Blog - Jenny May

Let things come, let things go

…I think that peace is found in the life we lead up until that point.

One small thing at a time.

It’s currently 7:30 a.m. on a beautiful October morning and I am sat on the bed trying to get my breath back after the epic exercise of – walking upstairs. Things are not good at the moment.

I actually write many more pieces than I publish which often end up languishing in a folder un-posted for two reasons: the dreaded imposter syndrome and balance. When writing about something like incurable cancer it can feel hard to strike the right tone: write when things are absolutely awful and it’s too much for people, write in a light-hearted manner and it perhaps doesn’t ring true.

The last piece I wrote and didn’t publish I talked about trying to find a way to a good death. I will come back to this. But first an update.

Things are pretty bad right now, in fact the worst they’ve been so far. This comes as an added blow as the downwards turn has come hot on the back of what was, for a month or two hope that we had found a chemotherapy that was working towards maintenance of the cancer. Spoiler alert, it stopped working and the cancer is having a swift surge return and growth. I am back in a lot of pain and unable to move my head much. I have so much swelling in my neck now that it is hard to swallow and breathe. I do not look like me from all this swelling and I have almost completely lost my voice and so I do not sound like me either.

I have to admit, I am finding it all a bit hard at the moment. When I look in the mirror and see something so alien looking back, when I open my mouth and barely anything comes out and being unable to do anywhere near as much as before without being wiped out and gasping for breath, it’s hard to not wonder – just what is left of ‘me.’

I feel I am being stripped away, unwillingly, bit by bit and I find I spend an awful lot of my resource just putting my mind to trying to deal with this, to decipher who I am anymore. There are days where it is too much and I find myself among the huge waves of grief that feel impossible to navigate. Other days I am able to look at it all with a strange detached curiosity. Let things come, let things go – I must say this fifty times a day to myself. One small thing at a time.

‘Okay, what can I do, then?” is how I am trying to learn to steer myself from being just a great big wet puddle of despair and who am I? “What can I do?”

On a practical note – not as much. I have to rest a lot more and some days it is as basic as; get myself washed and dressed and cook the main meal of the day and if I’ve achieved that, it’s a win. Other days I manage a little more. I have terrible feelings of guilt about contributing so little to the house these days, it’s something I can’t shake off having always worked and done my fair share before: let things come, let things go. The guilt feeling won’t give me more energy to change things – I attempt to release.

I am unable to sing with my singing group, but we have been meeting for so many years now, and as we say, we are more than just a singing group because of it, that, energy permitting we still meet but craft instead of sing. It is not the same, of course, but we get to see each other and be creative still, just in a different way.

But what of ‘me’ and my place in this world when everything is getting smaller, closer, more restricted? Well, this. I can still write and I have always promised that I would write truthfully about what I am experiencing in the hopes that it may further understanding and discussion about what is somehow still quite a hushed conversation.

Yesterday was a Big Grief Cry day. Today I am able to mentally stand back a little and think with curiosity. Warning, I shall now talk about death – and life.

I found myself a few weeks ago trying to explain what I meant when I said “To have a good death I think you need to find a way to be at peace with it happening.”

I was in the middle of a couple of weeks of all-consuming grief. Having thought that things were going well with treatment and then finding new cancer, I was suddenly unable to pull myself out of a huge low and yes, my thoughts did begin to focus on my death. I know a lot of people won’t want to hear that, but it is a reality and to deny it would be to be untrue.

I am not afraid of being dead or what comes after. I am afraid of the lead up to dying. And the thing of it is; I just don’t want it to happen. I’m not ready. I don’t want it. There is too much I love in and about this world for me to want to leave it.

I find that I get glimpses of truths, intangible, often slightly just out of reach bits of knowledge or belief that I catch small pieces of before they melt just out of fully holding. But there are things that feel certain and right and true sometimes.

One of these things is that we know that everything of the natural world has a vibration, an energy. I believe that our natural state is to give and live with positive energy and I think that is how we need to die too so that the vibrations we leave behind are kind and gentle and our passage from this place to whatever comes next is a positive one.

But this throws up a conundrum for me because the idea of being at peace with dying makes me feel like I am betraying the ones I love. It would be like saying I am okay to leave them – and I am not. I still rail against this. I don’t want it. I am not ready. (I can hear my Darling Husband interjecting now in my mind saying that I am jumping ahead anyway as no one is talking about being at that place yet – and he is right, of course.) So this is where I find myself being pulled back and forth between believing I need to find peace and not wanting to yet because it feels like I’d be saying it’s okay.

I guess I am talking about these things precisely because I have always said I want to talk truthfully about it all and let’s face it, we humans are dreadful at actually addressing this subject in any way other than flippant throwaway comments.

I know it makes most people feel horribly uncomfortable but maybe it would help us all if we really could find some peace with these thoughts sooner rather than later.

So, what can I do? I will try as hard as possible to leave pockets of positive vibrations wherever I can. Maybe with these posts, with my nature writing newsletter, by sending a loving message, by tidying just one drawer in the house. Some days it may be that I am having a bed day, but I can still focus loving thoughts out into the world. These may seem like the tiniest of things but I truly believe that if we all lived this way it would have a huge impact on the world. Ripples of love and positive energy would flow out in concentric circles reaching far wider than we can imagine.

From everything I have heard, learned, the things I feel and those glimpses of truths that dance just in sight but a little out of reach, I would like to offer the reassurance that I really do think that the final act of dying can happen in a positive way and with peace and I think that peace is found in the life we live up until that point. So fill your world with love, kindness, fun and curiosity and I believe it will all be okay in The End.

P.S. Despite the subject matter above, I’m not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. I am starting a new chemo this week and will not give up hope. X

P.P.S. October is Breast Cancer Awareness month and so perhaps I will try to post more pieces throughout it. I am always curious as to what people want to actually read. Is it the truth, as above or do people just want to hear the edited highlights that you see on most cancer adverts that to me do not represent the enormity of it all, but put a shiny veneer on the subject – the old, fought the battle and won now I’m completely new person story?

Hints of crumble and hope in the wild

And there is hope showing itself again with the return of what was thought lost and done.

Late July and it seems as if the bees and butterflies have finally abandoned a long lie-in and are out and about. Like a lot of people, I have been struck by the drop in numbers this year; it has felt palpable and overtly obvious. But today, sitting in an on-off shade as the sun is drawn in and out from large rolling white clouds, I have seen a small resurgence of bees, butterflies and hoverflies. No, not as many still as previous years, but enough to give me hope.

They are particularly taken with the wild oregano which is flowering with dusky pink frothy heads. It is a bit of a thug of a plant really, spreading itself widely, taking over long grasses and liking surrounding the bases of trees and hedge lines. But I let it do what it wants for the very purpose of knowing the sustenance it gives to insects. It is also a delightful scent that gets released as you brush up against it; warm, slightly spicy and invoking of warmer climes.

