Really are the answer.

The heaviness of cancer and the darkness of the tragedies that are happening across the world are intense. We are all, I imagine, affected by what happened in Paris and Beirut, the resulting spotlight that shines (briefly) on countries like Yemen and Syria which shows us flashes of the extent of the suffering. I feel pretty self centred to compare my cancer to what has happened/is happening – there is no escaping that having cancer is the preferable choice in comparison. No, I am not being a martyr, but it is just a cold, hard fact – tell anyone in a besieged city that they have an 80% likelihood of being alive in 5 years and they would be thrilled.

So while holding that reality, I also hold mine. Cancer sucks. It is dark and heavy. And the current treatment for it equally so. Sadness, depression, fear, exhaustion (insomnia remains one of the constants) regularly ‘win’ – I sink under them frequently. However, I also know that love and laughter dispel them – and I regularly feel both of those as well. Its not a battle, as I have so often said, it is for me trying to ride the waves of intensity, all of them, letting myself sink down and then enjoy the ups, knowing when I feel that I am drowning that it is temporary and the wave will bring me up again. Note: I must be improving – I managed to maintain the same metaphor for the whole paragraph.

This past weekend I managed to get a lot of rest, if not sleep, and hosted yet another one of you wonderful people who brought laughter and love into my home. And sorted out my kids bed and play room. What is love and laughter without practicalities ;-)?! You know, this journey really is ‘ours’ – I cannot do this without you all – genuinely not. From those of you who write on here, to those I see, to those I skype, to those who are helping with my children in such wonderful ways and to those who I know are reading and quietly rooting for me – you are all amazing.

I have my last EC chemo tomorrow – the fourth of the 3 weekly ones. The first one without The Man – he remains in Amman – willing to come here if I need him. Of course I need him – that is, in my new life, a constant: how cancer changes you #235 – becoming ridiculously soppy and feeling like 3 weeks apart is a lifetime penance. I’m embarrassed by how much I miss him, how literally desperate I feel at times wanting to feel him holding me. Completely bemused by the fact I very frequently feel like I cannot cope without him next to me. Yes, I have been in love before, but I am pretty sure I have never let myself experience this level of vulnerability and felt this bereft when alone. I won’t be asking him to come though – I head back to Amman in 11 days (not counting the days, hours, minutes at all…) and we will have pretty much a month together as he will be back in the UK for two weeks soon after I return in December.  Back to the chemo – tomorrow will mark the halfway point of the chemo hopefully – it is half way according to the schedule I was given. My tumours have shrunk considerably, certainly by feel, so its working. Its impossible to get clear information on how much they ‘should’ have shrunk by now so I have stopped trying. Bottom line, mine are smaller and that can only be good.

And off I go to start the Monday morning school madness….