tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24420800981153523312024-03-13T03:04:22.187+00:00Pink Twill KimonosBoobs. Cancer. Living it. Bossing it. Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-7256734263899379492023-11-19T18:00:00.000+00:002023-11-19T18:00:00.147+00:00Banish Fair: a poem<p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-cc19cf41-7fff-fc8c-add1-c2aec1a4c689"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-cc19cf41-7fff-fc8c-add1-c2aec1a4c689"><br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-cc19cf41-7fff-fc8c-add1-c2aec1a4c689">Banish Fair</p><br><p dir="ltr">It is not fair, for fair is conscious</p><p dir="ltr">And this is simply chance.</p><p dir="ltr">No emotion, no sentient being to blame</p><p dir="ltr">Try not to claim that you don't deserve </p><p dir="ltr">This.</p><p dir="ltr">You don't deserve this.</p><p dir="ltr">Your merit is no part of this, this is</p><p dir="ltr">Simply statistical chance.</p><p dir="ltr">A roll of the dice. Now;</p><p dir="ltr">Banish Luck. </p><p dir="ltr">For the lady is only smoke and mirrors</p><p dir="ltr">And she can set you down in your comfy chair, leave you</p><p dir="ltr">Static, cursing the gods,</p><p dir="ltr">The fates, the muses, the near impossible </p><p dir="ltr">Odds of the national lottery and your</p><p dir="ltr">Rotten bad luck. </p><p dir="ltr">But my word. What power you have.</p><p dir="ltr">What life, what love, what</p><p dir="ltr">Incredible, wonderful beauty is within you. </p><p dir="ltr">Claim those fires.</p><p dir="ltr">Who then needs luck? </p>Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-28072247042808880012023-11-15T18:00:00.000+00:002023-11-15T18:00:00.135+00:00Banish Fair<p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6">The advert about cancer keeps changing. I recall the statistic, one in three people will get cancer in their lifetime. The subtext was that they would die from the illness, and that’s powerful. But we’ll come back to that later on. I don’t watch a great deal of TV but I did see an advert for a cancer charity on catch up the other day while I was having a crime solving commercial break so that Poirot could wax his moustache and I could get another cup of something warm and comforting. It will have been hot vimto, after all, I’m a proud northerner. The new statistic is one in two people. 50% of the population. They’re good or bad odds depending on whose team you’re on. So with a coin toss chance of getting cancer at some point, this seems a pretty bleak first paragraph. However, remember that the increased number is because of a lot of factors that I’m certainly not qualified to dig into here, including that fact that our lives are largely safer now, so we’re more likely to get cancer than stuck down a mine, (northern yeah?). If half of us are going to get cancer, (not necessarily die from it), I believe one of the most powerful steps that you can take for your story, and to live well, is to banish the word “fair” from your narrative. Here’s my thinking. <br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6"><br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6">Fair breeds sulking. When I was a child, doing my best, and yet things did not go my way, I felt that the world was not being fair with me, also my parents, siblings, teachers, rounders umpire etc. I went in to bat for my team, paid attention to the bowler, and as the ball came to me, I hit it, an absolute beaut. As it soared skyward for the edge of the playing field, I knew that I’d done my best, and this should be a rounder, no question. But then, what’s this? That fielder so bored at the edge of the game that they’ve sat down, is no longer sat down, in fact, they’re running, staring up at the sky and a small sphere of stitched leather which is coming rapidly towards the ground. They catch me and I’m out. No glory, no adoration from my team for my excellent hit, just a walk back to the bench. Not fair. On another day, that would have been perfect, not carried aloft by my pals (I was an active and strapping teaenager) but definitely smiles all round. Now I am sulking. What more could I have done? Maybe nothing. Fast forward to my illness and that could become a helpless place. If I can’t do anything to ensure the fairness of this life, why bother trying? Have another pizza, eat three cakes, sit on the sofa all day, stay in my PJs. That’s today ruined now. All because it isn’t fair. It seems the easy option to do all those things, and I do love cake, but that isn’t long term sustainable without other repercussions to my life. That matters, because that is caring about living. It’s why you take out a mortgage for all of your working adult life, why you save into a pension. It’s a vital human folly to believe that things will carry on, and go well. There is no space for fair in that narrative, and I hope that’s one you can choose, or work at choosing. </p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6"><br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6">Fair encourages anger. It’s the sly kid who winds everyone up and then slinks away when the fight all kicks off. The problem with this fight is who are you going to fight? God? From my experience, and I confess that I’m agnostic if I really try and an atheist by nature, God isn’t too keen on replying when you ask him questions. Imagine now that you’re yelling at him, with all the unfairness of your life, medical situation, fact you’re single, rubbish job, whatever it is that has got your dander up. In my mind he becomes the disapproving parent, or kindly school teacher who cannot hear children who don’t have manners. So choosing God will be a very unfair fight, and one where no clear winner will appear. Who next to vent your spleen at then? The world? That’s possible, but I imagine that it can be an exhausting experience being angry at everything. There are studies into the positive effects of positivity, and you’re missing an easy win by directing your anger at the lack of fairness in the whole world. Plus people who don’t know your life will just think you’re a bit of an idiot, and potentially give you tangible things to be angry about. As our battlefield of people to have beef with is shrinking, we see the people in your life appear. Those people who you care about and who care about you. You want to fight them because of statistical chance? You get the picture. You need to assess what your main goal is. Do you want to live long, or live well? They aren't necessarily the same, but if it’s the latter, then anger will not serve you as a mainstay of your mood. </p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6"><br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6">The judge sits in the courtroom, and you are in the dock. Classically, the walls are wood panelled and there is no jury, no spectators, no lawyers, just the two of you. In this kafkaesque waking nightmare, you’re not entirely sure what crime you have commited. The judge turns to you and asks you how do you plead? What should you say? Indeed, which crime of the ones that we have all committed at some time, is the one to admit to? Are they ranked? Can you really say that you’re blameless? The judge looks over their glasses and you know that they’re waiting for an answer. The background spins and you’re on the stage of a gameshow, all 1970s bright lights and garish lettering. The audience are cheering and applauding for the excitement that is about to begin. That same judge, transformed in a shiny burgundy suit, turns to you and explains the rules of the game. You can swap places with someone else. It can be anyone you nominate, but you must do it before the timer runs out. The timer beats with the blood in your ears. The host repeats that you can swap out and someone else could be in your place. Their voice slows and deepens and distorts as you try and decide what would be the fair thing to do, because damn right you don’t want to be in this game. Fair, and I believe this could be the worst of it all, is entitled. </p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6"><br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6">Of course, nobody seeks to have angry, entitled or sulky as the adjectives that spring to mind when they are described by others, and you can choose for them to not be. That’s not all, there are other advantages to banishing fair to the very far edges of you narrative. Firstly, without “fair”, you gain space. The fair that was keeping you pinned to your sofa, comfort eating and being cross about the weight you gain, has gone. That’s one less thing to stop you from living the best life you can. Heck, you’ll want some wiggle room to avoid being crushed by a diagnosis, setback, or failure in a treatment. I’m not suggesting that I’m all smiles when I hear that my super smart cancer has super smart got its way around yet another treatment in super quick time. However, I try and prepare for the worst before I collect results, and move quickly on the day to any questions I might have about what’s next. I have also recently taken to offering my condolences to my oncologist, who’s a kind, hard working, wonderful person, and having to spend a proportion of her time telling me that what we are trying hasn’t worked is pretty rubbish. There’s not only me of course, I feel like she’s solely mine, but she has plenty of other patients with incurable cancer, and so this is a part of her job. She’s really very awesome. Removing fair means that I can be more agile, more adaptable, more flexible to look for the next good thing. There is a next good thing, I promise. </p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6"><br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6">I was told several times to try the idea of my cancer being a pet. I get it, cancer becomes a part of your persona, it’s with you all the time, and it can be hard for people to not ask about it, should you choose to be open about your illness that is. That’s obviously because they care, it’s lovely, but also tiring when everyone you meet asks you how you are. It’s exhausting when you never have any good news to give, only the weak sunshine that things aren’t worse, yet. I find holding people’s sadness for me, their wish if they’re older than me that they could give me a long life in place of their own, a difficult thing to do, but I’m getting better at it. A swiftly spoken “but today things are good, and that’s what I’m focusing on,'' usually does it enough for the situation to return to cheery. Remember the ‘pet’? It has no name, no full persona. It’s not sentient, so it cannot do things which are fair. Or unfair. It’s nothing to trouble your intellect. Are you feeling stronger? You are strong. If you can remove “fair”, you remove so much of the power in the story from cancer or any other troubles. I believe that if you remove fair from your life, you place its power, rightly, on your shoulders. You did that, you powerful, wonderful, living human, you. </p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-73a380a3-7fff-7801-33d6-a0789fe2e6a6"><br></p>Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-9739429476489566442023-11-12T18:00:00.002+00:002023-11-12T18:00:00.134+00:00defining success<p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-79b37ba6-7fff-d558-10a5-bf5470679f58"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-79b37ba6-7fff-d558-10a5-bf5470679f58"><br></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-79b37ba6-7fff-d558-10a5-bf5470679f58">Well then, </p><p dir="ltr">I didn’t think I’d be back here, and certainly not like this. However, as many of you will already know, in September 2019, I was re-diagnosed, with secondary breast cancer, five years almost to the day from my original breast cancer diagnosis. This meant that my breast cancer had both returned, but also made its sneaky way into other parts of my body. For me, at first, this was my chest wall and my liver. This meant that my cancer was now classed as incurable, but treatable. Incurable because once cells in other areas had started malfunctioning and growing into tumours, it would be impossible to eliminate the cancer. Yes, we could have cut out a bit of my liver in 2019, but the problem would appear elsewhere now that this "malignant switch" had starting being flicked in certain cells, and we wouldn't know which it would be next. My original cell malfunction, which caused the cancer, you'll recall, was in my breast tissue. So all my tumours are breast cancer, wherever they appear in my body. I don't have liver cancer now, but breast cancer, in my liver. </p><p dir="ltr">It’s almost impossible to accurately describe how the moment that I heard this news felt, but my best attempt to try is to tell you that upon being told, I was incredulous, and then sobbing, and then imploring my lovely surgeon with my eyes to tell me this wasn’t true. That I wasn’t unfixable this time round. My stomach dropped as his eyes welled and he told me that he was sorry. Then it was explained to me that my treatment would be done by the oncology team at The Christie now. My cancer could be treated there, managed but never got rid of. This had become a condition that I could live with. In time, in my head I imagined it to be more like diabetes. But with a much worse life expectancy. In that initial moment however, my world collapsed; tumbled down in flames around me, and every other cliche you've heard, because they're often true.</p><p dir="ltr">The flames abated, the big machine started working, and I found my place within the cogs once more, whilst continuing working for a very short period of time. Then I retired from teaching. Then someone asked me if I was going to do any writing. Then another person asked me the same question. Then someone else said that I should write a book. I felt more than a little lost as to how to reply, as I was very unsure what I would say that hadn’t already been said. What could I write that was worthy of being read?</p><p dir="ltr">I was unsure of whether I wanted to spend my remaining days tapping away on the laptop keys. Writing has always been important to me, but not my only creative output. I make music, I make things. I type words sometimes. </p><p dir="ltr">I did not start writing.</p><p dir="ltr">Approximately 18 months ago, I had something of a breakthrough, as I realised that I could create something with words, which would encompass the breadth of the things I like to write. Not a book that I’d seen before, but a collection of pieces, short stories, essays, poetry, lists, whatever I fancied and felt right to me. I’d never seen it but I could imagine it.</p><p dir="ltr">I even came up with a working title - </p><p dir="ltr">“How to live well with incurable cancer without </p><p dir="ltr">changing the world, starting a charity, or writing a book”</p><br><p dir="ltr">I began to write. </p><p dir="ltr">A plan for what was to be included, then an essay here, a poem there, away I went.</p><p dir="ltr">I’m afraid that this isn’t a sales pitch, a pre-release plea. I stopped writing. I stopped writing long before there were enough things to make up a book. I didn’t look for a publisher. I had never planned to be self published, as that felt more than a bit self-indulgent.</p><p dir="ltr">Now, as my time on this planet grows increasingly limited, I’ll be putting those writings here, all those I’ve done, and as many as I can complete whilst wryly smiling and knowing that, according to my own terms, I have succeeded, and met my three "without" criterion. <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></p><br>Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-46800577976892985832019-04-15T10:14:00.002+01:002019-04-15T10:14:55.432+01:00Relationships<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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Firstly, please don’t think that this post is a ‘how to’ manual, or a way to fix anything that you might think is broken in your life. I shall tell you why.<br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I don’t understand attraction. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I don’t get why some men make my stomach swim, and bring a throb as the blood rushes, tingling between my legs, and some (perfectly handsome and attractive men) do nothing at all for me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But I do know</span></div>