Spires of hyssop are also beginning to flower in blue and white and these too pull in the pollinators.

Our garden has gone a little wild and rogue this year as I haven’t been able to do as much as usual. Part of me is desperate to get it back under some kind of control, another part is enjoying sitting back and watching what happens and who arrives amid the chaos.

A month or so ago we had dreadful trouble with a deer who had found a way into our garden. It would come in at night and chomp its way through various plants. Its favourite snacks seemed to be the Japanese anemone, geums, pink sorrel, strawberry plants and the young thin branches of the apple tree I planted last year. Now, as much as I encourage wildlife into the garden, we had to draw the line at this. So it was that we spent a few weeks putting off planting out our vegetable crops while we tried to figure out where the deer was getting in and then putting things in place to try to stop it. This saw me each morning doing a round of the garden in my pyjamas, dressing gown and boots stealthily trying to see where the deer (who was found lurking under the trees on many occasions) would suddenly dash off to and run away via. If anyone saw me, I must have looked quite insane and this view likely compounded by the putting up of fencing at possible entry points adorned with bells, ribbons and shiny strips to try to put the deer off. My covert dashes in bedwear failed, however Darling Husband managed to spot the place of its egress and successfully close off access.

Now, I sit and see that against the odds of munching decimation, everything has grown back fully and flowering. And there is hope showing itself again with the return of what was thought lost and done.

I picked the first plums and blackberries today, the latter though deep, black and soft, were face-pulling-ly tart; too early and without enough consistent warmth to sweeten them. There is a bramble which always grows within the branches of the neighbour’s apple tree which hangs over our fence. The spiny stems adorned with wild fruit lying next to swelling apples, always makes me think they are producing some kind of hybrid ready-filling for an apple and blackberry crumble.

I know most people wish days away in the later months to hurry spring and summer forward, but I have a kind of aching love and comfort in autumn. I do not long for the days to pass quickly to get there, every day is to be savoured, but I am not one to fear or dread the changing of the seasons to the one where I feel most at home.

And I’m not even sure that we have seasons any longer. We often appear to have each one every month for just a few days at a time. Change is happening, it is undeniable and it is hard at times not to see only the negative shifts. But nature continues to show us there is hope and we must build on that, and perhaps a starting place might be to make sure we also notice the good and the hopeful. Never lose sight. Never lose heart.

Regrets, advice, feet and fitness

I don’t think regrets are helpful as they are backwards facing and we really don’t have the time or capacity to live in the past as well as the present.

Hello there

I know, it’s been a while since I have written, well technically it hasn’t. I have written in between times but not posted. Why? Largely because I have been epically tired and partly, the ever present imposter syndrome.

So a little cancer catch up first before moving on to other things. Since I last posted I ended up having a little stay in hospital on IV antibiotics having picked up an infection. Less than two weeks later, I got myself a stomach bug. The thing with chemo is, it leaves your immune system whacked and you pick things up quickly but get over them slowly. I am becoming more anaemic with each treatment as my body is having to work super hard to deal with both the cancer and the chemo and I have also been coming off the extra steroids I was on for the swelling in my throat – all leading to immense tiredness that steals time and energy.

We remain in the precarious balance of hopeful and watchful as we know the cancer has made it to my spine and lungs, and yet, we can see some improvement in the disease in my neck and chest. So, we calmly just sit back and watch and take every day as it comes with no particular hopes or expectations, but merely observation and carrying on.

So that is where we currently are.

I have found that since having cancer I have often been asked life advice. On the one hand I am always saying, having cancer means that person is still that person and they haven’t changed – which is true. But, just as much, I can tell you that when you really are faced with your mortality, you do see and feel things differently and find yourself thinking a lot.

But life advice is tricky because I am still just human, and we humans are subjective creatures and very much not one size fits all. However in my latest round of steroid induced insomnia I did have some thoughts buzzing round my head reflecting on regrets and any advice I can give from them.

I try not to go in for regrets much, it’s pretty pointless, if a thing is done it cannot be undone but there are insights we can take from the experiences that leave us with those cold feelings of wishing we had done things differently and this first is the one that haunts me the most.

Hurting people: I, as far as I can think, have never consciously gone out of my way to hurt someone. But, being a human being living amongst others, I know that in the course of my life I have unintentionally done so. Whether through completely unconscious actions or from silly behaviours that in turn were no good for me either, it of course has happened, I don’t believe there is anyone out there who can say differently. But what do we do with these regretful moments? I think that if you are close enough to the time they happen there is the chance to try and apologise, if that is what is needed, and to set things straight. You may not get the forgiveness you would like, depending on how the other party are able to process the situation at that time, but you can try. However, I am not a great believer in suddenly raking up old inflicted pain. If enough time has passed and the person you have upset in a lifetime before has not reached out to you for explanation or the such, then they have perhaps found their own way of dealing with and moving on from the situation. For you to suddenly re-enter into their lives bringing it back, feels a little selfish. Instead it might be better to find a way that you can lay that particular regret to rest for yourself instead of reigniting it for the other person. These are just my thoughts and I have not yet fully followed my own advice as there are fleeting moments of recall about some of my past behaviour that make me cringe with absolute shame with how I now see my actions may have hurt someone. But I don’t believe that carrying that shame forever is a good thing for anyone and so I am working on coming to peace with the fact that I did some silly things but it serves me and no one any good purpose to bring them any further with me and am trying to put them down marked as a learning experience.

Onto slightly less intense advice: look after your feet. I did all my growing early and then stopped by age twelve and this meant that my feet were always big for a child. Big, wide and with a very high arch. As a result the shoes for girls my age just didn’t fit me. Oh, I longed to be able to wear the pretty little shoes with a t-bar that everyone else had, but for me it was lace up boys shoes. (One pair of which actually had a totally cool mini ball bearing maze embedded in the sole which at the time I did not appreciate enough.) I grew up with a bit of a resentment towards my feet as they would never be encased in pretty ‘lady’ shoes, so it was probably a good job that I fell into being a teen of the grunge era and lived many years in DM’s and Converse. I did wear heels at work but I kept them under my desk, walked in in my trainers, sat with shoes off and only put them on when I needed to walk across the office. Now, thanks to chemotherapy I have neuropathy (nerve damage) in my feet that on bad days means I can barely walk. Sometimes, before I am even out of bed in the morning they are so painful the thought of putting weight on them to stand up actually makes me cry. So, if you are lucky enough to have good working feet, love and take care of them whatever their size or shape.

