You know I sometimes think I have special powers. Somebody once said to me, “You get everything you want,” and I suppose that it Is often true.
Not an hour ago, I wrote, “I sometimes wish something would go really wrong, so that I would have more interesting things to write about.” I didn’t mean something awful, and nothing awful did happen. But something did happen and it has got me writing.
Yesterday I had the good news that my breast cancer is a tiny bit smaller. I was not expecting that. And I don’t mean to belittle the good news, but now that I have written it, there isn’t much more to say. Nothing will change in my treatment because of it. But it might just show my oncologist that the lower dose did do some good, so he might be happy for me to stay there forever. I see him in two days time.
The awful thing that happened was that when I had finished watching my tv programme and put the lounge chair into the full reclining position for a nap, I felt an itching in the stoma area. This is a new thing. I put my hand on my stoma bag, which an hour before had been OK, and it did feel a bit big. And BANG, I had a blowout. The glue that sticks it to my skin had been pulled away by the pressure. I thought “I’d better get to the bathroom soon,” but it was too late. Luckily I had been lying on my back, so the chair and carpet didn’t get messed on, but I needed a complete change of clothes. And when I put the replacement bag on, for some reason it wouldn’t stick either, so I had to change it again a few minutes later.
I think the itching was Effie telling me to get a move on - and next time I will listen to her.
I went to church on Sunday, where I play the organ. I saw Ruth, who hadn’t been in church for many months, so I wanted to say to her what a pretty skirt she was wearing and how slim and lovely she looked. I know, I shouldn’t have been thinking of things like that in church. So we chatted, and she never asked me how I was. Most people do, these days - the postman, the food delivery people, the neighbours, the hospital people, etc. and the people in church. And I wanted to say, “I have cancer. In fact I have two kinds of cancer and a stoma, so why aren’t you asking me how I am?”
Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she thought I looked OK and didn’t like to bring it up. I wondered about my obsession with my problems. Maybe I should get a sweatshirt with the slogan on the back, CANCER VICTIM, PLEASE PITY ME. But I don’t want pity really. I am finding the whole thing rather interesting - and certainly I have had more cards and visits and flowers in the six months than in the last 10 years. I also thought that since I am enjoying the attention I am getting maybe my sweatshirt should read, CANCER IS REALLY INTERESTING. GIVE IT A TRY.