I have no idea how long it has been since I have written on here – and equally no idea how long it will be until I write again ;).

I wrote before in part because writing was so very helpful, cathartic for me when I was going through the hardest parts of my cancer trip. And in part to keep my wonderful friends in the loop – so many of you reached out, wanted to help, read what I wrote and met me where I was at. I will always be grateful. While hoping I never have to reach out in that way again 😉

Now I am writing for me – of course I am happy to share it – but I also want to keep what is related to cancer in one place, if that makes any sense. And even if it doesn’t, I still want to do it…

I was recently in the USA for 2 weeks – and for some reason I felt before I left and while there that it would give me some answers. I’ve been adrift since May when I got back from SE Asia in many ways – living a life I set up while I was sick, desperate, unsure, determined. I still feel like a bit of a passenger in that life (sorry for the cliche, but apt here) – it is a little surreal, I am unsure of my place here.

I write from my lovely flat in the centre of London, which is quite bare in many ways. Just talked to my children who live in Norther Ireland – so utterly bizarre in so very, very many ways. They are not with me: the first time in nearly 27 years I have not held a home for my children, focussed on all the ups and downs of day to day parenting. And Northern Ireland was never the plan for the two little ones; we were going to live internationally, always, travel, experience new countries and cultures.

And then I realised in the USA that I spent a long time preparing to die. That I could only face cancer and its treatment by being fully prepared to die – crying as I write this – part of the reason my children are in fucking NI is because I wanted to know it would work for them if I died. That if they didn’t live with me, if I was gone forever, it wouldn’t be so hard. And part of it was that if I lived, I wanted the chance to have a life outside of work and children – at least that is what I said at the time – and believed.

I live in a flat by the London Eye because hey, fuck it, why not? If I was prepared to die, then let me do it in style.

The job happened. They approached me, I said yes. Next thing I was back working. As it happens, in a pretty incredible job in many ways, but its like being in movie.

In fact, it all just happened. Because it didn’t matter – so much of it was set up for me to die.

I’ve run around doing things so urgently. Terrified that if I don’t do it all, it will be too late. Grab it. Push myself. Never enough.

Terrified. A good word. I am terrified to live. Because if I step into my life again, I stand to lose so much. I become invested again. I care again. It will then matter if I live or die. And that hurts, fuck me, its breathtaking in its intensity. I feel frozen a lot of the time; watching my life happening around me, but removed from it.

I stand to lose so much again if I fully engage in my life.

The only time I haven’t felt this was the 6 weeks that my children were with me over the summer. It was all real then, I had a purpose, in contradiction to the above, staying alive for them is real. It always has been. While making sure I continue to do whatever I can to make sure they will be well cared for if I die.

I am still ready to die. Can I combine that with being ready to live?

My first mammogram and ultrasound post cancer is on the 5th October. I feel sick at the idea of it – and yes, terrified. The word of the day. If that is clear, I wonder will I then choose to step into my life. Because I am prepared for it to be bad news – fully prepared in many ways. But I am not prepared for the all clear, while desperately wanting it to be so.