And in a similar vein: love your body. I am finding that the more my body goes wrong, the more I am trying to tell it I love it (including singing it silly made up songs in the shower about how brilliantly I think it’s doing). I may not necessarily like everything about it (I am still being very stroppy about being bald and having put on weight due to steroids) but I do love it because it has taken so very much and still does from both the disease of cancer and the intense treatments of chemotherapy, surgery and radiotherapy and all the supporting drugs – and still it stands. As I mentioned above, I did all my growing at an early age and then stopped. This meant that I was the big girl at school for some time and consequently did not think good or happy things about my body. Then came the teen years where I no longer grew but everyone else did. And, it was the time of the lads mags and wonder bras where if you were not skinny and hugely endowed (which I wasn’t and am not) then you were not considered a woman to be interested in. Cue, another period of time where I thought less than kind things about my body. I can feel very sad now looking back at how I spoke to myself then because there was nothing wrong with me and now with a body playing host to a disease trying to kill it, I find I can only feel love for it and want to nurse, hold and praise it for trying so very hard.

The last thought I had before sleep eventually came was: keep up your fitness levels. Eugh, exercise, I hate it and always have done. Even when I was younger and super fit, captain of the netball team, played hockey, even represented the school in a county-wide event in the one and two hundred sprint (of which I won the two hundred) I hated it. Post school came those glorious years of early to late twenties where everything is possible, you have all the energy, you work hard, play hard and somehow your body keeps up with it all without seeming to try. But after that, oh dear, it gets harder to maintain and even harder to recoup. I had just turned thirty-five when I was first diagnosed with cancer seven-and-a-half years ago and since have attempted various stabs at trying to get some fitness back. But years of treatment and its side effects have made it very hard and I wish I had kept some element of fitness going beforehand. Now, with the tiredness mentioned above, the neuropathy and tachycardia (fast heartbeat due to the body having to work so hard to deal with disease and chemo) I find that even walking upstairs gets me out of breath.

These things may not sound like the deep advice you would expect from someone with incurable cancer: recognise your mistakes but don’t carry them with you for a lifetime, look after your feet, love your body and keep some element of fitness going. You may have expected more along the lines of: I wish I had gone to university, travelled the world, made more money, but, as ever on this trajectory I find myself on, it is the simple things that feel the most important and true.

I don’t think regrets are helpful as they are backwards facing and we really don’t have the time or capacity to live in the past as well as the present. We can acknowledge things we perhaps wish we had done differently and learn from them to use in the present but to bring them along with us is merely dragging a weight of burden that will stop us living life fully now. And now is all we really have.

I may now go and give my feet a soak and moisturise and most importantly – tell them I love them.

The album that nearly never was

If you heard our practices you’d probably wonder how we ever managed to learn any songs because quite frankly the laughing often outweighs the singing.

Some of you will know that for many years I have been part of a singing group called the Kettle Girls. One third in fact, for we are a trio of ladies who sing three-part harmony a Capella. And yes, we have long felt that now being grown-up women the ‘Girls’ part of our name is perhaps stretching things a bit, but once you have had a name for a long time it becomes quite difficult to change.

We began many, many years ago, before we actually began. Let me explain. The Kettle Girls are me, my mum and my best friend but we began singing together in a very different way before this. Let’s scoot back an horrific amount of years to the early nineties when my mum ran a church youth singing group where she somehow herded a large group of children through songs to perform at various church events. As is often the case, we children grew up, turned into disinterested teenagers and the group eventually ebbed to a close.

If I’m honest, I can’t really recall the transition time but from one to the other mum, bestie and I found ourselves continuing to sing together, sat at mum’s kitchen table – but this time we went folk. It’s not surprising really seeing as I come from a lineage of folkies on both sides of the family and so had been steeped in shanties, finger-in-ear tuning and nylon string strumming my entire life. And so, we sang – pretty much mostly in the key of D to begin with.

As the years have gone on I have to say I am very proud of what we have done. We managed to break out of just folk to embrace a multitude of genres, we’ve performed at an amazing array of different events (including once having to do battle with an ever-encroaching bagpipe band) and have made three albums. I’m glad to say we also now span a much wider singing key, although as we’ve got older it is generally now Bb.

CUE BIG PLUG HERE

I can’t be backward about being forward here, yes, this piece is very much to let you know our latest album is ready to buy – but it is an album that very nearly never was.

I promised you a piece of writing that was not entirely about cancer, but, seeing as that is what my daily life contains I can’t give you a blog without any mention at all.

As I mentioned above, we have moved on from just folk to a wide variety of genres but I think we have perhaps become best known for our comedy songs when performing. Even though we always tried to curate sets that included a little bit of everything, knowing how well the more amusing pieces went down we perhaps erred on the side of a few more of them; they were certainly the most requested. But this meant that we increasingly had a collection of beautiful songs we have nurtured into being and loved that weren’t necessarily getting the attention they deserved. So we decided to put them on an album. (To the mild horror of our Long-Suffering sound engineer.)

Life though has a funny way of throwing a few spanners in the works and in this case it went full on for it with an extra crowbar and screwdriver too. First up: The songs we had amassed seemed to fall into two categories: lullabies and sea-based songs and it soon became evident that these genres often and largely are about death and dying. Now, that made for interesting practices when you have not long found out that your cancer is now considered incurable. I believe the amount of cognitive dissonance the three of us must have executed for months must be some kind of record. But, the songs are beautiful – we were determined.

Now the really hard part – finding a time that the three of us and Long-Suffering sound engineer could all be available to record. We began looking at the beginning of the year (2023) and eventually found a date in October. That was it. Our one chance. As the date neared events conspired against us once more so that by the weekend of recording I had not only cancer to deal with but had just begun chemotherapy again – and had Covid (although the tests hadn’t confirmed that at the time so I thought it was just a cold and I was just struggling with breathlessness because of everything else.) To cut a long story short we did record but goodness we gave L-S sound engineer the worst possible scenario to work with – a maximum of two takes per song, some not even that.

He is some kind of sound wizard with the patience of ten-thousand saints because – WE HAVE AN ALBUM! We are particularly proud that this album contains some of our own self-penned songs too.

We would normally take our CDs out with us to the places we perform but, and I promise not too much more of this, we are unable to do any gigs as I just do not have the stamina because of my cancer and treatment but also I have only half a voice now and no lung capacity. I have found in the past that for some reason chemotherapy did make me lose strength in my voice but over time I managed to mostly get it back. This time is a little different as I had radiotherapy to my neck area and this can and seems to have damaged my vocal chords. In short when I sing now I can no longer guarantee if anything will come out or what it will sound like if it does.

It is a strange thing to happen to someone who has been singing in one format or another for their entire life. I am determined to view it as temporary still and that with time I will get my voice back again. We still get together to sing each week and I am very much in favour of giggling at my cracked or missing notes rather than getting upset by them.

