I met a friend at a party on Saturday who I hadn’t seen for a few months. Barbara used to be the landlady of our local pub, the Grapes, and moved back to her flat on the other side of town in September when she sold the lease to Grapes neighbour Sir Ian Mckellan and his partners in the venture, theatre director Sean Matthias and Evening Standard owner Evgeny Lebedev.
Barbara didn’t know about my breast cancer and she was quite shocked and sorry to hear about it when we met. In the cold light of the following day she emailed me, reiterating how sorry she was. “It must have been such a shock,” she said. I thought about that. My girlfriend who was diagnosed last week and who has been caught very early, broke down I tears when I spoke to her. “I’m really sorry,” she said, knowing that in the scheme of things hers was considerably less serious than mine, “It’s just that I only found out a few days ago and it was such a shock,” she said by way of justifying the tears.
Had it been a shock to me? I wasn’t even sure. On one level, it must of course have been. The only things that would have mitigated that shock were the fact that I knew there was something wrong myself, and I suppose the initial shock came when I got a recall from my mammogram, confirming my own worst fears.
I know it was a huge shock to Martin when I came out of the first consultation with the specialist, lent into the cab on my way across the road to see the secretary about booking all my tests and told him: “I’m afraid he’s pretty sure it’s the big C.” But from that moment, I went into overdrive.
When Martin asked if I still wanted to go down to Ramsgate for a party that weekend, I said, of course. We had to carry on as normal until something stopped us carrying on as normal. And that it precisely what I have done so far. In the nine weeks since that day I have carried on as normally as possible. I am actually having my fourth chemo session as I write this. I suppose there have been moments when the “shock” did start to filter through. But not many. Which led me to consider, when Barbara suggested it must have been such a shock, whether in fact I was still ‘in’ shock.
Ironically, we have just watched the film “The Bucket List” with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman about two terminally ill men who write a list of things they want to do before they kick the bucket (I am home now after chemo, which all went well and to which I was accompanied by my friend Gilly, thanks G, and once she left I had a lovely reflexolgy treatment).
The film had some pretty awful reviews when it cam out, ( see this one for example, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/3671168/Film-reviews-The-Bucket-List.html) but I thought it was excellent, if a little poignant in my situation. I mean, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. They could read the telephone directory and it would be fantastic. Anyway, whatever its merits, when they first found out about their illnesses they talked about the five stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I thought, am I in denial? But I don’t think so. I had Hodgkins Disease at 17. It happened, I dealt with it, I got through it.
The same will happen this time. But that’s not to say I sit around dwelling on the idea of having cancer. I’m too busy communicating with and seeing friends and loved ones, keeping fit, working, oh yes, and having treatment and getting healthy.
So yes, it was certainly a shock for Martin and my parents and sister and all my family and friends. And I suppose it must have been a shock for me. But shock is not a productive state to be in. I have far too much to do in the next six months or so to entertain it. When I’m successfully through it all, it may creep up to hit me. But not now.
