Mary-Jane Duncan celebrates a big anniversary this week. It’s been two years since she got her cancer diagnosis.
I’ve been non-stop this week but feel I haven’t actually achieved anything. Between work, the kids, the mister, more work and the pups. I feel I’ve done everything required but not excelled at not one thing!
Biggest kid passed her driving theory test and we now move onto the heady heights of navigating UCAS applications without any meltdowns (from me).
Himself turned 45 with equal measures of good grace and handsomeness. I am biased but he really has improved with age. Probably just as well seeing as his patter is shocking.
I’m soothed by the knowledge should anything happen to me he’s got his rugged looks.
Today is also my second Cancerversary.
Two years to the day I waved cheerio to the life I knew. The ‘old’ me was left behind in a nondescript hospital room. She was no more after the consultant confirmed their suspicions were indeed correct, I had cancer.
We left not quite knowing who I was anymore or who I was going to become. Only that a part of my body had turned on me and decided to start a fight.
A plethora of leaflets were thrust at us, I graduated to having a folder full of information just for my boobs and their Triple Negative Breast Cancer.
We quickly realised how ignorant we were.
I was treated with IV Chemo first. New terminology quickly became everyday chat and I found myself being asked many questions I didn’t know the answers to.
Mum once told me to leave my dignity at the door when pregnant. It became abundantly clear this was a similar scenario, and my breasts hadn’t had this much attention since I was partial to a low cut top at university.
In my naivety I politely declined choosing my own MRI music, so as I lay on my stomach trying not to cry on expensive NHS equipment, I couldn’t help laughing at Freddie Mercury asking me ‘Who wants to live forever?’ immediately followed by Peter Kay asking if this was the way to Amarillo.
I’ve never gone in minus a play list again.
Chemotherapy wasn’t working so I ended up in surgery.
As my nurses and I walked to theatre we sang ‘9-5’ and I thanked my left boob, ‘Dolly’, for all her hard work. As it was now me or her, she had to go.
There were no hard feelings. She helped me never to pay for a drink at university and, much later, to feed all the kids.
She’d worked hard but her shift was now retired.
Biopsies. Results. Genetic testing. Chemotherapy. Recovery. Surgery. Recovery. Radiotherapy. Recovery. Burns. Recovery.
More chemotherapy… You get the gist, luckily my excellent oncology team have been nothing short of a life line throughout.
Two years on and the new me is still adjusting, learning and adapting. Or should I say the new us?
It affects us all
It affects not only me but mister and the kids as well. Each day requires taking medication. Each month hospital visits for countless scans, blood tests, meetings and feeling I have to justify myself to anyone that remarks how ‘well’ I’m looking.
As a family, we navigate constantly how best to manage the effects of the relentless cancer package. Emotional, social, physical and financial, it is a massive learning curve and almost like a full time job in itself.
We have become accustomed to hospitals and staff being like a second family who care enough to ask questions about fatigue, nausea, bowel movements and weighing me whilst they hold my prosthetic boob.
We called her Miley after Dolly Parton’s goddaughter just in case you’re interested.
We love days free of fatigue where I manage to work, walk the dogs, cook, clean and spend time with the kids.
We are blessed to be surrounded by the best people in the world who help us continue to adjust.
We are surviving. Coping. Living. Thankful. Humbled. Loved and full of courage and hope for the future.
I can’t ask for anything more other than for you to be more cancer aware and remember to check your boobs.
Oh, and for Covid to do one too.