This leads me onto my final thoughts about the Kettle Girls. We say it often and it could not be more true; we are more than a singing group. We are family, we are a support group, we are friends and a whole thing bigger than three voices. If you heard our practices you’d probably wonder how we ever managed to learn any songs because quite frankly the laughing often outweighs the singing. And we share a lot of food and drink too – dreadful for singing, but wonderful for bonhomie.

I believe that life is filled with love stories. Not just romantic love – all of the loves, and finding something like being part of the Kettle Girls is one of the love stories of my life.

This album may be our last if my voice does not manage to recover (so you better get yourselves a copy – hey, hey, unsubtle nudge). Or it may not. If I get my vocal chords back in order one day I have a feeling the next album will be of our more amusing songs (I’m sorry (not sorry) L-S sound engineer.)

Until then our new album Drifting is available to buy (£10 plus p&p where applicable) by contacting a Kettle Girl.

And to entice you, you can have up to three free listens to one of our self-penned songs, ‘Softly Come Sleep’, just click here.

Drifting is a collection of sea songs and lullabies either written, or chosen and arranged by the Kettle Girls to create a beautiful album of gentle listening. Whether you close your eyes and drift away on the ocean, or softly let go and drift off to sleep, let the soothing sound of this album take you away.

thekettlegirls@gmail.com

f @thekettlegirls

Un-ing

There have been moments in my life and oddly significantly since I have had cancer, that I have been so full of love and joy and abundance and completeness that I thought, if I have to go, then let me go in a moment like this.

Hello, how about a quick catch up before I try and explain what I mean about un-ing.

I think last time I wrote we were just about to introduce a second chemotherapy, which I have had before as the one I was on was not working. Well, we did and sadly, that did not work either. Even with the combined chemos, the cancer still grew and the cancer still spread. I have also lost all my hair and eyebrows and hate it just as much as I knew I would.

So then what? Well, we have scrapped those two chemotherapies and started a completely new to me one, one which is not used so often as it has certain protocols that must be met before a patient can be given it. To have this new targeted chemotherapy you have to have basically run out of everything else to try (layman’s terms).

This week I have had my third infusion and goodness does this one knock me sideways a bit. But I do at least get one week off in in every three, by the middle of which I feel vaguely ‘normal.’ We saw my oncologist this week and it was with a mixed bag of results. Shall we go good or bad first? Let’s get the bad over with. The latest CT scan shows that the cancer has spread further in my lymph nodes in to my back. There is also probable cancer in the bone and some fluid around the bottom of one lung. Not the best stuff. But, on the other hand we can all see that the cancer on my neck and chest looks significantly less angry and has reduced in the area it is covering a bit. So it is a very strange balance of emotions and thoughts currently percolating.

But, as ever, onwards we go, one day at a time.

So, just what on earth am I talking about when I say, Un-ing? It is something that I have observed not only in myself, but also others around me and further afield.

We come into this world as simple creatures owning nothing but our bodies and an innate ability to love and be loved. From that moment on we spend the first half of our lives filling, complicating, taking on, running away, hiding, busying, crowding; over saturating, over sharing, overexposing, over stimulating and ending up overwhelmed. And then at some point we realise it is all too much and in a second phase of life, we begin to try and un-pick ourselves.

My cancer has given me a heads up that I am in the second (and sadly shorter – although I am working hard to make it as long as possible – don’t you worry about that) part of my life and so may perhaps be seeing and feeling this need to pare back sooner than usual. But doing so feels good, it feels right. In fact, I see more and more people trying to begin the process whether with therapy or counselling, by de-cluttering, swapping stuff for experiences and even beginning to step back from social media, news and too much stimulation and information overload.

Now, on the one hand I am very much talking about stuff – you know ALL THAT STUFF that we accumulate. I have often felt the overwhelming urge to get rid of at least half of my things but unfortunately, although I have the desires of a minimalist, I also have the personality of a chaotic creative who magpie collects hobbies and interests and therefore – stuff. Of course, in my health position I find myself looking around at everything I have accrued and thinking about what a load of nonsense a lot of it is that someone will have to go through at some point and wouldn’t it be better if I did so myself now. It puts me in mind of the Swedish art of death cleaning, which is basically sorting your stuff out before you go and doing so in a positive reflective manner, enjoying the joys you feel while gently letting things go; this seems like a great idea for us all to consider.

But, my un-ing is in fact more than about stuff. For me, it is about getting back to our most basic, natural and simple selves, stripped of all complications and being happy and peaceful about doing so. It is about living and dying in the most joyous way we can.

A couple of years ago, when I was going through one of my many cancer recurrences, I sat down for a whole day to think. Yes, just to think. It was interesting and I’m sure I sound quite odd for doing this. Out of the day I ended up with a list of things that I wanted to leave behind when I went. I have spoken in previous posts about one of these things on several occasions; curiosity, and I’m sure I will again as it is something I believe in very much. Another though is that I want to leave behind me, in life, as well as in death, only positive vibrations.

What do I mean by this without sounding like I’m talking woo-woo? We are made of energy, it is a fact. Energy can be felt. We all know what it’s like to walk into a room after someone has had an argument and we can feel the tense atmosphere. Likewise, there are some people we meet who just leave us feeling wholly lifted and upbeat when we have been with them. I believe that we all leave pockets of energy in our wake and I for one want to try to make sure that if someone steps into my slip stream, whether I have just walked in to the next room or when I have passed on, that that what they feel are good vibrations (if you’re not singing it, what kind of person are you!). To me this means that to die in a positive way, I need to live that way also. I very much do NOT mean living in a toxic positivity slogan infested smile-athon – this is unreal and I believe very much in the positive action of allowing the sad days. What I mean is getting back to the truest and simplest self and engaging in the few things that really matter in life and to do this, I feel, is to Un a lot of things.

A few weeks ago I had one of my most terrifying days. I had had a run of nights where I was waking up every few minutes feeling like I couldn’t swallow and was choking. And then I woke up one morning with my neck so swollen I couldn’t move my head at all and I could barely swallow and it felt like I couldn’t breathe. I was also in a lot of pain and so very scared. I genuinely thought that the beginning of the end had come. (Spoiler alert, I am not experiencing this now, you can probably tell by the typing.) I was terrified and all I could think was, ‘Not like this, please don’t let me go like this.’ Long story short, it was most likely that along with the tumours in my neck, I had developed lymphoedema there too, a pooling of fluid that was causing all the symptoms – I now sleep sat half upright, awkward, but seems to have reduced this effect.

