past life

Idly turning on the TV  last night, I found myself watching the C word on BBC 1; a drama that opened a window into my past; to let memories like light from far distant stars come thinly shining into the present.

Just under 5 years ago, post diagnosis and major surgery; I left my first chemo session pumped full of FEC, steroids and anti sickness pills, feeling fine; even stopping for sushi on the way home. This was the calm before the storm; as by 10pm that evening I was throwing up, despite the back up anti sickness meds, the back up back up anti sickness meds, and an iron will. 

I had no idea you could vomit 10hrs straight..... But yes, sadly this is physically possible; although towards the end, it was clear that my stomach was completely voided, and what was being produced was pure bile.... bright green and bitter on the tongue.

 A swift trip to the hospital to rehydrate and receive further  anti sickness back up meds soon put it right; although the difficulty they experienced inserting the cannula should have set alarm bells ringing.

By my second chemo session, it was clear my veins were having nothing to do with the process, resolutely shutting down; unyielding to the gentlest of nurses. It was decided that a PIC line was in order..... and had my veins allowed it to pass through, this would have made chemo far simpler... But no, my right arm refused to countenance such a scheme; which is how I ended up on an operating table being told by a doctor that I would just experience some pressure on my chest as a Hickman line was inserted......he lied; but then again how could he know; he after all had never experienced this procedure!

Then the inevitable happened; my hair began to drift out in clumps, as we knew it most surely would. My husband and son couldn't face shaving it, so two dear friends, armed with a pair of clippers, took photos as they clipped my hair into a Mohawk , and then down to a buzz cut.... We laughed and joked as the clippers did their work... compared to the Hickman and the vomiting, this was the least of my woes.

A week later, I realised even the buzz cut was rubbing off onto pillow cases and the back of sofas. Like Hansel and Gretel, I too was leaving a tell tail trail marking my movements  around the house.

That evening I decided it had to go! I ran a steaming hot bath, and, taking a brand new razor, began to shave my head. After the second stroke I realised this was a bad idea; I was now immersed in 'hair soup' ! I scrambled out of the bath, wrapped myself loosely in a towel, drained the water, cleaned up every last strand of hair; then realised that I must finish what I started, or totally lose my dignity as even with a buzz cut, there is a surprising amount of hair. I took the razor, headed for the shower and carefully shaved the rest of my head. There was now hair all over the shower curtain and the bath tub. Wrapped in a now damp and distinctly hairy towel, I cleaned the shower curtain, re cleaned the bath, and discarded the towel in the laundry hamper... Only to notice I had missed a tuft of hair. So I took the razor, leaned over the basin, and finished the job; then cleaned the basin, cleaned the cleaning cloth and consigned another hair laden towel into the laundry hamper. 

Two hours from that fateful decision, I wiped steam from the bathroom mirror and steeled myself to look at my reflection. It was as I thought; despite the neatly rounded skull of a cesarean baby, it was definitely Uncle Fester's twin sister staring back at me!!

Cobweb walking

Weathering the darkest of days has left me tongue tied; scrabbling for lost syllables with which to weave an intricate web of words from thought to page. I am,as yet, merely cobweb walking; precariously balanced upon the crumbling remnants of a decaying past; my mind still sluggish from Winter's hibernation. 

As the days lengthen, I shed layers as a snake sloughs skin; flooding the house with colour and light to banish those dark shadows lingering in dusty corners amidst the desiccated remains of long dead flies........

.......until, as the Spring sun gently illuminates newly bared skin; warming patio flags, beckoning leaves to unfurl and buds to burst; the birdsong that brings in the morning, brings with it a sense of balance restored. 

loss

The air hangs heavy with  silence, pressing its leaden weight through darkening rooms. All warmth has leached away, leaving a hairline crack through which has seeped the sadness of lost memories; and a glint of silver on once familiar skin.

Shadows move through unguarded doorways; deepening as days stretch to night, and the slow tick of the clock marks the passing hours.... and I, curled catlike under heavy quilts, taste the bitter taint of words as yet unspoken; as the creeping chill of empty sheets numbs me to the core.

Etched on skin

 Red scars now faded with time to silver; meander like contours across my body. They map the years of openings and re openings; of harsh lights, soft voices and blue scrubs. The sting of anaesthetic and the hand of a stranger; as tubes pushed deep into veins, and sutures tugged at soft flesh. 

In the aftermath, when poisons ceased to seep into every cell, and syringes no longer a part of daily routine; I began to reclaim this tired body moulded by circumstance and surgeon's scalpel; becoming familiar with new curves and old wounds. 

Five years from the cold realisation of a hard lump under probing fingertips; I have taken control - etching upon skin a design of my own choosing, to tame both scars and memories; the sting of needle and ink a mere ghost of what has already been.

 A lotus now blooms along my spine, with hamsa to ward off further ills... realigning chakras and letting in light once more..... A fitting ending to a dark episode.

Cold snap

Jack Frost has sent his icy breath curling round the garden; setting grass in stiff spikes, and icing every hollow. Filigree patterns etched on each leaf and frond hold their own delicate beauty; whilst the ghosts of spiders webs hang still in shadowed corners; frozen mid decay.

All is quiet and still; the birds still roosted in litchen lined nests, or perched on power lines; feathers plumped against the cold.

A sudden flurry upsets the peace, as reluctant cats tumbling into the morning air, breathe soft mist and startle as paws contract on cold flagstone; causing a flexing of feet and mad scrabble to retreat back into the warm......

.....and I, with cheeks pinched and joints slowly stiffening ; swathe myself in cashmere wraps and woollen mittens, ready to step into half light of a day not quite begun, to embark upon the early morning commute.

Out with the old

Last night, the wind howled round the house like a dragon unleashed; chasing away cobwebs and the final vestiges of an old year fraught with the destructive forces of a raging sea. 
We inside, who battened down the hatches to shelter in warm darkness; listened to rain lashing against the panes; cleansing and purifying our groaning timbers that have held strong through tempest's eye.

Now is a time for calm; to clear away the debris of this storm just fled, leaving a mere ghost of itself in the brittle leaves haphazardly scattered on rain soaked lawn; and splinters of heartwood  embedded in soft flesh. 
 We will once more fill the rooms with soft light and tend to smarting wounds; a little more wary, yet ready to brave the next wave that is sure to break.

Tipping point

Fumbling fingers dial a number engrained since early childhood; and a voice I don't recognise as my own asks for an assistance seen in countless TV dramas; only this is our drama, unexpected, frightening.... A tipping point on an adjusted scale.

There is a fine balance we seek, as we juggle the complexity of our lives to avoid obvious stumbling points; yet all the while, unseen forces gather at the margins, silent; waiting for that perfect moment to send  the bar plummeting , the balls tumbling and rolling round the floor. As I dialled, I felt that balance tip; shifting a load so carefully spread, my shoulders hung heavy with the sudden weight of it. For an instant, I stumbled; allowing the balls to slowly roll to the furthest reaches; unable to gather the momentum to set them spinning through the air ; shifting the weight back to that elusive midpoint. 

Life rumbles on, as it must, and the scattered pieces have been retrieved to be set spinning once more. There is less weight pressing down upon my shoulders, yet that elusive midpoint evades us still...... the bar forever resting one degree above tipping point, as we inch our way back to normality once more.