There is no logical answer to explain the enormous sense of relief that swept over me when the doctor delivered his verdict of Cancer. It had been four long and expensive years of going from one specialist to another in search of the magic answer to the mystery of what was wrong with my ear; at that stage it was turning black, bits were falling off the lobe, and the pinna had curled over. Up until this point there were no answers from any of the doctors I consulted, no biopsy had been done and they did not seem to believe me when I told them that something was happening in the depths of the ear canal that simply was not right. The sheer amount of minimizing, dismissing and gas lighting was truly alarming. But here, at last, I was sitting in front of doctors who were listening, interested, and truly living their vocation in the truest sense. I am forever indebted to them for giving my life back to me, both literally and figuratively.
And so began my sudden journey through Cancer. At first, there was a healthy dose of denial and a strong sense that my disease was not that bad. It was not that serious. It was not that real. The few people with whom I shared my diagnosis – family and work colleagues – were all told by me that it was not that bad. This came crashing down on my first visit to the oncologist and the team of treatment professionals, who encouraged me to have my husband with me in consultations when discussing my tumour. My tumour? The first time I heard that actual word I reeled, and it finally sank in. This was serious. A number of tests ensued in rapid succession, and it was decided on a Friday afternoon that they could no longer wait as the cancer was aggressive. I would be admitted on that Sunday, and they would operate on the following morning.
Still, though, it did not feel real. A part of me is actually glad that it all happened so fast, as I did not have time to dwell and brood. I simply had to act and make decisions. The doctors presented several scenarios to me, and I opted for the aggressive surgery. I just wanted the poison that had invaded my body and had wreaked havoc with my psychological wellness and had made me ill for so long, out of my body.
I am a teacher, and it was coming to the end of the term, so I sat on that Sunday in the hospital bed pivoting between marking students’ scripts and a feeling utter disbelief. The surgeons had been to explain the procedures and their dangers, and that is when reality came knocking yet again. What choice does one truly have? We will always choose life. The most basic instinct in human beings is for life. And we will fight for it, instinctively. Over this time, I heard the constant refrain of my being strong etc. etc., but the truth of the matter is that I am not, or rather, I certainly did not feel it. I am just human. And humans fight for survival.
And so, I fought. After an operation that lasted 9 hours and 40 minutes. I was placed in ICU and my husband, and a dear friend found their way through a labyrinth of passages to come to my bedside. The first faces I remember seeing on waking up were filled with reflected love, and I knew I would be all right.
While I have never considered myself to be a vain person, when the reality of losing an ear and having invasive surgery on my neck, arm, and face set in, I realised how much I actually do care about my appearance. I worried about it, but consoled myself with the fact that everything would still work; that I would just be minus an ear. Things, however, seldom work out as planned, and the surgeons deemed it necessary to take out more than anticipated, from the pinna to the ear canal, my ear drum, and the inner workings of my ear. As well as parotid glands and lymph glands. Again, I am so grateful to them for doing what was necessary to rid me of this disease. When I woke up to no hearing, a lopsided face from nerve damage, and huge scars on my neck and arm (from which they transplanted flesh and skin to my ear cavity and face), I felt nothing but wellness. Despite the obvious pain from invasive surgery, I felt well. I felt more than well. I felt energised, healthy, and ready to live. I knew that it would be a long road to recover, and it was, but I felt good. All of my concerns about my appearance had vanished, quite literally.
Having no ear, I had to fashion a solution with my glasses and turned into a very clumsy engineer with bits of string until I could get new glasses fitted. Head scarves became my best friend, and I was showered with gifts of them in the most beautiful prints and fabrics. I could not wear make-up, and I could not dye my hair, so I embraced red lipstick and grey streaks, and felt liberated. I had to walk with a stick for a few months, and especially at work, where I had to navigate crowds of students rushing about. Through all of these changes, though, I celebrated. These minor tweaks to my existence were nothing; I was well, and I felt well for the first time in many years.
My army of warrior family and friends closed ranks and protected, fed, and loved me through my journey of recovery. I felt as though I had been ensconced in a cloud of nurturing and love. This is the aspect of my journey for which I am the most grateful and of which I have the fondest memories. I simply cannot verbalise what my family, my students, my students’ parents, my colleagues, my friends, and most importantly my husband did for me in that time. When I returned to work, my students brought me to tears of joy. I had not realised what community truly meant until I experienced their lifting me up.
People say that I was and am strong. But this is a skewed view. Yes, I did fight; and yes, I did have a positive attitude, but it was only because so many people loved me through it. I had the most unbelievable support. I was cared for in every way: my body was fed, my intellect was kept stimulated, my wounds were tended to with expert care, my comfort was ensured, conversations and laughter flowed, and I was held up in thoughts, messages, love, and care.
It was a great lesson in humility for me – who always wanted to be the one fixing things. I could not fix this. I had to stop. Lie down. And accept help in the sure knowledge that somewhere, somehow, I too have in the past helped others and will continue to help others in the future. Learning to accept help when I needed it was such a valuable lesson to me. There will be a time when I can pay it forward and help others, but when I was ill, I needed to rest.
Receiving a Cancer diagnosis is a surreal experience. I was shocked, despite the nasty reality that everyone in the world probably knows somebody who has either fought and won or fought and succumbed to the disease. In my time of recovery, my cousin received a Cancer diagnosis, was hospitalised, and tragically lost her battle. Another cousin’s little 9-year-old daughter also received a Cancer diagnosis at this time, was operated on, and has joyously recovered. It is everywhere. It is real. Take note and take care. It is not a battle to be taken lightly, but it is a war that can be fought. It is so important to take it one skirmish at a time, with your warrior friends and loved ones beside you. Be humble. Be gracious. And accept the love and help offered to you. We are a community of survivors, and we care. Take care of yourself always and be well.