That’s usually my role - waiting for the worst to happen.
I should have stayed up longer yesterday with the steroid energy surge. Today I’ve been bed-bound, but nothing particularly bad, thank god. It’s Day 3 and the worst so far has been the steroid effect: steroids and my guts do not mix well. But I’ve gained 5lb plus some appetite (at a time when I expected to be terrified of eating in case I felt sick - more about that another time) so that’s really cheered me up. Only one thing: I went mad on Christmas Day replenishing my ‘skinny Jan’ wardrobe from Jigsaw’s and Mango’s online sales. By the time they arrive, I won’t be able to squeeze into anything. That’s the problem with this situation - uncertainty everywhere.
By the way, I’ve never blogged before and I’m doing this for my own benefit. Bear with me. Breast cancer and chemotherapy were unexpected (are they ever expected?), unwelcome (are they ever...?) and terrifying. Only terrifying in an unexpected way. To me, breast cancer is just a disease. My mum had it twice and recovered both times. I know of several women who’ve been treated and declared clear and none who’ve died. I’ve never thought about it as life-threatening, though I’ve accepted it would be without all the treatments. But I suffer from lifelong mental health problems including emetophobia (fear of vomiting) and my terror has focused on the treatments. I’m a master of catastrophising and I’ve put myself through hell. I’m not fooling myself - I know there’s worse to come but it’s not as bad as the catastrophising which at times has paralysed my brain.
I’ve got this far. I’ve had the surgery and recovered well. I’ve started the first of the treatments. I’ve accepted it.
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