<a name='more'></a> that the moment when you’re about to kiss, and you’re too close for this to be something socially acceptable, and there’s a moments pause, is the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever felt.<br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I don’t know why, (friends, please excuse this moment of bragging) when I have in my time been toned and trim I didn’t receive a second glance at the bar. When a butcher’s dog wouldn’t have had anything on me, I spent so long either single, or going on pretty poor (often first and only) dates. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But I do know that a warm and secure hug from a friend or lover, can make tears well in my eyes at the honest beauty of a genuine human connection. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now that the introduction is done, let me tell you a short story. It’s about a woman, let’s call her, oh I don’t know…Michelle, who almost started dating a few weeks after a mastectomy and a few weeks before starting chemo. He was an acquaintance, they’d met at a few gigs in the past, and they’d chatted online, increasingly, which had felt good. They shared some interests, and he was tall and handsome (still is, as it happens). They agreed to go to the same event, not a date you understand, but merely a meeting up. Two people who like the same thing. It was a nice day, and as she put her first foob into her bra, and looked at herself in the mirror, Michelle felt her inner critic scanning her face to check all was ok, which under the circumstances was about as good as it would get. It was ok, a smudge of eye makeup, hair done, but nothing too much. The foob was too small really, being the soft, pin-cushion style one for after the operation, not the fitted, sized real prosthetic that would come later when things were properly healed. It was ok. A splash of perfume. Not a date, remember? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>They went to the thing, the event was fine, the company was good, the weather even managed to be atypical for Manchester with sunlight gently warming the afternoon. When they parted, they hugged. Nothing more. A nice day. Back at home, Michelle started to worry, she was feeling a bit giddy, and as though it had been a date. He’d been a gentleman all day, she realised that she wanted to see him again. If you’re expecting the lovely, advert-ready ending here, where they date and it’s all marvellous, sorry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Rightly, Michelle thought to herself - what sort of a muppet starts dating just before they start chemotherapy? So she gently backed away. After all, she had all kinds of things to deal with, and thinking about going on dates was just daft at that moment. Away on her own, Michelle got on with things. Roughly the order went - chemo started, hair fell out. More chemo. Christmas, New Year, more chemo. Chemo finished, work restarted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She learned that he had started dating someone else, Michelle swallowed her disappointment at missing the ridiculously timed chance she’d had, resolved to be a good friend, and when asked, offered advice on good places to go for dancing. Some things were just not meant to work out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Summer happened, and a charity bike ride, (which Michelle was woefully unprepared for, only good catering got her through) and the handsome man helped her with the cycling questions that she had before the ride. Chatting slowly started back up again online. Michelle had another mastectomy to reduce her risk of recurrence of the great cancer, with no reconstruction, leaving her flat, and scarred, almost right across. Back out of hospital, still sporting dressings, she learned that he was now single. They met up again. They hugged, shyly sat closer, and after what had been some time, got too close for it to be socially acceptable and kissed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So far, it’s been a bonkers journey, four years this year, and I know I’m certainly not perfect. But the handsome man and I are still together. We talk about the weird things that happen because of my medication. The unpredictability of my feelings and behaviour. I try and explain, as best I can. He’s wonderful, loving, and understanding. He makes my stomach swim. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So that’s us. For me, relationships aren’t easy. Although of course I am very glad to still be here, typing away above the ground, I do mourn the person that I have lost through my illness and my medication. I try not to wish that things were different, but sometimes I just have to accept that there are days when that’s how it feels. I remind myself, (as does he) that my inner critic is wrong about me being not all woman any more, about me being lacking, for there’s a handsome man who cares about me very much. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I don’t know why this relationship came round, when I was least looking for it. I don’t have any advice to make it happen. All I can say is that I know, things change over time, for all relationships, and you must be open and talk about things to allow that special other person into your head. I also know that you are wonderful and attractive because you are you. The skin you’re in matters not a jot. </span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-86002550755899525932019-02-23T18:30:00.000+00:002019-04-15T10:15:16.068+01:00Awakening<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJTTgDBXT2zbFDxRtV-k8_rorKgzvCtgQpIZkYahSZfTpT19BEFsOQga9LdsvuRTS8ObfTlP9t26Fd_dMsTe7-SafXlKQF0Ehh92expzRR4QVvIto7DxSGJ9Y_kjfHVjjenPY1iEiGk_9/s1600/awakening.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJTTgDBXT2zbFDxRtV-k8_rorKgzvCtgQpIZkYahSZfTpT19BEFsOQga9LdsvuRTS8ObfTlP9t26Fd_dMsTe7-SafXlKQF0Ehh92expzRR4QVvIto7DxSGJ9Y_kjfHVjjenPY1iEiGk_9/s1600/awakening.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What is it about the turning of the earth, of the new year and the coming in of spring? It feels both vital and ancient. Made new each time. I was glad my treatment ended with the spring. It made returning to the wo</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">rld that little bit easier. I’d expected that it would be easy, and natural, and great, coming back into the world, but actually</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">there had been a security and safety in the strange routines of the chemotherapy cycle. Suddenly not having them to define my days, but not really having a full time job to return to yet, (because my return was, rightly, phased) was a more unsettling experience than I’d realised. </span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Slowly, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">You awaken again. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">The sun weakly warms your skin and you </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">into this new year, heads shaking off the cool soil. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Crocuses, gaudy with their precious flowers, demand to be seen</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">You go back to work. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">No rushing, although you are spring-bud keen to return. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">To shrug off that sleepy, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Wintery fog of being ill.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Held back, to protect you from your bullish enthusiasm, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">You’d never have said before, but the routine feels good.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">The smile is back, and you wish that others would</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Look. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Really look and see there’s no need to ask.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">You’re ok now. </span></span></div>
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Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-38980395863632337852019-02-01T09:53:00.001+00:002019-02-23T18:39:44.799+00:00A new goal!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcDJSRZp81SZ0XW317Tm2OqGJcTGtLXqq0XwM8WgAo6rZipDwU9_eysoM-RGNrNU_quWbTagXPbi2IASnaxfbpeyl1EEB3NU_4dxJRY3Uo_ZSw0AW0RGNp9UKti72NIumHlM9fD9WMW3FQ/s1600/A+new+goal.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcDJSRZp81SZ0XW317Tm2OqGJcTGtLXqq0XwM8WgAo6rZipDwU9_eysoM-RGNrNU_quWbTagXPbi2IASnaxfbpeyl1EEB3NU_4dxJRY3Uo_ZSw0AW0RGNp9UKti72NIumHlM9fD9WMW3FQ/s1600/A+new+goal.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">There’s something very wonderful about a meandering river, lazily making it’s way to the sea. It might get caught in gentle eddies, it will take as long as it takes. I can be jealous of this lethargy; so often it feel like there’s somewhere I have to get to, and I need to get there now. I wonder (when I get the time to think!) whether this is just who I am, or whether the twenty-first century instills this in me, through the expectation that we’re all doing everything, all the time. Do you feel like that? I think that</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">the myriad of self help books and podcasts for slowing down and learning to appreciate the day tells me that it’s not just me. My energy helps me head that way, but I’m not convinced that it’s all that healthy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The other side to this is that having a goal can be very motivating and allow you to do more than you imagine you’re capable of. We all know that without a goal to aim for it’s impossible to score, and that our targets should be S.M.A.R.T. We read these things online in pastel coloured glib and pinnacle posts. When I was midway through my chemotherapy, a goal was offered to me. A pal had signed up to do a charity cycle from Leeds to Manchester, which is over the not inconsiderable Pennines. What a great idea, I thought! It was in September, I’d have 6 months to recover from my treatment, and train and get fit. It would help me lose some of my Michelin man steroid weight, it would get my fitness up, it would raise money for a cancer charity, it would be brilliant. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This blog post wouldn’t be very long if I now wrote that I did just that, starting with small rides, gradually building up and then completing it with barely a trickle of sweat, a healthier trim and toned me. You've known me for a number of posts now, it wasn’t likely to happen that way! I did do some things. I bought a nice bike. My steed pre-illness was an old 1980’s Peugeot shopper. I loved it, nobody was going to nick it, not least because it weighed more than a small car. It was comfy and as I pedalled my 5 miles to work in Salford, I could imagine myself gently solving crimes, like a modern day Miss Marple. To this end, I wore a tweed jacket as I cycled. No lycra for me. I was slow, and happy. Riding to and from school was a very therapeutic way to delineate the day, and be a bit more active; for whilst I wasn’t breaking any land speed records, I was moving more than I did driving my car. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So I bought a bike, a lovely lightweight hybrid and sold the shopper. So far so good. I went on a couple of rides, notably trying to ride to work on my first ever day back in, a 5 mile journey in which I cycled very slowly, almost exhausted myself within 3 miles, got a puncture, had to leave my bike at the wonderful Popup bikes in Manchester, get a taxi, be kindly told off by our super HR lady for pushing myself too hard, and catch 2 buses to get back to my bike to then cycle home. I had underestimated the effects of my treatment, not for the first time, or the last. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I started doing some very small cycles. The charity ride was 60 miles, and I was clearly nowhere near that. 5 miles became more than possible. I cycled from my house to Glossop. That’s about 10 miles, with hills. I was wiped out, but chuffed. I cycled home again too (after food and things). I must keep this up I thought, cycle over to meet my pal in Glossop once a week. Then I can build up to longer cycles. I’ll be at 60 miles before September then.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I didn’t. In fact, Ive never cycled to Glossop since. I’m not about to this week either, it’s January and freezing at the minute! I didn’t really do any training for the ride, and I know how stupid that is. So September came around, and my mum, kindly/foolishly offered to drive me and the bike to Leeds for 7.30 in the morning. I’d done some things, I’d got some energy gels and things, and fitted water bottle holders to the bike. Filled my water bottles. I had bought and got used to riding with SPD shoes on, which clip you to special pedals. I’d fallen off a few times when I couldn’t unclip fast enough in getting ready, but they’re so much more efficient, that I persevered. I’d raised over £500 in sponsorship. I’d had porridge for my breakfast. Whether I was really ready or not, I was lined up with everyone else and it was happening now!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was the perfect day, bright, but not too sunny so I wasn’t going to burn. No real wind in any direction, and as we set off, people settled into smaller clumps of riders. There was a great feeling of camaraderie and we did the first 15 miles. There were 3 official stops, and it was well supported and catered, which mattered to me! The next 15 or so miles were fine, I buddied up with a guy who had also set himself the challenge of the ride, done more training than me (not difficult) but was feeling nervous too. I’d never really cycled with anyone else before, and I was glad of his company.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The lunch break was fine, I tried not to stop for too long, and set off again. I was feeling pretty good. The next stop was the furthest away with a stinking great hill in the middle of it. I got off and pushed. A lot. This section wasn’t that enjoyable, but we did it, collecting some more folk who were just pleased to be managing it on the way. Stop 3. I posted pictures of my frizzy post chemo haired self at each stop, looking gradually more delirious and sweaty. As we set off for the final stretch to Heaton Park in Manchester, my legs didn’t want to propel me any more. My bum didn’t want to be on the saddle. I wanted to be at home. To my shame, I can’t even remember my cycling pal’s name now. But we got to Heaton Park side by side.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I learnt a lot from that cycle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I learnt that people get you through things. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I learnt that I’m stronger than I think.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I learnt that I like cycling and I continue to enjoy it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I leant that I’m a fool who should be more disciplined. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"> learnt to not sign up to things that people post on Facebook, in a fit of enthusiasm!</span></div>
