The teapot of courage and success

This was another dire-and testing-week. I forced myself to look at the incision-which is still painful-so I made an appointment at the surgery. I discovered that Margaret was the duty doctor, so that made me happy.

Oh, well...after a wait of an hour and a half (surely a record for waiting in a GP's office!), I had to briefly tell her what was going on. And I walked in the door and burst into tears (such a crybaby!!). She examined the wound and said she thought everything would settle down, but it will take six months before all the lumps and puckering would finally clear. No infection, she said-just lumps filled with fluid, and that is normal. How am I supposed to know what is "normal"? Errr...pardon me, but I have only just had this surgery, so I have no clue.

On Thursday I had to go to the London for my quarterly bloodletting-and Matt was coming in to see me and check on how I am doing. I showed both John and Matt the God-awful incision, and they were both great. They were very supportive, and sympathetic. Nobody threw up at the sight, which made me feel better!

I have discovered how to live with this vicious operation and the mutilation involved. I just won't look at it. Really, I know it's there, and in the shower I wash very carefully so I don't yank out any stitches or make a mess. Simple: I don't look. It isn't denial, it is simply that I don't want to see what isn't there. Perhaps later on I will feel differently-when the stitches have dissolved, all the lumpiness and dimples and whatever have cleared. But now? I won't allow it to upset me. I've got other things I need to worry about! At least cancer isn't one of them. Personally I would rather not have cancer, so I consider myself lucky. Very lucky. If I'd waited a bit longer, the outcome would have been very different.

Ah, the teapot! Well, I wrote that on the day I got the verdict I bought a teapot so I would always remember the day I was told that the cancer hadn't spread, that I wouldn't need chemotherapy or radiation, and that I will just be checked for the next five years (and have to take Tamoxifen, which is a small price to pay, believe me!).

Sitting on my dining room table is my red ceramic teapot. When I look at it, I remember the feeling of knowing that I am clear of breast cancer. So my little teapot is my way of celebrating the relief-and good news.

For some reason, people don't seem to celebrate things anymore. Or-they celebrate with a bottle of wine, or champagne, or go out for a nice dinner-and that's fine, but you eat and/or drink, and the moment has passed and it's gone. Why not have something that will remind you of the moment, of the achievement, of the success-something you can look at for a long time and remember the feeling of relief, or joy, success, whatever it is? The little picture you bought in a flea shop, or a garage sale, that reminds you of your first date. The special stapler of getting the job you wanted so desperately (and nobody is suggesting that you need to go and buy a Monet, or a gold plated stapler, either! If you can afford a real Monet, let me know, and I will go shopping with you!). The china cup and saucer that signify your divorce (if you initiated it, of course, and are delirious with joy for getting rid of that tosser once and for all).

You get the idea: celebrate. Mark your success with something tangible, something you can look at-and, if necessary, throw at the offending party some time in the future...really, celebrate with something that has meaning, not just a meal or a drink. Something that will last (and some things last longer than the relationship you are marking, so you can always break them later on!!).

My teapot says I'm free of cancer, and I don't need chemo or radiation, just to be vigilant, because it can return. But I won't focus on that possibility; I will focus on the now. And the now says: I'm clear. I wish everyone could say that...

Some of the Unitarian congregation came to see me while I was in the hospital. One man, called David, was a cameraman and made some short films. He's an older gentleman, and seemed to have lived a very interesting life. He asked me whether I wanted to help other people who have been through this cancer ordeal. I said, of course, I would help anyone who had (or has) cancer, or CVID, or gentamicin poisoning-because I have been through it all and I know how it feels, and how hard it is to copy sometimes. He then asked if I would talk to a camera. I would sit in a chair, just talk, he would film it-and then put it on YouTube. I'm thinking about it. I really am thinking about it. At the moment, I am at the thinking stage. Hmmm...