So here we are, my little broken family of three. Eight months after chemo ended and a year post surgery, picking up the pieces of an altered life.
This appears to be the point where the books run out, the friends support is worn out.
Who can blame the stoic lot. They supported us all through so very much, and it should be finite resource. At some point it is time to go back to carrying your own weight? Its like that time after the funeral when people stop bringing the Sheppard’s pie and life goes on, we are there. The thing is so much has changed. My body, my identity, work stopped, my parents decline continues its rapid descent, with the constant draining daily outbursts from Dad about the injustice of his wife being lost somewhere in her head.
And here I am single, emotionally exhausted with, without wanting to be to melodramatic, a broken life, and some how, just me, all alone, has to find the strength to pick up the pieces, finish my training for the new career that was so abruptly stopped the day after diagnosis and work out how I am going to find the strength to earn a living and raise two beautiful boys, and rebuild a life. Perhaps if I’m lucky even find a new man, with all the obstacles that that brings.
I want to be that carefree girl (well relatively speaking) that I was two years ago. I felt invincible and that anything was possible. All that was required was effort. Hard work could get you through anything. Eyes on the prize. Courage. Trouble is some things are just bigger. I feel much older than I did just a year ago and I resent the hell out of it. Chemo and the lovely steroids they put in the mix meant I was two stone heavier come the end. I mean if there really was any justice in the world the Big C would at least equal skinny?
Anyway I am a very lucky girl. Well even if I don’t always believe it, I rationally know it to be true.
……..the chance to trampoline naked will come xx