It is with reflection though that I look at my thoughts at that time and realise it wasn’t just the physical discomfort I was asking to not go out with. I realise that I don’t want to go scared and in panic and fighting because I feel that how we go will influence the vibrations we leave behind. There have been moments in my life and oddly significantly since I have had cancer, that I have been so full of love and joy and abundance and completeness that I thought, if I have to go, then let me go in a moment like this.

I don’t believe in heaven or hell. I’m not sure exactly what happens to us. We are made of energy, once energy has been created it cannot be destroyed, it has to go somewhere. I like to believe that my energy will be reabsorbed into nature somehow, I will go in to the soil, the rain, perhaps a warm smooth stone on a beach, I will become blossom or the beat of bee’s wing. I also like to believe that the energy we leave behind can somehow, in some way sometimes be accessed by those we leave behind or we can reach out to them from it. I have twice felt the absolute and definite presence of my Grandma, who has passed, in such a way that I know something of her was really beside me.

What does this all have to do with un-ing? I have moments where I can feel with clarity a direction even if I find it hard to explain why. This is one of those. I truly feel that to live and die in a way that brings us the most joy, calm, happiness and peace, we need to undo a lot of what we cocoon ourselves with as we go through life from stuff to thought patterns and behaviours. We need to get back as close as possible to where we began and keep only the things that carry true positive energy.

My experience of feeling so frightened at thinking the end really was starting for me has made me realise that I have some work to do somewhere to Un something so that when the time really comes I am in a much better place. I am not sure what this Un is yet, but at least now I know it’s something I want to work on. I think the process of Un-ing will be both interesting and difficult for most of us. To Un will be to simplify and expose ourselves without all the cushioning of the stuff we build up around us for so many years. Un-ing I suppose is a form of identifying and letting go of anything that might weigh us down and so to Un is to move into our next iteration, whether later years or indeed dying, in as light a way as possible.

A few ideas which I am sure will mean something different to each of us.

Unpicking

Undoing

Unlayering

Unloading

Untethering

Uncluttering

Unmooring

Uncomplicating

Uncovering

Un-assuming

Unlatching

Remember, give your loved ones big squishy hugs as often as you can.xx

Apologies, peace and sweet treats.

Hi there

I want to start today with an apology, well actually, two. Firstly, I know my last few pieces of writing have laid out some pretty heavy stuff that perhaps has been hard for some people to read and I am sorry to cause anyone pain. But, I didn’t feel I could carry on with my writing without being honest about where things currently stand. The last hard thing for now is I’m going to answer a question I’m sure a lot of people are wondering about, although, actually, I’m not really going to answer it. When you know someone has incurable cancer thoughts are going to gravitate to: how long left… so for anyone wondering, I don’t know and I’ve decided I don’t want to know – not until I absolutely have to. I’m not daft, I know the stats and parameters, I know what’s going on in my body better than anyone else, I know I’ve been dealing with this cancer for seven years now and I know what currently treatment is/isn’t doing. On bad days I feel I am at the lesser end of the scale, on good days I feel entirely hopeful that I can claim back something rather better and it is that hope that I wish to live by. There, that is the last of the really difficult bits.

The second apology is to all you lovely, lovely people who have been in contact in various ways – and I just haven’t got back to yet. I sometimes end up in a state of absolute overwhelm and become like a rabbit in headlights and freeze. I then feel so horribly guilty about taking so long to reply that it makes me freeze further – a terrible trait and one I shall work on. But thank you to everyone who has been in touch – I will be getting back to you all – slowly but surely.

I have to admit though that part of the not sorting out visits and get-togethers is because I am feeling very self-conscious about how I look and becoming less confident about being out in public. I still have hair, but having started a second chemo, and one I lost it with before, I am expecting it to fully go soon. But this time my cancer is behaving differently. Previously it has all been very hidden but now it is very much only just under the skin of my neck, back, shoulder and now chest. Not only are tumours clearly visible but the cancer is making my skin look as if I have been burned in a fire. Add to this redness and swelling and nerve damage that means I cannot move the lower right hand side of my mouth, and well, you can begin to imagine that it is hard not to feel like hiding away. There is a particular difficulty in seeing your face be changed, a thing that very much defines you and you have lived with all your life, to look in the mirror and no longer see a person you fully recognise is upsetting and is a step I am trying to learn to live with in the knowledge that it may still get worse.

But, believe it or not this brings me on to a nicer thing I want to come back to. Last time I wrote, I left a pondering on the word ‘softening’ that was for some reason coming to me often. And it continues to do so and has been helping me. To me, this softening is a place of stillness to step into when anxiety or overwhelm start knocking. It feels like a pocket of time-out where I am neither fighting with exuberant positivity nor dropping down in to low mood. It is a neutral place of calm where I can view the world with a gentle clarity and even curiosity. I find within it that I don’t have to be anything at all except present, I don’t have to be happy or sad, scared, anxious or a warrior. This softening is a place I can allow my thoughts to gently morph like clouds slowly changing from one shape to another; no discernible movement yet they transform and slip easily from one state to another. The softening, a place without hard edges where nothing has to be yes or no, hard or easy, where what we think and what we feel can interplay or not. It is an allowing of everything and yet letting nothing be all consuming. And with this softening comes a freedom to allow anything to have the chance to be. It has also instilled in me a security of belief in myself and my place in the world. Anyone who has followed my writing over the years will know that I am a bit of a hippy nature nerd, it is where I find my peace and my place. I like the thought of being the tree that bends with the wind rather than trying to stand against it and then snap. And to stand as that tree that bends you need to have confidence in your roots that you know to be true to you. I know that I am at my best self when I am open, curious and hold peace at my centre. I know that I love and that I am loved and it is with these things that I plant my roots into the ground and if I soften into them I can bend with the storms.

I would love for each and every one of you to find your softening. I’m sure it will look and feel different to everyone. But I thoroughly recommend it. Next time you are feeling the pull of anxiety or stress or even over excitement, say to yourself, ‘soften’ take a breath and step into that gentle place and be curious as to where you go.

There is a breath visualisation I like to use sometimes to get into this place that you may like too: take a breath in and imagine it going into your headspace, breath out and drop that breath to your throat. Breathe in and on the exhale drop your breath to your chest. Breathe in, then allow the next breath to drop to your stomach. Breath in and this time, on your out breath imagine it dropping through your legs and out through the soles of your feet and as this happens think of the things that you know to be true to you and that keep you grounded. Feel yourself soften.

I mentioned that one tenet true to me is curiosity. I have been in a strange place at the beginning of this year where so many difficult things were happening that I lost all my usual interests, but I find that I am slowly crawling out of that dearth now and small snippets of curiosity are coming back to me. And it seems it has a hunger! I have found myself wanting to try new recipes and food ideas – some have worked better than others but the best two of late come with a sweet tooth and if you are that way inclined here they are.