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I learnt that I was past being ill then. <span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-23017757586189612142018-12-30T11:09:00.001+00:002019-02-01T09:55:15.037+00:00Buddies!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hello there, and best wishes for the festive season, I hope you’re having a good time! I know I keep coming up with </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; text-decoration: line-through;">reasons</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"> excuses as to why there are such gaps between my writing at the moment, but it does feel that this is a good time to post this section of that time. I’m a lucky lady, I’ve got a good crowd of friends, and they are a crowd as well, they do different things in my life, there are those who I can have a great time with, those I can share fears and worries with, those who will help me out of a jam, when I inevitably get into one, those for</span><br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/null" name="more"></a>music, and those who I can call up any time of day and night if I need to. As I say, I know I’m very lucky.<br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>All of that made meeting my “chemo buddy” a bittersweet event. It was of course great to have someone who was there at all my sessions, we were in step with our treatment, and having the same treatment, so we could chat about side effects (which were sometimes bizarre, and always plentiful) and look forward to the next meeting as it helped us count down. I still don’t know whether the nurses engineered it this way, for as I’ve said, I was <a href="https://pinktwill.blogspot.com/2018/06/this-week-ive-been-returning-to.html" target="_blank">very young</a>; my chemo buddy was young too.</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We were having similar, yet different experiences, which is worth remembering when you meet someone who is having treatment. It’s different for everyone. I was on the lookout for new fun things I could do with my bald head, henna etc, and she was having ice cap treatment to save her hair. It looked awful, made her session miles longer than mine, and I couldn’t understand. Until we spoke about it, and she described both the hourlong ice-cream headache, and also her young daughter, for whom the keeping of hair meant that there were fewer things different about mummy. It was good for me to see the reasons that we do things, to appreciate a little better that we all have our reasons, and that ultimately, they are all our own way of getting through. </span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My buddy had a similar, irreverent attitude to cancer, and our treatment, and we could chat about young persons’ things while the drugs dripped into our veins. We would be open and frank, and being sat together we could give our relatives a little respite, as they could sit and be force fed biscuits in the waiting rooms, with the TV, while we chatted in our medical armchairs. </span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>How wonderful, yes? Yes, of course it was. But when that last session came around, I was uneasy. It had made things much lighter, much more fun, and easier, for me to have my buddy sat on that other chair, but this time was over. In my mind, this boxed her off and removed her from my life. We were chemo buddies, not buddies. Harsh? Maybe, but in my desperation to finish being ill and move on to being Michelle again, I wasn’t sure that there was a place for someone from this recent past in my hopefully long future. At that last session, she said “we must keep in touch, I’ll add you on Facebook” and my heart sank. My face smiled and I said “yes, cool, type Michelle Holding in and you’ll find me.” And that was it. She joined the (fairly long) list of pals, acquaintances, gig venues, festivals that I know on Facebook, and I thought no more of it. </span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Things stayed this way, you’re possibly thinking that this isn’t my most interesting post. Until…</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Eighteen months later, at Christmastime I was wandering around a local shop, searching for bargains, and I saw someone who I thought was my chemo buddy. But I wasn’t sure. She looked much the same as I recalled, but I realised that I would look very different. I couldn’t remember her name (I’m hopeless) and so did my best Inspector Clouseau as I peered round the ends of aisles whilst frantically scrolling through my friends on Facebook, trying to find her name. Why on earth do I have so many “friends” I cursed, as I saw her wander to the till. Finally I found it. I wasn’t entirely sure that this was her though, so I went for the time honoured system of gently calling her name. It was too gentle, I tried again, fairly loudly calling her name with a classic, questioning, rising intonation. If she ignored me, it wasn’t her and my memory was going. If she did, we’d said hi. </span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She turned round, and was surprised to see me, I was after all, a lot hairier than the last time she’d seen me. We hugged and went for coffee, chatted about what had been going on in our lives. I’d had my second mastectomy, we’d both done a poor job of being less busy, which was our promise to our newly recovering selves. It was wonderful to see her, to catch up, to celebrate the vitality we both glowed with now. To hear plans for the future, and feel that there was a future to plan for, what a beautiful thing. </span><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We promised that we’d do it again, and we have, meeting up for our now annual “not dead yet” coffee! Next year we’ll both be 5 years since diagnosis, and I wouldn’t change having her in my life at all. Maybe we should celebrate that in some way?</span><br />
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Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-31239004111941437122018-12-01T09:23:00.001+00:002018-12-30T11:25:43.352+00:00Counting Down<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I have an apology to make, for I think I may have been avoiding writing this post. I’ve missed a number of key moments that it would have been savvy to tie in with, the end of a friend’s chemotherapy, my own diagnosis anniversary, and more beside. I suppose there’s that sense of and ending. This isn’t the last post on this blog, but it’s the last one about chemotherapy. I wonder, do you avoid ending things? Last episodes, last pages, relationships, biscuits, things that are more comfortable being there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: helvetica;">It’s a strange experience, counting down your chemotherapy sessions, which if you’ve read all my posts you’ll know that I found the whole of cancer treatment to be. Every day is counting, clock watching, diary crossing off. And after it, there’s a sort of void. Healthcare staff know about it, there are courses you can go on to help you return to real life after you finish. My advice is, consider all the options you’re provided with. Because when things end, they aren’t normal yet. </span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/null" name="more"></a><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So, finally, I wrote this. Hope you enjoy it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Countdown</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Every day you have been counting down, </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Clock watching, diary crossing off. <br />
Hello, Cape Canaveral. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">And now, zero. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Into the unknown you blast.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">At press conferences, you explain your excitement to be </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Back at the wheel, controls, buttons.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Faceless microphones ask, are you ready?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">You reply that you can’t wait. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">As all of the world appears in your view again, you</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Smile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Then your stomach does that flip.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">You push the smile and argue with </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">yourself, this is a repeat mission,</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve flown this ship before. </span></div>
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Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-58725025746531812382018-11-11T21:25:00.000+00:002018-12-01T09:35:21.592+00:00Pushing it<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Be kind to yourself. Don’t do too much. Don’t be lazy. Do what you feel you can manage. Try and do something every day. Don’t push it. Accept a pyjama day but don’t make a habit of it. In the contradictory world of chemotherapy, I heard all of these things, from health professional, friends, and family. What makes it worse, is that they were all right. So, not only do you not know quite how you feel, but also it’s not clear what pushing it will be, on that day, in that chemo cycle. So I want to take you back to the day I pushed it, come and walk with me…</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’d just tipped over halfway through my chemotherapy sessions, four out of six down, and I’d just changed drugs for the last three. I’d worked out a system, I was over two months through the experience, and my system had developed as follows. Day one: Have the chemo, get home, have food, and wait to feel rough. I had acknowledged by this point that the rest of the day was really for pottering around the house, gradually moving less until I was sat on the sofa, under a blanket. An episode or two of a crime series later, I’d accept the day was done, I would take all the various “drugs to help with side effects” and head to bed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Day two: feel rough. This day would be a day of not knowing what I wanted to eat or drink, or want to do, or could do. So, conveniently, I live around a three minute walk from a reasonably priced supermarket. I would get dressed, have a bit of something to eat and drink, take more helpful drugs, then walk to the supermarket. This would get me outside, I can walk through the small park behind my house to get some fresh air. I could also wander round the supermarket, looking at things, buying whatever I wanted to eat and drink, and then walk home. What a good plan, I hear you say. Indeed, it had been so, thus far. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The day after session four, the first of the other chemo drug, began as the rest had. I felt a bit ropey and generally “not right”. I had a wash, got dressed into something comfortable and headed downstairs. A brief chat with a good friend, confirmed a visitor that morning, which was always welcome, especially when they knew I might chat lay under the blanket. A small amount of breakfast later, I felt a bit green round the gills, so I wrapped up (it was January) and headed out to the shop. The walk there went pretty well. The cold air was refreshing and reminded me that I was definitely alive, and that this was a good thing to feel. I reached the shop, and wandered around. While I was there, something happened. I grew indecisive, and retraced my steps around aisles, replacing things that I had thought I wanted, but now wasn’t sure. By the time I’d reached the till, I was feeling a bit hot. The woolly hat was still on, to avoid baldy induced scared or pitying looks, but I’d ditched my scarf. My jacket came off next, and it was so very heavy to carry. I focused on the till. On paying. On being able to head home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As I loaded my nice food and drinks into my shopping bag, and tried to orchestrate replacing the layers that I had stripped off a few moments ago, my home, less than half a mile away, seemed a frightening distance. But I’d set off to get food and drinks and I had my mate coming round, they’d already texted me to say they had set off, so I had to get back. What else could I do? I set off walking. I tried to play the mantra in my head, I would not be beaten by this bleedin’ stupid chemotherapy. I no longer had cancer, and I was getting my life back to normal as fast as I could, because I was the boss. That was that. This wasn’t a long walk. I could do it. The car park seemed a mile long, my hands ached, I was tired, swapping the bag every ten paces or so from hand to hand. I was sweating again. The extra walking in the shop, and choosing some lovely, but heavy, fizzy pop, the different drugs, with their own set of side effects. I had misread this morning after, in my feisty pigheadedness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I reached the road, and set off walking. At this point I had resorted to focusing on each step. Each one I managed brought me closer to home, and when I got there, then I could lie down. Then I couldn’t take any more steps. I started thinking about what I could do now that this challenge had beaten me. If I abandoned the heavy drinks that I’d just bought, left them by the road, might that make it possible that I could walk the last 400 yards home? What I wanted, so very much, more than all the chocolate in the world, was to lie down down and sleep. Right there, on the January pavement. