Fading photographs

I am a lazy blogger, I find it hard to write every day or every second Tuesday in the month but sometimes there are things that I need to write down, things I need to share.
I would like to tell you about Sara.
I met Sara ten years ago or so and if I'm totally honest I was more than a little envious of her. She's beautiful and lives in an enormous country pad with her husband and their dogs. She drives a very flashy sports car, I'm not sure exactly what it is but it exudes elegance as she does. I met her in my "familiar" life as a picture framer and over the years I have shared her memories of dinner parties, holidays and walks in the countryside with her dogs, framing each image of their life.
But Sara has metastatic breast cancer. Her husband came to see me a couple of weeks ago to tell me that her recent round of chemotherapy hadn't worked and despite the great efforts of her team she was dying. They gave her just a few months.
So we have begun to change the glass in these framed photographs for uv glass, to protect them from fading because we can't protect Sara from fading. All we can do is preserve those memories, Sara dancing, Sara laughing, Sara lounging seductively across the bonnet of a Ferrari.
Those memories are so precious and are now safely preserved but I wish that Sara didn't have to leave us.

Sara died before I had finished writing this, quietly and peacefully at home, loved by her husband Paul and all that knew her.

The month formerly known as October

October is fast approaching bringing with it an array of different emotions, for me at least. Autumn has always been my favourite season. I still seek out piles of fallen leaves to crunch through just as I did as a child and I love watching the changing colours of the scenery. I don't even mind saying goodbye to the swallows that congregate at the back of my house before they start their journey back to warmer places, they will be back next year.
But October means something very different now, not only is it the anniversary of my own diagnosis, it is of course Breast Cancer Awareness month with retailers and manufacturers clamouring to show off their pink credentials. Almost every store you walk in to next month will have some kind of pink product on sale from T-shirts to washing powder and on October 28th your hairdresser will more than likely be dressed from head to toe in pink cheerfully telling you it is to promote breast cancer awareness. We are told that the pink campaign is incredibly successful but I am still losing friends to this cruel disease. There is nothing pretty about breast cancer.

"Debenhams is proud to be the retailer for the official Wear it Pink T-shirt and £4 from each one sold goes to charity. We've also got the official ribbon designed by Jasper Conran and plenty of gifts, accessories and beauty products to choose from"

I think I'm supposed to be grateful but I don't believe for one minute that these companies are in it for anything other than financial gain. You can buy a completely gorgeous Ted Baker fuchsia bra for £28.50 with just the 50p going to Breast Cancer Campaign. I would love one but the reality is that once you've had a lumpectomy or a mastectomy you aren't ever going to feel completely at ease wearing sexy underwear. These things are not for women who have breast cancer.
So where is all this money going? This "incredibly successful" pink campaign raises millions of pounds every year but still there is no cure for breast cancer, there probably never will be.
My wish for this pinktober is that the money raised is directed at prevention of reccurance and treatment, and I wish that I could get October back.

Kicking Cancer

I see and hear this expression so often and I have to say it's not one of my favourites. You see I didn't "kick" cancer, it kicked me, pretty damn hard as it happens. I haven't beaten anything either and can take absolutely no credit for my current state of wellness. That is down to some serious chemicals, radiation and a little bit of luck. It had nothing whatsoever to do with strength or courage, two qualities that I must admit to having very little of. So please don't tell me that I have been brave, I didn't put my hand up and volunteer for this, I didn't have a choice. Brave people rush in to burning buildings, brave people intervene when they see a child being bullied, brave people become kidney donors; I have done none of these things. It's not that I don't appreciate the sentiment behind those comments, I just don't feel like I deserve them.

Those same well intentioned folk tell me "it's behind you" and it is behind me, like a pantomime villain. It follows me wherever I go, casting it's dark shadow on the sunniest of days. It is my bed fellow at night, it wakes me in the morning, it is always behind me. 

Fabulous things

I have never been much of an optimist, my glass is half empty and I don't see silver linings, just clouds. So it has been quite difficult for me to take the positives out of my cancer diagnosis. I hear all the time from people who feel that their life has changed for the better, they're stronger, happier than before. Not me, I haven't had the pleasure of experiencing that special place that cancer is supposed to take you to.
But some fabulous things have happened to me since I was diagnosed, things that wouldn't have happened to me if it wasn't for cancer.
I had my photograph projected on to a building in Singapore, I guess it was picked because my face was a little more interesting without hair. I don't mind that. As I look at this picture I can't help wondering if those people going so industriously about their business below actually looked up and if they did, what was it they saw? At first glance I look pretty cool but maybe, if they gave it more than a fleeting glance, they really saw me. I do know that they can't have understood just how much it meant to me.

Little hurts

One of the hardest parts of my own personal "breast cancer journey" (God, how I hate that expression!) was having to do it so very publicly. I live and work in a small market town in Warwickshire. I had managed to keep my diagnosis private. It was so very hard having to tell my family I couldn't imagine having to tell my clients as well. Going completely off on a tangent here because I wasn't going to speak about this but I'm reminded of those calls I had to make after being diagnosed. The first to my mum, I just remember saying sorry over and over, just like I had a few hours earlier to my husband (then boyfriend) Sorry for what I'm not quite sure!
Anyway, hadn't planned to talk about that.
Where was I? Oh, yes, little hurts.
So, having not publicly announced that I wasn't well I had to go in to work wearing a bandana after losing my hair. I remember one of my clients just saying "have you not been well?" and I felt able to chat to her about it quite comfortably. This was going to be easy I thought! Just a few days later someone else said "Why have you got that on your head? Is it to keep your head warm? You look like a pirate!" A silly throw away comment from a silly woman and a little hurt that has stayed with me.
Even now I find it hard to talk about my hair. I have so many regular clients at work who have given me love and support (I won't ever forget coming home from hospital to find my house completely filled with flowers) but I also have a lot of customers who come maybe once a year, or every two years who have no idea what's happened to me. I am getting used to them saying "Oh, what made you cut your hair so short?" I just smile and say I fancied a change but I feel that little hurt again.

Anniversaries...

Tomorrow will be an interesting anniversary. I've already done the "year since diagnosis" and the "year since surgery", tomorrow is the "year since my first chemo".
I woke up on the 6th January 2010 to find that my prayers had seemingly been answered, it had snowed heavily through the night. So that was that then, the roads would be blocked, hospitals would be closed and I wouldn't have to go for my first treatment. I phoned the hospital which was 17 miles away expecting a recorded message but a cheerful voice told me not to worry, to take my time but I really should try to get there.
And of course I did get there. I'm not sure if I can adequately describe the actual "chemo" experience but I will try. I was absolutely terrified, my hands were shaking in fact I think my whole body was shaking but once the cannula went in I was strangely calm. Only then was I able to look around and to listen to the quiet hum of conversation, the unfamiliar sounds of the equipment, the occasional giggle.
I had been told that if I took the anti sickness tablets I should have a fairly uneventful night and It was until about 10 o'clock. I remember saying to my husband that I thought I'd get an early night and promptly threw up on the stairs as he looked on in horror. I managed to get up to the bathroom where my poor cat Dylan was sleeping and, yes, I was sick over him too. 
It was only much later that my husband admitted that on that first chemo night he didn't think he would be able to cope. It got easier and we coped but I don't think Dylan has ever forgiven me.