Firstly, dates filled with peanut butter then coated with dark chocolate. Warning, these are immensely moreish and do not last long.

Secondly, and bear with me here: butternut squash chocolate mousse. Trust me, I don’t know how or why it works but it does. What I did: 400g butternut squash steamed until soft then blended until as smooth as possible. 200g chocolate, half dark, half milk, melted. Then add the squash to the chocolate, whisk together, pour into a dish and let set. I dare you to try it!

I think next time I write to you lovely lot I’m going to talk a little on anger and love. But I shall leave you now, hopefully with thoughts of softness and peace and sweet chocolate treats.

Difficult things

Hello

I thought it was far past time for a little catch up – but where on earth to begin. I guess we go back to Christmas, which already seems a long time ago. I was in for treatment over Christmas as well as an oncology visit and, even though those of us in the thick of it already knew, it was here that the words were said aloud, ‘treatment isn’t working.’ Despite three months of weekly chemotherapy, the cancer still spreads, the cancer still grows.

Even though I knew this was the case, I find new tumours on an almost daily basis and feel the very real growth of those already present, the saying of it between me, my darling husband and oncologist just made it too real, it felt like all last bastions of hope dashed on the cruellest rocks. And I fell into a huge hole of all-encompassing grief.

When someone dies you have to say goodbye to that person. When it is you who is going to leave, you have to say goodbye to everyone. The heaviness of this is just too much and it breaks my heart on a daily basis. There is a lot of help, a lot of information and organisations out there to support people when they are about to, or have, lost someone. There is very little, if anything, to help the person it is happening to. And so, although I have a most amazing group of very close people that I know are always there for me in every way, this feels a very lonely process to be trying to learn to negotiate. Some days I feel I do okay, others, I really don’t.

On the physical side my days are now largely spent revolving around pain management and then managing the side effects of pain medications. Having been dealing with cancer for seven years now, but it previously being quite a different thing, I wasn’t prepared for how much pain would be at this stage and it has knocked me sideways a little, not least because I am somewhat spacey a lot of the time from medications.

Oh, and I’ve recently had a suspected mini stroke – you know, just to add a little more spice to things.

So there is a very brief outline of things at the moment. Hard, difficult and sad…

But I still believe there is so much good and love and joy to be found, even among the worst days.

As such, I have reprised my nature diary podcast, Swallows on the Wire. It shall be intermittent because I have had weeks where I’ve been in hospital more days than not and so keeping up with the daily entries has been impossible. But there really is something so magical about looking to the small beauty of nature that is just there for all of us, that I hope in whatever format these mini recordings can bring a little joy, for others as well as myself.*

I have found that being open about the fact that my cancer is incurable, I have often been asked my advice on life. For anyone who follows my musings you will know that I do do a lot of thinking about all sorts of things and share thoughts when I can. I have many and they will follow but today I’m going to be really boring with what I think is an important thing… peers over glasses…

‘Sort your paperwork and have the difficult conversations now.’

We all have to-do lists, whether we write them scribbled on backs of envelopes, enter them electronically on various apps or devices, make beautiful artworks of them in bullet journals or just keep a vague running commentary at the back of the brain. And they generally consist of things such as, washing, shopping, pay tax bill, call dentist etc etc.

Well, my list looks more like this: attempt to access decades old pensions to update, write a will, plan funeral, expression of wish form, DNR disclosure, get a lasting power of attorney. As you can imagine, several of these things lead on to…have those difficult discussions with those closest to you.

I cannot stress enough how much better to do all this before you need to. I wish I had so I wasn’t trying to do it at the same time as negotiating treatments, emotional fallout and exhaustion. I would rather be spending my time painting, writing or pottering in the garden than battling with pension companies asking for details I cannot remember from over twenty years ago.

As for the difficult chats well, that is something that I am having to gently, but a little more firmly, instigate. I could just make all decisions myself to be read when the time comes, but to me, it is important to know the wants and needs of my husband and family and have those things reflected in the decisions and preparations I make. But I am aware I am asking my loved ones to have to think of things they don’t want to. No one wants to think about these things but I really feel that we all need to have these conversations, however hard they are, before any situation arises where they are actually needed.

I find I am having to learn to be a bit more selfish in thinking about what I need and to try to find ways express those things. I’m not talking practical help, I am stubbornly trying to do as much as I can still, although my independence has been further thwarted by not being allowed to drive at all due to the possible mini stroke. I am talking about recognising things I need to say and want to know even if others may not feel quite ready yet.

I can only ever speak of my own experience and the things I am learning about what I need and want as we progress through this very strange time. Here is something that it seems I need to reiterate all too often: I want everyone to still be having fun, to enjoy life, to do fantastic things, go places, have experiences, laugh. And I do not want anyone to be feeling guilty about doing so. More to that I want to know about these things too. I can’t bear it when someone tells me they felt bad because they were having a good time when I am going through this. That just makes me feel awful. ‘Is that how you see me?’ Is what I want to ask, as someone who wants others to be miserable? I am not having that at all.

In the spirit of trying to be truly honest in a not much talked about situation I will tell you of one of my biggest wants right now. I can only ever speak about my own experience as I am navigating my way through things but I see so little of what I feel being talked about. I want a stake, however small, a glimpse into the futures of my closest loved ones. I won’t be here to see or join in with so much and it just adds to my grief. And so I want to hear of their plans and hopes and dreams, I want to know what holidays they will go on, whether they will move house, go travelling, whether my husband will continue growing vegetables…I want with all my heart to have just a tiny fraction of feeling like I can see them a little in the future and feel connected to them there.

So what’s the plan? Well, we plod on taking each day as it comes. I will be adding in another chemotherapy starting next week and if everyone could cross everything and have a word with their deity of choice about it actually having a positive effect, that would be simply marvellous, thank you. I will be tackling a lot of paperwork it seems and trying to write a little more frequently.

I will leave you with a word which keeps coming to me. I am not sure why yet, these things generally reveal themselves with time so maybe by the next time I write it will have made sense to me, but I keep getting called to the word, ‘softening.’ It feels important somehow. I shall let it percolate.

In the meantime I urge you all to slow, to look for the little joys, hug rather than niggle, cry when needed, laugh whenever you can. Soften.

You can listen to the first two episodes of Swallows on the Wire, a nature diary wherever you get your podcasts or click here

I am but human

I am writing this sat at my desk on a cold and windy late November night having just finished a crossword. I have a glass of wine and have just had a mini mince pie, having broken my, not-before-December, rule and gone early. Oh, and I’ve just been kicked in the chest by a wallop of anxiety.

