Lenny has a lot to answer for.
There was a time when I was under the impression that if one was unfortunate enough to be diagnosed with the Big C, one would receive a diagnosis, have treatment / and or surgery and be either 'cured' or would fall off their perch a few months later.
My naivety was soon to be proven.
Since Lenny first showed up in July 2010, I have been poked, prodded, sliced, diced, burnt by radiation, rendered sick by drugs, driven barmy by those same drugs and generally forced to accept that this was 'Life now Dawn, but not as you know it'.
But it wasn't all bad.
On the morning of my very first operation, a simple lumpectomy, the first step in trying to evict Lenny, I was understandably nervous.
Until my surgeon - a staunch, middle aged man with a bedside manner that could only be described as being similar to doctors portrayed in old 70s sitcoms - wandered up to me in my hospital bed and before uttering a single word, produced a perma marker from his doctors coat and drew a big black arrow on my left boob.
I looked at him, then down to my doodled boob, confused at his introductory techniques.
"Just in case I operate on the wrong one" says he.
Once I'd returned my jaw back to where it belonged, I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I laughed. Hard. And he laughed with me. The ice had been broken, and nothing that happened after this ever surprised me again.
The extreme emotions that swung back and forth over the past 7 years have surprised me. I've always been the emotional type - crying often, usually through anger and frustration as opposed to being genuinely upset. I will happily admit that I feel the need to be in control.
Cancer takes away ALL control.
Adding this to my natural tendencies, and the fact that i lived alone with just Eastenders to yell at when frustration overtakes, I was rapidly losing the will to live. It often crossed my mind that being one of those that received diagnosis and passed soon afterward would be preferable to the unrelenting uncertainty I was enduring. During Christmas time 2015, I had been experiencing extreme pain in my left hip for approximately 3 or 4 months. My oncologist had diagnosed my weight as being to blame, but I knew it was more than that. Still, I accepted her diagnosis and got on with my life as best as I was able.
And then a miracle happened.
Lola arrived in my life like a whirlwind. Like many babies in these sexually free times, she wasn't planned. Although I had always wanted a pet, the time was never right for me. When Lola came, my life changed immeasurably for the better.
From the day she arrived, following a 5 hour drive from her previous home, a drive punctuated with meows that would have you believe she was being slowly tortured to death, this amazing little critter amazed me. She claimed my sofa as hers within an hour, my entire flat within a day, but most importantly she claimed me. She claimed me within seconds.
For 7 whole years, Lenny was uppermost in my mind, now he had competition.
Carry on Cancer
(I've got my cat)
There was a time when I was under the impression that if one was unfortunate enough to be diagnosed with the Big C, one would receive a diagnosis, have treatment / and or surgery and be either 'cured' or would fall off their perch a few months later.
My naivety was soon to be proven.
Since Lenny first showed up in July 2010, I have been poked, prodded, sliced, diced, burnt by radiation, rendered sick by drugs, driven barmy by those same drugs and generally forced to accept that this was 'Life now Dawn, but not as you know it'.
But it wasn't all bad.
On the morning of my very first operation, a simple lumpectomy, the first step in trying to evict Lenny, I was understandably nervous.
Until my surgeon - a staunch, middle aged man with a bedside manner that could only be described as being similar to doctors portrayed in old 70s sitcoms - wandered up to me in my hospital bed and before uttering a single word, produced a perma marker from his doctors coat and drew a big black arrow on my left boob.
I looked at him, then down to my doodled boob, confused at his introductory techniques.
"Just in case I operate on the wrong one" says he.
Once I'd returned my jaw back to where it belonged, I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I laughed. Hard. And he laughed with me. The ice had been broken, and nothing that happened after this ever surprised me again.
The extreme emotions that swung back and forth over the past 7 years have surprised me. I've always been the emotional type - crying often, usually through anger and frustration as opposed to being genuinely upset. I will happily admit that I feel the need to be in control.
Cancer takes away ALL control.
Adding this to my natural tendencies, and the fact that i lived alone with just Eastenders to yell at when frustration overtakes, I was rapidly losing the will to live. It often crossed my mind that being one of those that received diagnosis and passed soon afterward would be preferable to the unrelenting uncertainty I was enduring. During Christmas time 2015, I had been experiencing extreme pain in my left hip for approximately 3 or 4 months. My oncologist had diagnosed my weight as being to blame, but I knew it was more than that. Still, I accepted her diagnosis and got on with my life as best as I was able.
And then a miracle happened.
Lola arrived in my life like a whirlwind. Like many babies in these sexually free times, she wasn't planned. Although I had always wanted a pet, the time was never right for me. When Lola came, my life changed immeasurably for the better.
From the day she arrived, following a 5 hour drive from her previous home, a drive punctuated with meows that would have you believe she was being slowly tortured to death, this amazing little critter amazed me. She claimed my sofa as hers within an hour, my entire flat within a day, but most importantly she claimed me. She claimed me within seconds.
For 7 whole years, Lenny was uppermost in my mind, now he had competition.
Carry on Cancer
(I've got my cat)
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