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I called my friend, they were just round the corner on their way. I stopped walking and waited, a cold film of sweat covering my puffy face. As they pulled up in their car, I hauled the shopping bag into the car and sat down, a pile of clothes, slumped on the seat. I apologised for the ridiculousness of getting them to drive me this last few yards, of course it was no problem. I tried not to cry with the relief that I was going to make it back home. We reached my house in the respectful quiet that comes from putting someone in an uncomfortable position. Because it’s uncomfortable for us all, we don’t know what to do, or not to do. I fumbled with my keys, trying to remember which one would open the door. I walked in and headed to the sofa. You’ll have to make your own brew I said. Then I slept. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I pushed it. I shouldn’t have. But then I thought it would be ok, I felt similar to the other chemo day twos. I refined my system to just walk to the park, less than half the distance, sit on the first bench for a rest then head home on the next two day twos. That worked much better. And I still believe that it is better to push a little and see what’s possible, than to accept that there’s nothing that can be done. Just be careful, ok?</span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-84635116547953517752018-09-06T20:32:00.000+01:002018-11-11T20:25:58.055+00:00Let's makeup<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span>Makeup, slap, glitter, glam, it’s never been me really. I always like to have a go, and I usually surprise people on a night out, with just a modest amount of eye makeup. I learnt everything I know from bored lasses on the Urban Decay counters in various department stores, who were very happy to show me how to do things to fake being a proper girl when I need to be. It’s handy for weddings and things because it often means that people don’t recognise me, and I can slip by unnoticed at first at least. It has its downside though, </span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">all this clean skin, no foundation business. People sometimes think that I’m being evangelical, when they tell me that they’ve got a spot, so they have caked it in makeup. They look at me, I say nothing. This isn’t smugness, I just don’t really know what to suggest. They then look at my face and say things like, look at you, such clear skin, it’s not wearing makeup. I don’t know how you manage it. To be honest, it’s really easy. Far easier than putting your face on before you go out. I just have about 3 extra snoozes on my alarm, then get up, dash about getting dressed, have a wash, put deodorant on, or more on in case I’m not sure I did it the first time. Then I might look at myself in the mirror. I check my hair isn’t too ridiculously cockatoo style and go out. My face is just my face. The biggest problem I have is that when I choose to put some makeup on, even a coat of mascara leaves me in peril of looking like I should be performing at the Birdcage. Eddie Izzard could easily be my spirit animal, or stunt double, if I’m not careful. Nowt wrong with him at all, but I’m usually imagining Audrey Hepburn as I slick on some lippy!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>You might be wondering why I’m telling you this. When I was having my chemotherapy, I learnt about an organisation called <a href="https://www.lookgoodfeelbetter.co.uk/"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">look good feel better</span></a>. My Macmillan nurses told me about them, and I signed up for a session with them. They offer support and advice around looking good, providing free cosmetics and workshops for how to apply your makeup while you’re having cancer treatments. I was sceptical. I don’t want anyone drawing on my eyebrows, I’d already had a few offers of sharpied “scousebrows”. I don’t really wear makeup. I was a bit sick of talking about being ill to be honest, so to sit around for the day with a stack of women wallowing in cancer treatments and my lack of eyelashes wasn’t my idea of fun. It was against my judgement that I signed up. I thought, well, it’s free makeup. Who doesn’t like a freebie? If I don’t want it, I’m sure my sister will have it, she’s as real girl, and we’re similar colouring. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The day arrived and I found where I was going to be, it was a small meeting room hidden away in a Manchester hospital and not wildly appealing. I walked in, feeling a little nervous. What if I’m the youngest? (I was). What if everyone is pitying and arm strokey? (They weren’t). What if I look awful, like a bloated steroids clown when I’ve got the makeup on? (I didn’t). I sat down and thought, well I’m here now. let’s see what happens. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What happened was this. We all said hi to one another, we were given a bag of cosmetics which broadly suited our complexion, fair for me of course. Then the lovely women who ran the course, demonstrated some makeup on themselves, each other, and some of us. They showed us how to gently draw on our eyebrows, how to use eye shadow to take away from the fact we have few eyelashes. How to apply lipstick in shades which suited us, and which could be worn just to feel better. All the cosmetics were really posh, far more expensive than I’d ever bought, and in shades I wouldn’t have chosen, but which suited me well. I couldn’t believe how much taller I felt with my makeup on. It wasn’t me, but it wasn’t a bloated ill woman either. It really did make me feel better. Other women around the table told me how great I looked, and I told them too, and I meant it, they really did look wonderful, vibrant and womanly, invincible in their cosmetic armour. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We also learnt how to take care of our fragile, sensitive skin when removing our makeup, how to cleanse well, and which products would be effective and safe for us. I learnt that it doesn’t matter how sensitive your makeup remover is, if you get it in your eye, you’ll know about it! I’d joked about wearing my best clothes all the time, and my plan to now always wear nice pants, because my bras, pocketed to fit my prosthetic, were so ugly. I hadn’t realised how much difference my appearance would make to me. I’d assumed that I’d write off that 6 months and afterwards get back to normal. I learnt a lot about myself that day, and about how nice it is to be told that something about your appearance is appealing. I try and keep that up, not glibly, but to say when someone looks good. I also try and dress to make myself happy, I like natural fabrics, and patterns, and whilst I don’t want to look too bonkers, I wear what I like. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I do the pants thing too, by the way. Life’s too short to not wear nice ones. Plus, should a bus hit me etc…</span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-9168602748752687322018-07-31T08:20:00.002+01:002018-07-31T08:21:44.572+01:00An Amazing Bunch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">well my intention was to blog each week, but life and laziness and a small crisis of what am I doing this for, has got in the way. Apologies for that. That means I’m about a month behind my original schedule now, but providing you’ve got the time, if it takes a little longer, I’m ok with that. I had one of those moments this week where you question whether you’re good enough, whether what you’re doing is worth it, because my lovely friend who’s blogging in real time through her cancer journey absolutely nailed the description of </span></div>
<a name='more'></a>"the furry mouth thing". As I read the description, it all came flooding back, and I thought to myself, I’d forgotten that. One of the amazing and wonderful things about humans, I think, is our power to forget. It’s been 4 years now since my diagnosis, and there are many details that I have forgotten. Usually they’re the unpleasant ones, I don’t seem to be forgetting the kindness people showed me, the cakes they baked, chocolates they sent. I also haven’t forgotten the chemotherapy nurses, and this post is for them. I did wonder whether that distance made my posts relevant, or useful. I’ve put it down to the typical daft artist brain which says what you create is pointless, and I’m here again though.<br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">They’re an amazing bunch the chemo nurses, different to the Macmillan nurse whose name I know, and I see almost every time I attend a clinic or hospital. She is my constant, helping me through the full journey, dealing with the mundane and minor as well as the earth shattering and disastrous. She also saw me get better and when I go for check ups, she’s often there at the clinic, smiling, saying hi, asking about me as a person, in between making cups of tea for people whose world is falling apart. Actually, I had a few Macmillan nurses, especially earlier in my treatment, but I seem to have settled on one now. I wondered at one point if they were being carouselled round to have the experience of working with someone teflon, who seems to shrug off each round of terrible news with a silver lining find. I was ok with that, just curious. I sort of understand the job satisfaction you might get from being a Macmillan nurse. It seems similar to teaching where yes there are tough days; both figuratively and literally, you can’t save them all. Ultimately, however, you hope that you’re doing something good and you see the end result work out well. That’s how I imagine it is anyway. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Being a chemotherapy nurse is different, as it means that you see a very distinct part of a person’s journey and that makes you a very distinct type of nurse, in my experience. The experience that your patients have is unpleasant, every time, and you won’t see them when it gets better. What to do? It seems to me that they become more human, more caring, (if it’s possible for a nurse to be more caring). Nothing is too much trouble. These are talented and specialised professionals, with vein finding ability like nobody I’ve ever seen, even the phlebotomists. They also wield a mighty biscuit tin, and make a brew exactly how you ask for it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Going for my chemotherapy was always awful, my veins were, shall we say, hard work. No amount of leaning on a heat pad could bring them up, eating jelly babies before I got there (it works for body builders so worth a try, hey?) dangling my arm, pumping my fist, hydration would make it easier. In fact, it reached the point where I used to go in, put loud rock music on youtube and my big headphones on, close my eyes and tell them, just do it till you get there. They gave me stacks of biscuits, and found veins that I didn’t even know existed (between your middle two fingers anyone?) and they always made me feel as comfortable as they could. It always felt welcoming, which was odd because whilst it was awful, I didn't dread turning up. I was lucky that I gained a chemo buddy who I don’t catch up with as much as we keep promising, and they made sure that I was always sat with her at each session I had. The camaraderie of the nurses, the fun they had together meant they understood how much it helped me to have my new, closer in age to me, buddy sat on the other chair. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">One of my chemo sessions was on New Years Eve (yeah, I know) and when I arrived at the hospital there was cake, party snacks, and an air of “this treatment is for a better new year” which whilst it could have flopped, did made it a bit less awful. Why? Because the nurses made it so. What might have been a pathos scene in a Victoria Wood sketch, with limp innuendos about sausage rolls and older women lamenting about whether they’d ever get well enough to finish the cardigan they were knitting, instead was a medical procedure, with people who understood that I needed to acknowledge that it’s bobbins going for chemo on New Years Eve; they no doubt would have preferred to be at home, not at work too. That we could make something good out of that situation and share a laugh. We were encouraged to humanise the experience, they asked me to take in my instruments when they learned I played music, and play some tunes while I was waiting for my treatment. It all helped. They fed me biscuits and coffee, I’m not sure I mentioned it?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I ate a lot of biscuits and coffee at Oldham Royal, the supply never ran out. Patients, me included, took in a jar of coffee, chocolates, some biscuits, teabags, sometimes I saw them telling the nurses that they were posh ones, for them, not patients. But they always opened them and handed them round. An amazing bunch. </span></div>
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Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-80293576745177685572018-07-12T19:22:00.001+01:002018-07-28T21:24:19.298+01:00Hair<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Today it’s all about hair. It’s one of the most divisive things about chemotherapy. People often ask “Will my hair fall out?” hoping that it might not. With my type of chemotherapy, it invariably does. If you’ve been reading along with my blog you’ll probably be very unsurprised to hear that I wasn’t really that bothered. I love change. Besides having my hair washed, the best part of going to the hairdresser is the snipping of scissors and the reveal at the end, the transformation. The new me. Do you enjoy that? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Knowing that I didn’t have to go to work, and that my hair would fall out allowed me to pretend I was a daft young thing again, and</span><br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="more"></a>with the help of my super mate, Cathy, I bleached then dyed my hair a variety of colours, blue, purple, lilac. We cut it shorter and shorter, including into a mohican (which I miss, deeply) culminating in me shaving it as a number two guard, then a one, before it fell out.<br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It falls out quickly, all within a week for me, and not the most fun. I was glad I’d made it very short, because I could notice less that it was going, but when I lay down, or rested my head, it was as though little needles were prickling my head, as the hair detached but hadn’t fallen. I was glad when that was done with to be completely honest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But people feel very protective about their hair, it’s a big part of their identity and it’s a trauma for them when it falls out. I understand that. There are treatments which you can have to try and save your hair, using a cold cap. It wasn’t for me, but my chemo buddy used it, to keep her appearance the same for her little girl, and it looked unpleasant. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s a sort of liquid filled rugby scrum cap which is strapped to your pre-dampened head approximately an hour before your chemo session starts. Very cold water is pumped through the cap to chill your follicles. You then have your chemo, wearing the cap, then you wear it for another hour. Imagine an ice-cream headache for two to three hours, with no ice-cream. Not for me. Often my pal’s hair would be frozen to the cap at the end, and it had to be carefully unstuck to avoid snapping the hair. No vanilla, or mint chocolate chip or anything. No thanks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Another option is to get a wig. I was prescribed one. I went and selected it before my chemo started so that I at least felt well when I did. This also worked well as I chose the venue in Manchester and combined my trip with a nice lunch. Any excuse! I could have had a wig which was very similar to my hair. I decided that wasn’t my style, and the I’d rather have something very different, so I opted for a long silver blonde wig with gentle waves, which I refer to as my Emmylou Harris, or tame Dolly Parton. I love it, but it’s hot, and I only wore it once at home when I was ill, and almost gave the postman a heart attack. Which I’ll tell you all about the some other time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So no wig for me, and no hair. I didn’t think I’d be bothered about my hair falling out, and I wasn’t, in general. It was miles quicker in the shower, and allowed me to have my head painted with a henna design, which was wonderful. Decorative and empowering, I felt totally at ease with no scarf on with my henna, because I knew that people were staring at me because my head was so lovely. I was hugely glad I’d done that. It was the very understanding and wonderful <a href="http://www.heavenlyhenna.co.uk/"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">http://www.heavenlyhenna.co.uk</span></a> who I went to in Manchester and I can heartily recommend them for a treat, head or otherwise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I was a little bit self conscious of my head at first, and if I got hot and wanted to remove my scarf, I was aware that folk were staring at me. No surprise there, I was a slightly puffy, increasingly podgy (a lot of cake, no regrets) completely bald woman. It didn’t stop me from removing my scarf when i was out though. I decided that there are enough people who haven’t bothered to wash or brush their hair and think it perfectly acceptable to be in a crowded pub, and my head was perfectly clean and washed. If people had a problem, it was just that. Their problem. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I learnt a lot about my body and its hair during those months, I learnt that all your hair falls out. I mean all of it. All. I learnt, as was alluded to in the comments on an earlier post, that without hair, going for a wee is a very unpredictable event. I now know what eyelashes do. They stop you getting soap in your eyes. It made no difference whatsoever whether I soaped my face up including my eyelids, or with a panda-esque dry non sud rings, I still got soap in my eyes, and was left, temporarily blinded and cursing, groping for a towel. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I discovered that my hair began to grow back during the 3 weeks of my chemotherapy cycle. Not properly, but in random, wispy bits, like the last clump of summer grass. Then it would fall out again. So I used to shave it off. With a wet razor. Smooth. Egglike. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Then it grew back, still patchy. It’s like the gift that keeps on giving is cancer treatment. If it could be a bit trickier, then it is! So I continued to shave it, starting the clippers on the longest guard, and getting shorter until I was shaving some off, to keep it even as it grew. That worked well, and within about four months, I had enough hair to look like a crop. Within eight months I was ready for a proper first hair cut. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Oh yeah, all the scary predictions, was it a new colour? No. Was it curly? Yes, but only until that first cut, it’s back to its old self now.</span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-74410606617825979672018-07-04T20:56:00.000+01:002018-07-04T21:01:43.199+01:00Drugs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s a weird thing is chemotherapy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;">I got stuck after that sentence for quite some time. What else could I say? I wanted something to introduce the poem I’d written, but I felt like I’d managed to capture in my 6 words, the oddness and wordless quality that chemotherapy brings. I can’t really explain</span></div>
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">it to people who haven’t had it, and those of us who have tend to leave the memories to fade in the backs of our minds. I do anyway. It amazes me how well my mind has allowed me to forget the intricacies of that time, and I’m grateful for it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;">Whilst the technology is advancing all the time, my chemo was different to my mum’s five years previously, I always felt that there’s something very Victorian about chemotherapy, like leeching blood, or pills of white mercury. The systemic poisoning of myself, which I willingly entered into, to kill any weaker, cancerous, mutated cells, leaving me cleansed at the end felt gothic, and somewhat fantastical. The drugs intrigued me, and there were so many of them, for all different reasons, so this week it’s about some of them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;">Then different, smaller vials filled with promises:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;">You know, down there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;">You might feel nothing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;">Laughing nurses pull me through </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;">This tense hour of prevention. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;">One syringe is red.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;">Slowly she adds it to</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;">My aching veins; she catches my eye.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;">Smiling - “Did it make your wee red last time?”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Like Tizer,” I reply. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Michelle Holding</span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-60962850122163971152018-06-26T21:35:00.000+01:002018-12-01T09:36:03.581+00:00The Build Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">You can’t imagine how it’s going to feel, but you’re pretty sure it’s awful. After all, you own a TV and you’ve seen grainy pictures of bald women in close up on the front page of tabloid newspapers at the garage. Everybody you know is related to/knows/met/heard about someone who had a terrible time of it. Their hair never came back the same - “it’s curly and</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="more"></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;">ginger now, used to be straight and black. I mean it might not happen to you, but…”. The hint is always there, it might not but it might, and how awful that would be. I heard stories like this for weeks, and wanly I tried to explain that those things were rare, that there were more possible side effects than grains of sand on the beach. That’s how it felt at least. I’m not being critical, because deep down, folk are trying to help, they’re trying to relate to you and trying their best. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">You wait for it, and it seems to take forever to arrive, you’re recovering and this waiting is for good reason, but I know for me, that it felt interminable then. I was a spring, coiled and waiting for the fight, I wanted to get on with it. Gradually my hair got shorter as I headed towards that first session when I knew (the oncologist told me so) that it would fall out. I entertained myself with different colours and cuts, things which I wouldn’t have got away with in my usual classroom workplace, but which were ok now in the “anything goes if it’s what you need to do” world of cancer treatment. Despite the distractions, I wanted to know more. Having all that time isn’t helpful because it gives you the chance to be tempted into the waiting room of Dr Google. Just don’t. Please. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">People are keen to talk about food. That’s a safe, yet helpful topic - right? “I know a great recipe that my Nanna ate for every meal for 10000 weeks while she had chemo. She loved it, because it was bland and she didn’t need to chew it much.” Truly inspirational. I mean come on, look at me, I work hard to maintain this physique, you don’t look like this without eating a lot of cake. I love food, I didn’t want that joy taking away too. Expect to hear a lot about the wonder food which is frozen pineapple. Now, I admit it is tasty, and helpful when your mouth is sore; but once you know about it, well, you know. What will you eat? You mustn’t lose weight. Let me tell you, if you follow the Michelle Holding “I’ll do exactly as I wish and gorge myself on sympathy cake” method, you definitely won’t starve. Put on weight that’s a little tricky to shift, yes maybe, but not starve. I didn’t know that then and I listened to all the advice, about eating organic only, buying and trying the best you can, eating whatever you want, eating anything in moderation. I ended up spinning round, unsure with where to go. My spring was wound and coiled that little bit tighter. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Everyone was very keen for me to be careful. I’m still not entirely sure what that means, but I thought I should mention it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">The waiting continued, there were appointments to go to, but my thirst for knowledge about what chemotherapy was going to be like wasn’t sated. I learnt that for me, there were to be six sessions, three with one kind of chemotherapy and three of another. They would work broadly in similar ways but they would, of course, have different possible side effects. I was somewhat relaxed about this, and my oncologist asked me why I seemed so calm. I explained about understanding about the intravenous nature, of attending my Mum’s sessions five years earlier and feeling relatively well educated about the whole thing. I mean, I already knew about frozen pineapple…She was keen to explain that the field of cancer research is so wonderfully busy, that the drugs that I had would be bette and more targeted than those that my mum had endured the time before. This was a mixed blessing, my calm came from thinking that I knew how this was going to happen, but if it would be different, but less bad, surely that was a good thing? I decided that it was, as the spring didn’t have much coil left. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">The oncologist was keen for me to stay active, the advice being that the more gently active that you can be, the better you will deal with the treatment. If you can attend work, you should, I was advised. If you feel like you can go into work, and then when you get there, you only feel able to staple papers together, that’s what you should do. If you feel you need to go home early, your employer should let you. I listened and nodded. Finally the important question - what do you do for work? I’m a secondary school teacher. You can’t go there - too germy was the verdict. I was to stay gently active in other ways, so more music, more socialising. No “proper” work. I carried on waiting.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">God bless germy children!</span></span></div>
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Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-86656074508506534132018-06-12T21:08:00.001+01:002018-06-12T21:23:50.710+01:00Young Again<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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This week I’ve been returning to thoughts about my age, I’m 36 this year and very happy about this fact. After all, the alternative isn’t much fun. I’ve just dyed my hair a coppery orange colour, which I realised (after I’d done it) looks very similar to the colour that my younger sister dyed her hair, when she was 20. Am I too old for this? I wonder. I begin to worry that my drug induced menopause is sending me through a sort of perpetual mid-life crisis, but my family are keen to point out that I’ve always been a bit bonkers, which is of course meant to reassure me. <br />
<a name='more'></a>It’s a Northern thing, bless them. I’ve started collecting pictures of women in dungarees. They’re very trendy and I love them and want some of my own (dungarees, not women). So comfy, and designed to be paired with Docs or trainers. Perfect for me. I’ve been warned off them, by my family (obviously) and also a friend who warned me of developing the "children’s TV presenter" look. With my orange hair, and dungarees, would I look like a low budget clown? It is possible. I’m going to keep looking though, and I may well end up getting some. I’ll keep you posted. Are there things that you won’t wear because you’re too old? Or young? It amazes me, the barriers that we put up for ourselves, invisible walls to stop us doing things. Too young, or old, or fat, or thin, or clever, or not. I wish we wouldn’t, but I do understand why we like to pigeonhole people, to characterise them. It gives us something to grasp, to link with. It happened to me while I was ill, in a range of ways, and one of them was about my age. I was 31.<br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Young again</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s been a while, </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">but I am </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Young again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Not this time, the exhalation of impressed air,</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Such prodigious talent in one so </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But then again, it never was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">This time, the air collapsing inward,</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The sucking through teeth, with head to one side</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Of oh you poor thing, </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">You’re very young,</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Aren’t you?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Michelle Holding 2018</span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-79075071168209623012018-06-05T20:13:00.001+01:002018-06-05T21:09:27.468+01:00Frustrations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I feel as though I’m pretty qualified to write on this at the moment, as my arm is giving me a bit of jip again. Anyway, enough moaning about things which are right now. Why does this post come straight after the last? Because I learnt an important lesson pretty quickly after my first operation, which was that this is a long game, not a quick fix, and whilst it is important to keep pushing forward; sometimes you have to accept that things are out of your control and they will take as long as they do. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I do still push, and then accept how things need to be after, I figure it’s better that way, as it means you don’t have the regret of not having tried. I mean, the flare up of my arm, might just be because of the gym last week (where I was not lifting very heavy things, because I promised the hospital I wouldn’t - well done me). </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-kerning: none;">Well, as I was saying, at the gym let week, I thought I’d see whether I could do the monkey bars, from one end to the other. These arms aren’t really designed to hold up this comfortable body, so it wasn’t easy, but I did manage. All the way. I had hoped that I might look like a long lost gladiator from the TV show of the same name, a Saturday teatime favourite in my house growing up. If you don’t know, it was a series of physical challenges on a sort of assault course, and one round involved swinging from rings hanging from the ceiling. The gladiators were so graceful, missing out rings and gliding towards the usually hapless contestants. My monkey bars weren’t like that, but I did get across. I doubt I’ll try it again, my arm is infuriating, but I’m glad I pushed and did it once. I am more laid back now, more accepting when there really is nothing that I can do. It’s no surprise to hear that I spend time looking for ways round first though!</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I’d had my first mastectomy, I was amazed to find how quickly I recovered. After all, I was home the same day, and pottering about the house within another day or two, feeling very pleased with myself. I followed the instructions and did my exercises, but I was ok. Hurrah! I went for my two week appointment to see how things were, and to get the results of my sentinel lymph node biopsy. A very quick explanation, this is where you’re injected with a dye once anaesthetised and then the lymph nodes which turn blue first are removed and biopsied to check them for cancer cells. It’s a routine procedure whether your nodes looked clear on scans or not. The lymphatic system is how some fluids travel round your body, so cancerous lymph nodes are not cool, as they could be making their merry dance all over. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, I rocked up, greeted my smiling consultant, sat in my pink twill kimono. I was examined, he was pleased with my recovery so far. I redressed and sat at the desk with him. The results were back. One of the three nodes removed had some cancer cells in. I felt my face flush, the anger and heat rose from my collar. When it reached my eyes, I started to cry, because this wasn’t fair. I was ready for chemo, up for the fight. I didn’t want to have to stop here, not take £200, not pass go, do have another operation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was a precautionary measure, in part as I was so young. I was fed up. More waiting. More recovery time. We weren’t even up to chemotherapy yet. More sickness time from work. I raged and screamed inside, while on the outside I calmed myself down and started concentrating, and planning again. A new plan, a new timescale, let’s work with that then, I thought. That was what happened, exactly, and it sounds too simple now, but in the whirl of everything that was going on, it was all I could do. </span>I also ate cake, and played music, and saw my mates, and asked them to come and see me. We all deserve to do things that make us feel good. A<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">fter that operation, I had to recover again, and do the shruggy shoulder exercises, and wait some more.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That was frustrating, and so is my slight lymphoedema which appears to come and go now. There are other things too, like not being able to exercise like I did, the struggle to find clothes that fit my shape now, the monthly checking myself, the ongoing medication, the side effects. But I try not to think about them too much. After all, once you get started - I mean, I can’t hold my drink like I once could, I’m not as flexible as when I was twenty, my hair has just started going grey, I can’t eat anything and not put weight on, and all those things are just side effects of getting older, and that can only mean one thing. I’m still here. I’ll take that. </span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-29653444384268922952018-05-28T13:01:00.002+01:002018-05-28T14:43:15.640+01:00So long....<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hey! I hope you’re well. This is something of a whistle stop tour through my year of illness, where I’m picking out the big moments for me, and others, I’m sure I’ve said, it ties into some longer life writing I’m doing, so please follow me any way you wish if you’d like to know when that’s ready. Today’s post is one of the moments that I thought (in my usual blasé way) wasn’t such a big deal, but it was. I regularly use being somewhat flippant as my first coping mechanism for big moments. I can regularly be heard saying things like “I’m too busy for lymphoedema, I’ve got a gig later.” Or “This is boring me now, I don’t have time to be ill, I’m too busy having fun and being well!” </span></span></div>
<a name="more"></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those sorts of phrases get me through the first moments, until I can think a while and reflect, plan, write, whatever I think needs to happen. However, please do not think that this ever gives anyone a justification for an appointment with Dr Google. I’m guilty too. We’ve all done it. Nothing good ever comes from that. Sore throat? Probably throat cancer, expect to die, soon. Feeling tired? Probably something equally awful which will curtail your life significantly. I’m not sure I’ve felt on top form consistently for a full year since I was about 20, so shrugging off the occasional ache or pain is part of life. It doesn’t mean I’m not pushing every day to make the day the best it can be. Why waste it?</span><br>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>How does this link into the Sound of Music ear worm that you’re currently battling with? Well, when at my diagnosis I was told that I needed a mastectomy, I was almost instantly, perfectly ok with that. I know, odd. But my thought process (for this) wasn’t unusual apparently. I had breast cancer, I was getting rid of the breast, cancerous bits and bits that in my head might become cancerous. Safest option, hey? Well, in lots of ways, yes. But it’s not always right for folk, and your consultant knows the score. I spent some time thinking about it. Would I mind having one? Would I care about losing one? (losing, ha! Who am I kidding? I know where it is, it’s at the Christie Hospital in the bio bank). Both of those things I thought, no, I don’t mind. Reconstruction was, and still is, an option. Did I want that? I didn’t think so, and I’ll talk a little more on that in a later post. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I did a few things to say good bye. I touched my skin, everywhere. To know what it all felt like. I was very lucky and I got to have a photoshoot done which celebrated me, and documented the experience that I was going through. I have those pictures digitally, and when I occasionally look back at them, I barely recognise myself. I’ve no complaints, I’m just a different person now. I do believe in fact, a better one. I took a night before the operation selfie. In the morning of the operation, I woke early, had a really good shower, with my best poshest shower gel, preparing myself as though it was some sort of sacrifice. Which it was. This sacrifice was one small part of me, so that the rest could live. A worthy price to pay, I think. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Which brings me to that day, the operation, (which I wasn’t aware of of course,) then the first time, waking up. I went down to theatre, smiling and chatting. I knew that I’d be waking up with less of me. What an easy way to lose weight, I thought. Nod off, and a trimmer me appears at the other side. Hurrah! It also felt like I was winning. My inner monologue was speaking in the voice of an action hero, likely a military background. “So!” it yelled, “You thought you could kill me did you?” As the words spat out in my head, I smiled inside, knowing that this was my battle win about to take place. When I woke up, I wouldn’t have cancer any more. The tumour and a safety margin would be removed. Take that, Punk!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So easy to think, so cool as I went, joked as I was being marked up, the usual big marker pen arrow, telling the surgeon remove here. I asked would they weigh what was removed? The answer being yes, I requested that someone tell me what the weight was. I entertained myself with a sort of Victorian fairground mentality, “Roll up! Roll up! Guess the weight of the breast!” My guess was for around 550g. I was wrong. It was way more than that, 830g I learnt later. It was no wonder running has always been fairly uncomfortable!</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Anyway, I’d chatted to the anaesthetist, relaxed and fell asleep. Then, I woke up. I’d prepared, mostly. I’d thought, am I ok being flat on this side? I’d decided yes, but all my thoughts had been tied into the sergeant major who was yelling in my head that this war had to be won, at any cost. I do sometimes wish my desire to live was a bit less red-faced, and more zen and easy going, but maybe fight mechanisms just aren’t. What does yours sound like? I’d love to know. We could make a whole team of superhero inner voices! I couldn’t really, truly comprehend what I’d feel like when I looked down and only one boob was there, because up until then, when I looked down, they’d both been mounding there. I couldn’t know. Not until the moment. So, groggily, I woke up and my first instinct was to take a peek down my gown at what I now looked like. Flat obviously, with a neat dressing covering what would be my wound then scar. Tidy. Fine. I know how big a moment it was because I can still close my eyes and I’m right back there, gazing down and thinking “yep, that’s ok.” before I rested my head back on the pillow and dozed a while. </span></span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-26203038927346416212018-05-17T20:33:00.000+01:002018-05-28T13:03:12.712+01:00Telling folk<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes we all look ropey. We get ill, our noses are Rudolf-esque and we are generally not feeling on top of our game. When that happens, when you have a cold, feel sick, trip and bruise your hip or face, you can if you wish, hide at home until you look like yourself again. Equally, if you want, in this oversharing world of the twenty first century, to make a social media post, to announce your misfortune to the world, then you can. If you are diagnosed with cancer, it’s not as straightforward a choice as that. It won’t come as a surprise to hear that I hadn’t planned what I would do if this befell me, I expect you won’t have either. Here are some of the key points from my experience.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Your illness and recovery time will be months, maybe years, not days or weeks, and you’ll have to tell someone during that time, maybe if you need a lift, some shopping, a natter, a cry, I could go on. So once that is accepted, the plan then needs to be about scale, what’s right for you? I am not only insanely popular (I jest, but I do know a lot of folk), but also fairly simple minded (not a joke), and lazy (still not a quip, my rule is no more than one per sentence), so I just told everyone, in a variety of ways. Easy. Well, no, of course it’s not. But that was what worked for me, and here’s why.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Of course, I told my family and close friends in person, and that is awful. You do get better at it, the poor first people I told, I just blurted it out, and watched them deflate in front of me, like when the air is being sucked from a balloon. Over time though, I developed a bit of a system, here it is, it may also work for announcing other things, car scrapes, spending saving etc but I haven’t tested that, so don’t hold me to it! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Firstly, I’d say, “I’ve got some bad news” (don’t just say ‘news’, you might have to fight off pregnancy questions, or marriage questions - don’t ask - just trust me). I’d follow this with, “I’ve just found out I’m not very well, but I’m going to be ok”. I find that smiling a lot at this point is a good move, it shows (or seems to show, faking it is fine, always) that you’re not worried, you have everything under control. They might say “oh dear” or ask what was the matter, and I’d say, “I’ve got breast cancer so - I won’t be at the gym for a while/I’m going to be off work/I’m not going swimming/you might see me less (delete as applicable). I usually ended mine with a healthy dose of “I’m fine, they’re confident they’ve found it pretty early” (because they were) “I’ll be back to relatively normal pretty soon”. Those last sentences were mostly to stop people cocking their head to one side, like a sympathetic, kindly, but ultimately irritating Jack Russell and then stroking my upper arm. For the record, that doesn’t help. What does? Cake. As for a face to face telling people system, that was it. Of course telling loved ones and close friends wasn’t easy, but they deserve to see your eyes as you tell them, if it’s possible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I also decided to do a diva Facebook status announcing my illness to the world, like a proper millennial. My mother wasn’t happy. She didn’t understand at all, but there was method in the plan. Remember I said I’m popular? Well, I knew that I wouldn’t be at work for a while, but I’m very sociable and wanted to go out and keep active. I didn’t want people to see me, when my hair was gone, if I looked rough (which undoubtably I would at times) and give me the <i>sideways glance</i>. I wanted this to feel as natural as possible, no awkward hushed questions about what was wrong with me. After all, nobody usually looks twice when I enter a room. I wanted people to already know, and I hoped, just be glad to see me. To tell all those people, for every situation that I might go to, would have taken me ages, but by announcing it, people told each other, like a phone tree system for emergencies and snow days at school. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was by far the best thing I did. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Yes, it has meant that I’m still talking about it 4 years later. Yes, it has meant that friends who are worried because they’ve found a lump have contacted me and asked for a heads up about what the one stop clinic entails. Yes, I’ve got stuff that comes up on my Facebook in my memories that is occasionally uncomfortable to revisit. However, in the moment, when things were grim. it provided me with a huge outpouring of support, both virtual and real life. It’s made the topic a little bit less taboo* and that’s got to be good. It allowed me to keep in touch with people and the “big moments” of my treatment in a way which I could manage, and then not worry about having to keep talking about being ill. It’s given me the overarching structure for my book, relating those big key moments. Are there things that you’d like to see me talk about here? I do have a schedule but I’d love to know what you’d like to hear about!