It has been a tough couple of weeks and I have coped from anywhere on the scale from, really quite well to absolutely crushed. It is a strange thing to live with incurable cancer in that life still goes on. You end up living almost in two worlds; one where I am writing shopping lists, cooking meals, hanging out washing, having normal conversations, and the other where the crushing grief and the physical difficulties of disease and treatment reside. Sometimes I can be quite happily ensconced in the former when the latter comes crashing in, kicking reality into the bottom of my stomach.

One piece of reality I’ve had to face over the last two weeks is acknowledging that I’d have to give up work. As a fiercely feminist and (mostly) independent woman I have found this a very difficult pill to swallow. But the truth is, dealing with this cancer is a full time job. I’m averaging three to four days a week having to do something hospital based. When you add in recovery on top of that and trying to keep on top of basic life / home things – there just simply isn’t time, let alone the mental capacity to work as well.

So what is it that has taken up so much time to make me have to come to this decision? Let’s go back just over a week. We begin on the Monday with pre-chemo blood tests. Tuesday is chemotherapy day and I also begin immunotherapy. But, the chemo is cut sort as the canula in my hand does not stay correctly in my vein and there is wide concern (four nurses and a doctor, as well as the hospital photographer are deployed to my side) as there is a chance the chemotherapy drug is not going into my vein but under the skin – which is very dangerous. So, back the next day for a follow up check. Friday is more blood tests including for pre-op – and another follow up check. Sunday is CT scan. Monday I had a small operation to have a port put in*. Tuesday is more chemotherapy. This Sunday is an ultra sound scan, then Monday pre chemo bloods, Tuesday chemotherapy and Wednesday seeing the oncologist. And round and round we go. It is exhausting and that’s not even taking into consideration all the recovery and side effects. On top of all this the pain caused by tumours pressing on nerves has taken my pain levels to a new high I didn’t know existed, rendering me literally unable to move at times, but just sit and cry.

*What is a port? Well, it’s what you get when you’re veins are so collapsed from years of chemotherapy that they are no longer usable. It is essentially a tube that is inserted under the skin of the chest that goes directly into a vein in your neck. At the other end is a chamber, which also sits beneath the skin and has a kind of self-sealing membrane into which medication can be directly given or bloods taken. The ridiculous catch-22 I had with it all was that, I needed a port because my veins are no longer usable, but to have a port put in they needed to access veins for blood tests and cannulas. At the moment, my arms and hands are black and blue from multiple failed attempts to find any veins that could be accessed to get this operation done. I also have two fetching rows of navy blue stitches on my neck and chest.

So yes, the last two weeks have been tough but I do still try to stand back a little, when I can to hear what’s going on in the wider circle around me, as well as how I am aligning with my own thoughts and beliefs. And this is what keeps coming back to me from this fortnight: acceptance and other party guilt.

What do I mean?

Other party guilt: I am going through bad stuff, let’s face it, pretty much as bad as it gets – BUT, that does not mean no one else is. What I’m finding is people are caveating telling me about things with, ‘Oh, but it’s nothing like what you are going through, so I probably shouldn’t say anything.’ Please, don’t do that. I haven’t turned into someone who can, or will, no longer empathise with other people’s upsets and pains. I don’t want those close to me to feel they can’t grumble about a headache, tooth problems, bad back – just because I have effing cancer. Those things are still rubbish. I still care. We don’t need to pit one suffering against another and back off if we don’t think ours is as big. As humans, we care, share and feel each other’s difficulties. I am still human too, you don’t have to edit yourself around me.

Acceptance: this is harder and very much in the realms of not always being able to practice what I believe.

I hold the belief that to be able to do anything about something you have to accept it first.

Here are a couple of things I have pondered upon about acceptance:

Acceptance is better than fighting. If you are fighting something you are essentially denying it. How can you change something that you deny exists? Fighting and denial merely prolong getting to the lowest point and means that when you get there it is from a negative and reactive place. Acceptance means that you have made the proactive choice to move. Acceptance brings a peace from the cessation of fighting. It doesn’t mean that what is happening is okay or that you’re not going to do everything you can to change it. It just means you will deal with it facing forwards rather than when trying to run away. Acceptance can be for the short term. You can accept something as it is in that moment but not that it has to stay that way forever. It gives you the opportunity to ask yourself what you can do to change things. If it is something you need to accept as forever, then it gives you the time to ask yourself, what can I do to deal with this in the best way possible?

This is what I am trying to do about giving up work. I didn’t want to but I have had to accept that I had to. My job now is to live as long as I can in the best way that I can. It may not bring in an income, I may have to learn to be more dependant but I hope that by doing so I can bring other things into the lives of those I love by being here and with them in the best ways that we can share. As for accepting the wider implications of my circumstances, well I’m still working on that, I am but human** after all.

**Human, but starting to feel somewhat bionic with the latest of my additions, the port. Darling husband says I need to run everywhere in slow motion making the chuh-chuh-chuh-chu-chuuuuhhh noise of the Six Million Dollar Man. I just raise my eyebrows at the idea of running, quite frankly.

The Greatest Thing…

This is by far, the hardest piece I have ever written. And, despite having composed it a million times over in my head, usually in the small, dark hours when I can’t sleep, somehow, getting the words out of my head and into black and white print keeps proving difficult, if not impossible.

But, the time has come.

For those of you who have followed my writing over the years, you will know that as well as banging on about insects, trees, gardening and all things nature related, I have also written many times about having cancer. I have always done so to try and remove some of the awkwardness around the subject and to help people navigate when they don’t know where to begin.

And now I do so again. But this time it is a bit different. A bit bigger. A lot harder. And the navigation not so clear. In short, my cancer is back and has its walking boots on. The clinical research trial I was taking part in did not work and I have begun chemotherapy again as a start while we look at what options are available.

Cancer diagnosis and treatment is hard, really hard but previously there has always been the element of facing them knowing they’ll be tough – but won’t last. This time, for me, there will be no coming out the other side of treatment and getting on with getting better. Instead we move into a new place where we manage each stage of what comes along as best as possible for as long as possible. To use a rather apt metaphor for a writer, my life story will be a novella rather than a full length novel.

How do you come to terms with this? The truth is, I don’t know. My husband, family and I are having to take each day as it comes and in all honesty, at the moment it is not easy. Cancer is never experienced in a vacuum of one person, it affects the people around just as much as the person going through it and there is no guide book for any of it. I would love for someone to be able to tell me how to do this and how I can help my loved ones.

When a colleague of mine heard the news she messaged me including the words, ‘and I hope that whatever happens, you do it on your terms.’ I love this sentiment, but there is only one flaw in it; cancer and its treatment takes away much of your autonomy, you are wholly out of control of so much, whether you like it or not. But, I have always tried to take control where I can and in this situation, I think one of the best things I can do, is to write about this because I think it is important for anyone going through cancer or who has a loved one going through it, to not feel like they are alone or cannot speak out about how they really feel or what they are going through.

