December last year was tough. The previous month had seen me diagnosed with certain death. December had seen me start treatment with a miracle drug that should extend my life by a couple of years. The TV screens were suddenly full of adverts for cancer charities. I cried several times to myself. For myself. Watching an advert showing how sad a family is when someone dies of cancer ripped into me. I don’t want to cause them such pain. But I know I will.
I don’t think I’ve cried since. Until this morning. A couple of unbelievably relaxing days split between hot tub, Jean Luc Picard and an occasional browse of the World Wide Web was coming to an end.
I’d turned the hot tub temperature down last night, realising that the Wednesday weather was going to be unkind. No point taking a dip today! It’s a couple of weeks before my sister returns with her family and I don’t think she’d appreciate paying to heat an unused pool to 38 Celsius for that time!
This morning I put things back as I found them. Turned a few switches off and lowered the thermostat inside the cabin. I gathered my things together and sat by the door, looking around. Then it hit.
It probably only lasted thirty seconds, but a huge emotional wave hit me and I cried. Maybe I knew it was coming. Maybe that’s why I’d taken myself to Anglesey. But not a conscious decision. I’ve found in the past that feeling sorry for yourself is rarely a good idea. But while there was perhaps an element of grief to this moment I’m not sat here now feeling sorry for myself.
I’m not sure why it happened. Or how long it’s been building up inside me. Perhaps the change of medication is the key. Much as the osimertinib has improved my condition and reduced my acne, the loss of afitinib was effectively the loss of two years of survival time.
I’m more than aware how averages work and always knew I might not hit average for afatinib. But somehow the optimist in me had believed I’d outdo the average. Have more time to enjoy the final go at life I’ve been offered. Seek out new worlds. Go where no man has gone before. Or at least where I’ve not been before.
The moment has gone and I feel fine now. I hope it takes its time returning.