</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">*I typed this initially as taboob and it really made me chuckle, if we coin it now, do you think it’ll make next years OED? </span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-40819954985180830932018-05-08T22:04:00.001+01:002018-05-12T11:44:32.910+01:00Family <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">This is a real bittersweet topic for me. As you know, it was almost four years ago now that I was ill. There are stacks of great blogs out there from people who are, or have documented their journey through cancer, in real time. A pal of mine is doing that right now at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/breastcancerandbiscuitcrumbs"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">When life gives you melons</span></a>. Those stories are real and wonderful. I’m choosing what I now reflect as being the big, key moments in my journey for my attitude and my outlook, both at the time and now. </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I expect that I’ll be here for up to a year maybe, talking about “stuff”. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I also know, as I write this, that I’ve slipped back into some of my comfortable old ways. The wonderful thing about life is that while it keeps going, you can change as many times as you want to. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I’m busy, you’re busy, so I </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Didn’t call this week. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I’m here if you should need me, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">You know that is true. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">But life’s hectic, and we don’t have the </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Time to sit, with a brew, and chat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I knew you would be there when I needed,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">So I called you that day, my sister</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">And told you the news. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Pulled together, all of us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Knitted closer by this illness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">You all glittered, diamonds, I saw you then, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">As glistering as gold. More precious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I resolved that though we live so far apart,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I’d call more, travel and see you all, more. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">And I did. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">But that was then, the hairless illness days.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">When work was a dim memory, and I swear </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Just at the edge of all I saw. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Now, I’m busy, you’re busy and </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I didn’t call this week. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I’m so sorry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I’ll pick up that phone, today. </span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-10747355275689682772018-05-03T21:35:00.001+01:002018-05-12T11:44:44.407+01:00My Guide to Packing for Appointments<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Nobody packs for appointments as well as I do. I really believe that. If I’d been allowed to join the guides when I was eleven (which is a whole other, tragic story of injustice in a Northern town) then I’d have been ace. I’m so prepared. I know just what to take with me, for how long the ordeal is going to last. I really do win at appointments. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">To be fair, I’d had a lot of practice even before I started my own journey, attending medical appointments with other family members. I’ve already talked about why appointments take so long <a href="https://pinktwill.blogspot.co.uk/2018/04/my-consultant.html"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">here</span></a> so I won’t redo it, but anything which will help to keep you chipper is a good idea. I decided that although I was very lucky and had lots of supportive offers from family and friends to accompany me, I was going to attend my appointments alone whenever possible, to allow me to concentrate on myself; so I needed to be pretty self sufficient. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">My strategy is fairly simple in its main points really, although I have been known to add in other ideas as I go. The first thing that you really need to know is, do not be embarrassed about what you take with you. Who cares if you look like you’re heading off to Lytham for a picnic? You can do whatever works for you. I nearly always turn up to the hospital with my handbag and an extra tote bag containing the things I think I might need. Do I look like a forgotten character from a Victoria Wood pilot show? Possibly. Do I spend my time in the waiting room relatively cheerful and content? Yes, usually. Believe me, whether folks in the waiting room are shooting you confused looks as you take over two seats (only do this if it’s quiet, you’ll cause an understandable riot if not, you do have your “stuff” with you, but you aren’t entitled to two seats any more than the rest of the world). Those looks will soon turn to looks of envy as you breeze through the waiting as though you’ve got better things to think about than the fact you’re ill. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Point number two is make sure you have food and drink to last you longer than you think you’ll be there. I usually get enough things for being sat on an uncomfortable chair past a couple of mealtimes. There is nothing more upsetting than realising that you’re going to have to remortgage your house to buy a toffee crisp from the vending machine because you’ve been waiting hours and the hunger pangs mean your kind chaperone sister’s arm is starting to look like a good prospect to put you on until tea. So take real food, butties, leftover pasta, anything you might take for a pack lunch or picnic. Probably not Prosecco, darling. That said, I feel no shame about taking some treats with me. Crisps, chocolate, sweets, fruit (cherries are my favourite when they’re in season). Whatever floats your boat. This is indeed a rubbish experience, don’t make it worse by eating food you don’t like while you wait!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Three: take things to keep you occupied. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Take anything you like, there’s no limits here except your space, the jigsaw roll probably won’t work. If you’re like me, take many things. I love reading, and always take a short story collection with me. Why short stories? Because I can usually get a full one read while I wait, and if it’s a long appointment seeing different people, I might finish more. I like the quiet sense of achievement I can get from finishing a short story. As you glance at the ill-prepared you also get the slightly smug joy of being able to think to yourself…”see? Even as I sit here I’m completing things”. Whilst I adore reading however, it doesn’t always fit my needs, so I make sure that my phone is as fully charged as I can manage so that I can play banal games on it. I try and avoid social media until I’m home. A couple of days before you go, download a free puzzle type game, again because the short levels you can enjoy amongst the stop-start atmosphere of looking up every time a nurse shouts a name, even though it’s nothing like yours. I take some crochet with me, or a hook and some yarn at least. | can hook a granny square or two up while I sit, and the repetitive nature of crochet, is very soothing and relaxing, allowing me to almost ignore the dreadful daytime TV that’s on the screen. I’ve never fully understood why the sound is on the lowest setting with subtitles, it’s somehow more infuriating to almost be able to hear antiques being sold for less than their owner wanted for them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Dress for both the arctic and the desert, so that you can be comfortable whether you end up in the draft from the outside door, or gently melting next to the radiator. Layers are your friend. This point also extends to wearing clothes that are both comfortable and easy to remove/put on if you think you’ll be being examined. Wear clothes that you like too. I find it helps me to think I look too cool to be there. Or I think I do anyway, it’s a good way of explaining those “picnic” looks!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Finally, a serious one this, take whatever you need to be able to remember what the person you are seeing tells you on the day. You want to write down your questions on a piece of paper, and tick them off as you ask them? Do that. I write all my questions in a doc on my phone as I think of them, then I don’t forget any. If you want to make notes while you’re there, that’s ok. If you want to use your phone as a dictaphone and record the appointment, to look at it again later, you can. I mean, obviously, ask the people who are present before you start, but my experience is that they’ll be perfectly fine with it. Everyone understands how stressful it is, and how little you remember in those situations. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Oh, and pound coins for the car park machine. Loads of them. Is there anything you’d add from your own experiences?</span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-15816974156554166882018-04-26T21:59:00.000+01:002018-05-12T11:44:53.806+01:00My Consultant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuXyY_9lHzRJ98LZOAa7jYQmoRds1zddMvqFr2-YLHDO0GhhnZPgrjmqYcWkPibrNzsrSj8CIQaXWNDAkGlwjaCq97-SO-V8WVbFUg9GLhJ37rWhNoSkAHxcMEjWK72grYFHnpQbq3mlQP/s1600/That+man.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuXyY_9lHzRJ98LZOAa7jYQmoRds1zddMvqFr2-YLHDO0GhhnZPgrjmqYcWkPibrNzsrSj8CIQaXWNDAkGlwjaCq97-SO-V8WVbFUg9GLhJ37rWhNoSkAHxcMEjWK72grYFHnpQbq3mlQP/s1600/That+man.png" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 11px;">This is more timely than I expected with the news features at the minute concerning the staff at Alder Hey hospital. This is the first of my “I love the NHS” fan posts I suppose. I hope you never get to be as grateful as I am, for although I’ve paid into the system since I was 16 years old, I’ve received more than I’ve paid. What a beautiful and amazing organisation it is, staffed by </span><span style="font-size: 11px;">such</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 11px;"> superstars.</span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 11px;"></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Picture a medical consultant surgeon. I presume you’re thinking of a man, I expect that he’s Asian (it’s a stereotype I know, but they are usually built up, pearl-like around a grain of truth). He wears glasses doesn’t he? Tall? No? Is he calm and comforting? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">You’re right, my consultant surgeon is all of these things, and I am so grateful to him and his team. I wanted to set down in words, how and why I think I have such a fabulous relationship with him, because I really believe that it could help you to do the same, if ever you need a consultant, medically, or for any other reason. It may seem a bit odd writing that I have a fantastic relationship with him, but I do. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I’ve been very human with him, very open and honest, and he has reciprocated by being interested in me. Caring for me, offering his support. He’s forgotten my name on occasions, despite him also making me feel like I’m the only patient he has when I’m in an appointment with him. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it, one thing I’ve learnt is that this cancer club, is the least exclusive one I know. He sees a lot of people. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Every appointment that I have been to I’ve been given all the time I need. I’ve been able to ask (probably) daft questions, and ask them more than once. I’ve been able to cry and laugh, and I’ve been treated as though I really matter, every step of the way. I’m not just a file or a patient number, I’m a human whose life is being treated with the utmost care by every medical person I have met. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Sometimes my consultant has no appointments available, and I’m seen by a minion. Those (also dedicated and amazing) medical staff are not, of course, minions, but highly skilled people who my consultant is happy to have stand in his place. I try and not be disappointed when it’s someone else, because I know that the reason for that is because I’m now there for a check up, and the patient who now needs the head honcho to see them, is in a worse place than I am now, they’re lay on a surgical bed in theatre, or crying because they’ve just received their diagnosis. So if I can’t see my consultant, I’m ok with that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Often when I attend clinic, I’m kept waiting (more on this next week - I’m an expert at waiting rooms). I see people, scared and frustrated. They get angry that their parking will not last them because they’ve been waiting so long. Indignant glances are shot at folk who seem to be “jumping the queue” as they arrive later and are seen sooner. They’re annoyed and anxious, and sometimes they air their views in the waiting room. I always challenge them. I watched my Mum do it once, and was obviously embarrassed…“Mum! Don’t cause a scene!” I said. She was right though. I speak to</span> people when they complain about how long they’ve been at clinic. I speak up when they announce that they should have been seen over two hours ago. I comment if their grievance is that the clinic should have finished already, or that it’s a joke. If, as I sit in the waiting room, they ask me - why can’t they run a clinic on time? I tell them this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve been to scores of appointments, here and elsewhere, and when I’m in that room, I’ve never been hurried, I've been given all the time in the world. If my appointment is late today because someone else has been given the time that they need to be reassured, to understand their treatment, to stop crying, to feel safe, then I’m ok with that. I’m thankful I’m not in that position any more. If my appointment takes longer because my consultant, and his team, have double and triple booked their appointment slots, so they don’t have a chance of fitting in the time allocated, but it’s meant that I’ve been seen sooner, because I was worried about something, and there aren't enough clinics to go round, then I’m ok with that. My consultant has spent a number of hours operating on me, and nobody said that my allocated theatre time was over if it took longer than expected. I got what I needed. I know that my consultant does not still want to be in clinic at 6.30pm any more than I do. He will see me, before he sees his family. So he can take as long as he likes, and I won’t complain, I’ll try and smile and say thank you for his time when I finally get in the room. I’ll try and forget me and ask him how he is, and be interested in him as a human, as he always does with me. </span>After all, it's nice to be nice isn't it?</span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-53191799520969673712018-04-18T18:53:00.003+01:002018-05-12T11:45:04.302+01:00Finding (or what the heck’s this?)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Apologies for the day late post, it’s been busy with exciting news, more on that at some later point, and Manchester’s enjoying it’s first sunny day it feels like - so I’m a day late. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Today I wanted to talk a little about finding my lump. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">My family have a strong family history of female cancers, and five years before my diagnosis, I’d been referred to the genetic clinic by my doctor when I’d updated my family history with him. He was a smashing GP; kindly, pragmatic, and about to retire as he referred me. I was sad about the last point, and also reassured by his assertion that this wasn’t the sort of thing a GP does all the time, </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">“In fact you’re only my second across my career” he said. </span></div>