I have found that over the years living with cancer I have done a lot of big thinking about life and it is with utmost irony that I feel I have just got it all sorted at this point. In a couple of days I turn 42 and I am feeling very Douglas Adamas about it. And so I am going to be writing on two counts:

The first is so people can know what’s happening without having to ask. My request is this, if you know my family, be gentle with them and don’t keep asking them for updates. Having to repeat what we’re going through over and over is hard for us all. By all means acknowledge the situation with a, ‘I heard Jenny’s news, well that’s sh1t, I’m here any time you need me.’ If you want to know more about what’s going on, follow my writing.

The second reason is to share with you some of my life thoughts. You may like them, or not; agree with them or feel they are complete twoddle, I don’t mind.

Before I leave you with a first small thought I want to address the thing that people are saying most at the moment. ‘I don’t know what to say or how to be with you.’

In the past I wrote about having cancer because people suddenly became very awkward when they found out and, out of not knowing what to say they said nothing – as in, you suddenly realised people weren’t talking to you at all anymore. Well, you can just imagine how much more awkward it is when they find out this news. And I will say again, what I have always said before – don’t change. I haven’t, I am still me, I still have the same loves, interests, thoughts and opinions. I have an illness (a bad one) but I am still the same person. Whatever relationship we had before this news, let it be the same. If we talked about nature nonsense, carry on. If we did coffee and cake and put the world to rights – more of that. If we went for walks together – yes please. I haven’t changed, and you don’t have to. The thing is, I want as much normality as is possible and if I’m honest, it just makes me feel a bit angry if I feel I am getting ‘special treatment.’ Yes, my physicality will change; my hair will fall out again any day now, I will look different, be a heck of a lot more tired – but I am still me, so just be you.

Moving on to a little first thought to end this piece with. At the moment, my heart is completely broken. (I will talk more about grief in another post.) My heart is broken because I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. That might sound strange considering my situation and of course I do not feel lucky about having cancer, that would be absurd. But my health aside, I really do think I am one of the lucky ones. Why? Because I have got to know so much love, I have got to give it and to receive it. I have come to realise there is really very little in this life that is actually important, but love is one of those few things. I love my husband more than any amount of words could ever convey and that is why my heart is so completely broken, because I do not feel I have had enough time with him – but how lucky am I to have had and to have the time so far. I love my family so, so much. We are completely bonkers but incredibly close, we don’t fight, never have and I am so lucky to have them. I love my friends, I love my cat, I love my hobbies and interests, I love my job. Love, love, love – when I look I see I am surrounded by it. And that is why my heart hurts now with grief.

It is my belief that if you open yourself to feeling you have to take it all, the highest highs are immeasurable but it does mean you have to allow yourself to feel the lows when they come too. Conversely, if you try to dull and shut off one set of emotions, you will end up doing so to all. You may lessen your pain but you will also dampen the very best too.

I am choosing to feel it all because I don’t want to miss out on all the good stuff.

I’m ending this piece with a line from a song called Nature Boy that I feel to be true and one of the few important things in life…

‘The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.’

Unravelling

Before six on a Sunday morning in December; I stand outside in the dark, a gentle drizzle cooling my still bed-warm face. Between a hideous cough and cold and a head full with a maelstrom of thoughts, sleep has proved to be, once again, elusive.

Only an hour before, warm and snuggled next to my darling husband, despite the lack of sleep, everything seemed possible in that fuzzy way of being not quite fully conscious to the world. But with each minute that passed, unbidden and an unwanted thoughts arrived – as they so often do.

In the pre-dawn, in my pyjamas and in the morning air I feel the softness of those moments when most of the world is still asleep. A gentle susurration shakes whispers in the tree tops. I say out loud to the dark, ‘I don’t want to leave. Please, let me stay.’

Last summer, I was at the point in the previous cancer recurrence, where I thought treatment was coming to an end. I had done five months of chemo, had surgery to remove all of the lymph nodes under my right arm and was nearing the end of radiotherapy. After what I thought was just another routine scan, I was told that the cancer had spread further than they had first thought and that I would have to do another six months of chemotherapy.

I did not deal with this well.

Since then, I have had regular on-off feelings that drop into the pit of my stomach at such random moments that they can completely knock me off guard, that I am going to die young. Standing outside on this December morning, that feeling lands again.

I head in. I feed the cats, because, let’s face it, there’s nothing like cats to bring you down to earth and tell you quite clearly where priorities lie.

I light candles around the living room, and think. It has become hard to know which thoughts are real, which are anxiety or fear driven, which ones are intrusive and completely untrue, which are hope, which are gut feeling – which ones to believe. And mostly, there isn’t really time to actually think about them when they happen. Life forces a relentless churn of hurried onwards motion.

By candlelight, and to the sound of cats chomping down their breakfast and the incredibly annoying ticking of two clocks and an orchestra of tinnitus, I try to unravel the knotted ball of thoughts and feelings. But it doesn’t work today.

I believe very much in both following with curiosity thoughts and feelings, examining them and giving time to try to get to know their origin and demands – as well as not giving over too much time to runaway thoughts that are often impishly playing games with you. Today it seems my brain has decided on the latter, and besides which, the hot water I’ve been drinking becomes pressing and is edging me to get up off the sofa – the spell is broken.

But, I have been left with this. I read recently that, as children, we cry when we are upset but, as adults, we cry more when things are beautiful. This is because, as we get older, we experience more of the difficulties of life, we know how deep hurt can feel and have known far more pain and grief. When something is beautiful we can truly feel how far it is from these sorrows and it touches us more for its distance from these things.

In a candle lit room, cats now gently snoring, my darling husband asleep upstairs, flames flickering shadows on the walls of the leaves of houseplants, silence, warmth – I cried. Big fat tears of love and joy, stratospheric in distance from the thoughts in the pit of my stomach. And while I still cry with heart breaking love – I know I am, for now, okay.

P.S. Oof, bit of a feels one there, wasn’t it. If it helps to lighten the mood, I am now writing this last bit while, for the second time this week, eating apple crumble for breakfast. I thoroughly recommend crumble by candlelight for breakfast – try it.

P.P.S. Re treatment, after much tormenting back and forth between options, I have decided to try for the genetic PARP inhibitor trials with Addenbrookes. This is both hopeful and terrifying. I have to pass some very intense medical screening first and while this is happening, I have to somehow come to peace with knowingly letting the cancer grow and potentially spread while doing so.

P.P.P.S. If anyone knows of any cough remedy that ACTUALLY works and will allow me to get some sleep for the first time in a week – let me know. No, Mum, I am NOT going to drink onion syrup.