay to accept that my hormone therapy might make me a little unpredictable, yet still make an effort to keep my mood swings under wraps. All that said, if some arsewipe tried smirking at my slaphead again, I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions, so help me, Tamoxifen.