It Takes a Village (and Apparently Breast-Shaped Cookies)

"They say it takes a village - but I didn't expect mine to include chocolate nipples, lemon meringue tarts, and my brother threatening a hamper of sorts."

Support, care, and love come in many forms, and this week Tim, Harry, and I have had the absolute privilege of receiving almost all of them.

Well…kind of.

One form we narrowly avoided was the "adult store hamper" my wonderful brother threatened to send me because, apparently, even in dark times, people still need a bit of fun. Needless to say, I didn't give him my address. And yes, I briefly considered blocking him. I'm also not entirely convinced the threat has fully passed.

Aside from that, the warmth we've received has been incredible. Messages, well wishes, thoughtful gestures, and countless offers to help from family, friends, colleagues, and our wider community have meant so much.

At one point, we even received a batch of anatomically inappropriate cookies - chocolate button nipples included. And yes, they were spot-on with lumps and all, perfectly representing 'the globalists' at this moment. The joke landed perfectly.

If humour is medicine, these were just what the doctor ordered.

Shared Stories, Shared Strength

It's also been especially powerful hearing from those who have been through this before, or who are walking the same path now. People sharing their stories - or their loved ones' - their courage, and their struggles have reminded me that I am not alone.

Because the truth is, when your life suddenly flips upside down with appointments, scans, phone calls, and decisions, it can feel isolating. You are busier than ever, yet somehow lonelier in the middle of it all, still trying to make sense of everything happening around you. Wondering if anyone truly understands how scared you are, or that beneath your armour of humour and light-heartedness, you're trying so hard not to spiral into the 'what-ifs'. Not knowing how things might change: around you, in you, or to you.

Since hearing the "C" word last week, it has crept into every thought, every conversation, every plan for the future. At one point, I worried it might take over me - that during this "blip*", I might lose who I am, what I can do, and the things that make my life "whole".

*I don’t call this a journey. A journey sounds epic - tramping through the South of France, finding yourself, discovering hidden cafés, having life-changing epiphanies. My situation? More of a Blip: inconvenient, challenging, and hopefully short-lived enough that I can return to my perfectly unremarkable hermit life.

A Gentle Reminder

This was until someone I know and hope to call a friend, who has been through this herself and come out the other side, gently but firmly set me straight.

In the middle of one of my small spirals of despair (which I've been trying very hard not to indulge in too often), she looked me square in the eyes and said:

"Remember: You are Cloe first, and you have cancer - not the other way around."

That moment shifted something in me as she shared all the amazing things she was able to do during her 'blip', considering everything she was facing, and how, even amidst it all, she was still able to manage the everyday things too.

It reminded me that I can still be me, and that I can continue living my life through this. I can still be the mum, wife, colleague, friend, sparkling conversationalist, undefeated Mario Kart champion, and second-rate chef of our household. While there may need to be adjustments along the way, it doesn't mean that everything stops. It doesn't have to define me now or in the future, or consume every part of my life.

However, I must also accept that during this time, I must put myself first. While I can still be all and do those things, there will be a time and place for them. For those of us used to caring for others, fixing things for everyone else, and always showing up when someone needs us, this is however a challenging concept and one I will need to try and navigate a bit better.

She also gave me permission to acknowledge something else: this will be hard.

At times, it will be scary, frustrating, and, quite frankly, pretty shit. There will be anger, fear, anxiety, insecurities about changes to my appearance, and situations that deserve every colourful swear word known to humanity - something I've been enjoying letting fly freely at the moment, much to Harry's disgust (totes eye roll 🙄).

And that it is okay. It is completely normal. These moments are just me being human, navigating something difficult, and still finding my way through it.

It Takes a Village

But above all, what she showed me – and what this past week has made clear again and again - is that I don't have to do this by myself. It reminded me of something simple but powerful:

It really does take a village. 💛

That alongside the fear and uncertainty of this week, which included PET, CT, and heart scans with results that can change the current plan, has been the quiet, steady presence of people showing up:

• Messages

• Flowers

• Chicken Pies

• Lemon meringue tarts (check out Orchard Tarts - simply amazing)

• Shared stories and reminders (like that one time I broke a limb on my first and last day of Surf Lifesaving...)

• Offers to sit, listen, help, cook, drive, check in - or simply make me laugh when I need it most

So, as I head into my first treatment on Friday, I know I’ll have incredible support around me. And for that, we are more grateful than we could ever put into words.

Because if our village proves anything, it's that you don't have to face this type of thing by yourself.

...And also that there will always a village idiot somewhere to keep things interesting… and sometimes, that person is your brother, with his sordid sense of humour. 😜

Thank you.

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This blog is to allow me to write a little more about it along the way. Partly to keep friends and family updated, and partly because writing has always been how I make sense of things.

Pour yourself a cuppa and read more...