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<a name='more'></a><span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Because someone was taking me seriously, and that matters when you think you might have a genetic defect! In fact I have been taken seriously at every step of the way of my journey, the genetic screening drew a blank. My family don’t carry either of the known breast cancer genes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">You may be shouting “but….but…” at the screen right now, and I know, I hear you. But that news comes later. We’ll get there, don’t worry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">So I started off with great intentions after my mum was ill, I’ll check them every 4 weeks, religiously. And I did. At first. Then, like my commitment to attending church, it became more sporadic, and then it was only when I saw a link shared round social media, reminding me, that I gave them a squish. Then I forgot about my family history, my concerns, and got on with my life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I still can’t tell you why I did it, or how, but that Wednesday, as I took off my bra, I felt a lump. I wasn’t checking them, I was just getting undressed as I did every day. That day, it was different. The lump was under my left breast, and I thought - ooh what was that? Them being fairly sizeable and my underwear being pretty substantial to cope, I thought it might be a bit of biscuit trapped against the RSJ that supported them, or a forgotten pound coin, or family of circus performers, lost for the night. I ran my hands under my breast again, and there it was. Not quite squishy, but not completely hard, like a bouncy ball in size and texture it seemed. I shoved it about a bit, it moved, becoming more or less noticeable. Intriguing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">I’d had a rough day at work, and was not amused by this extra thing to add to my list of moans. I text my friend and work colleague with words to that effect of here’s the third thing of the day, I’ve just found a lump. Seriously?! She replied asking me whether I was ok. I said yes. I wasn’t worried, after all, I was 31, far too young, and my family don’t have either of the two known breast cancer genes. I told her I’d ring the doctors. I’d spoken to my mum about her lump when she was diagnosed, and it didn’t fit that description. I was sure it was probably nothing. Most lumps are. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">I rang the Doctors’, but it was Wednesday, and everything is half day here, on Wednesday, including health apparently. It would have to wait until the next day. How frustrating, I thought. The evening passed with very little thought about the matter. I had a bath, went to sleep. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">I tell you this story, to reach this point, the reason I’m writing this post. The next day, the very next morning, I rang the Doctors’. I spoke to the doctor, who said that he would get a female doctor to come to the surgery and check me out on the following day, Friday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">Of course, please check your melons, spuds etc. Know how your body feels and be aware of things that change, and should you find a lump, please, please contact your GP as soon as you can. Is having a day off work a pain to get checked over? Yes of course it was. It was absolutely the right thing to do. Unchecked, my cancer may well have spread beyond my breast, as it had just reached the first of my lymph nodes, when they were checked. This blog could have not been being written. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">It feels stark writing that, but it’s the truth, and that’s what we’re here for isn’t it?</span></div>
Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-59578811427941014942018-04-10T08:46:00.001+01:002018-05-12T11:45:15.718+01:00All Woman<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiniEry3DRAa7xlzf5yMuDL1B5QNLVvv_w9jQ7C1GK7psxLx3mOc90D8YUHhHGCGpZpzzhJwd5ycswLZ4LIHLOIoI6xlECgcDGraJhwtknueJhqAx0_shzaSWF3K3NkyL_mzpWufJ3lUDbx/s1600/ALL.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiniEry3DRAa7xlzf5yMuDL1B5QNLVvv_w9jQ7C1GK7psxLx3mOc90D8YUHhHGCGpZpzzhJwd5ycswLZ4LIHLOIoI6xlECgcDGraJhwtknueJhqAx0_shzaSWF3K3NkyL_mzpWufJ3lUDbx/s1600/ALL.png" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">This week’s post is a little different, as I’ve started writing more poetry again. I’m not about to turn this blog into a poetry recital, panic not, but once a month, I thought I’d make one of my poems, and posts suitable for here with a shorter post to introduce it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">After a mastectomy, (or two) people sometimes ask how I feel about my body now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">“Can you ever be whole again?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">“Do you feel less feminine? Less womanly?” they wonder. They’re good questions, and ones I’m always happy to think about and talk about. </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Breasts are still socially and culturally in the West a fairly taboo subject, a woman sunbathing topless is still a talking point for prudes or voyeurs (and deemed mad if in the UK, it’s too cold for that, Love). Showing a breast on Facebook is one of the only things that can get your account suspended it seems. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">It’s complex topic, and different for each person’s situation, but I know I insisted on touching my scars as soon as I was able, and I know them well, for they’re part of me, and that’s important. You’ve got to own it, then you can accept it, get more comfortable with it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Move on to more important things, like making another cup of coffee.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">All Woman</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">One minus some can still be one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">For I was all woman before, there’s pictures to prove. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Where can you find my womanliness? You ask.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">It is not in the turn of my ankle, length of my locks, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: xx-small;">Not the rub of my thighs, curve of my bum. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">You won’t find it in the flutter of my eyelashes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">Not in painted or powdered makeup. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">Not in jewellery lying across a cool, alabaster collarbone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">Not in my breasts, pendulous and heavy,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">Filling that dress so well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">Not in coquettish laughter, or a button nose.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">No, it’s not there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">But you will find it in me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">For I am woman.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-kerning: none; font-size: x-small;">It is all I know. </span></div>
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Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-91245103963433949012018-04-03T09:37:00.002+01:002018-07-12T18:29:20.229+01:00I never liked them anyway*<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">So why are you here? I'm hoping that you're interested in my story, or in hearing what my experience was so that you can make better sense of your own. Possibly you know somebody who's been diagnosed with breast cancer, or have ended here by some happy algorithmic chance. It's good to see you, whatever the reason. Please do let me know in the comments how you've found me, and your thoughts on the blog in its infancy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">A brief and relatively employment friendly scroll through a social media of your choice, will likely bring up comics or graphics relating in some way to the deep joy which can be achieved when a woman returns into the privacy of her own home and can take off her bra. There's truth in that, as any form of constraint is bound to be less comfortable than being free. I recall the experience well. However, that's not to say that there aren't positives to bra wearing. If you have to move around a lot, or at all with speed, they're a lot more comfortable than not wearing one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Before my diagnosis, I admit I wasn't really much of a fan of my breasts. </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">They were one size too large to be able to buy nice pretty bras for low prices, which left me with the choice of either wearing cheap(ish), industrial looking bras, or being bankrupt, but having nice underwear. I opted for the majority being RSJ supported horrors, and a nice one for if I went out in the city, and was worried I might get hit by a bus, or lucky when out on a date. I was never happy about this, they also, irrespective of how much you pay, wear out. When that happens, you can be sure that the bra that fitted well, that took you so long to find, is no longer made by the manufacturer. This means you have to start looking for a new favourite all over again. A time consuming and unattractive prospect, for me at least.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">My breasts being relatively sizeable, and my mindset fairly sporty, I also disliked the way they hindered me playing sport, or running up stairs, or dancing. Women learn to run in that style with their arms across their chest, as though constantly disapproving of events as they dash through them. It's not very efficient, but it's more effective than being knocked unconscious.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">They also got in the way when trying to buy shirts, my options being to wear something at least a size too big, like an officewear version of Wee Willie Winkie, or to tape my button gaps shut, and pray that the adhesive held, because my shirts would gape at the point of most tension otherwise. Nobody wants to be arrested for manslaughter because your button just shot that guy in the office as it couldn't take the pressure when you reached for a file.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">*They did, I concede, look good in some dresses. Plunging V neck dress? Yes indeed. 1950's high neckline? I was instantly transformed into some matronly tank. That'd be a no. They filled my swimming costume, and forgave me putting on a little weight around the midriff, as they definitely stuck further out than the rest of me. They were sexy and womanly, filled with nerve endings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">And therein lies the rub. Day to day, I didn't like them, but they weren't all bad. My initial thoughts were to say to folk "I never liked them anyway," but with the passing of time, I've learnt that I have to acknowledge the good things that I have indeed lost. Overall, of course things are much better than they could be for me; I do miss having somewhere to rest my coffee that doesn't make me look like I'm slouching though.</span><br />
<br />Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2442080098115352331.post-48766277016078533382018-03-23T07:44:00.003+00:002018-05-12T11:45:42.565+01:00Sharing Stories<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL65SRYoC0XNDRU5pD4x30gDJ1vGqkQtqg9Ve42qBaWsch0T4XivRF75XDTW_KjiLt1wVsTqptCjVlB4qF0yuEEIe43CsRsKvZc-5nZFLk1shoVzHq1E5CES3GXV80_-hDBsmfxs2TrAWt/s1600/White+Bordered+Coffee+Shop+Instagram+Post.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL65SRYoC0XNDRU5pD4x30gDJ1vGqkQtqg9Ve42qBaWsch0T4XivRF75XDTW_KjiLt1wVsTqptCjVlB4qF0yuEEIe43CsRsKvZc-5nZFLk1shoVzHq1E5CES3GXV80_-hDBsmfxs2TrAWt/s400/White+Bordered+Coffee+Shop+Instagram+Post.png" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">I awoke this morning really thinking about this, and what I can or should do about it. I'm very aware that this topic is quite sensitive for the people who are probably exactly the people who would be interested. I know also that I cannot offer a magic wand or incantation that will make this easy. </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Living with cancer (that's what they say isn't it?) has to be your own story. You may hate everything I did and have done, but by sharing it with you I offer you what worked for me, and what didn't so that you can see the infinite choices that are available to you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">I tell people I spent a year dying, but I'm past it now. It's been 3 years since I completed my treatment and I see that I am not past anything, I am altered forever by my illness. That isn't as awful as it sounds. To tell you the truth, I wouldn't change a thing.</span><br />
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Michelle Holdinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07420534673425422396noreply@blogger.com2