Pity Party for One Please

If you’ve stumbled across this post and are thinking, “Hang on, I didn’t see this on Facebook,” you’d be correct.

And if your next question is, “Why?”, well, pull up a chair. Quietly.

Because tonight, in a rare display of wisdom, maturity and emotional sophistication, I’ve decided to finally get the monkey off my back. And by that, I mean I am giving myself full permission to indulge, briefly and unapologetically, in a proper, old-fashioned wallow.

It started, as these things often do, in the shower. A rogue thought. Then another. Then, without warning, tears. Previously dismissed as “just shower water”, they decided to make their presence known.

So here we are.

Tonight, I am throwing myself a once-off pity party. Guest list: me.

There is no cake. I can’t taste anything anyway. It could just as easily be a meat pie. No late night either, because apparently I now power down like a faulty appliance. And sadly no alcohol, because I’m now 100% sober and, frankly, trying not to increase my cancer risk. Awkward.

But what we do have tear-jerking ballads, industrial quantities of tissues and a selection of electrolytes.

I know. Try to contain your jealousy.

So no invitation to the Facebook community was sent, no RSVPs are expected, and no light and positive blog piece resembling my usual upbeat, happy-go-lucky attitude has been published.

This one’s strictly grumpy, mildly dramatic, and not open for review.

However, as you’re already here, you’re welcome to stay and observe my emotional breakdown - provided it's without judgement and from a respectful distance - almost like permission to peer through my window.

But less in a voyeuristic peeping Tom way (eww!) and more like The Truman Show meets Big Brother.

You know - watch quietly, and trust I’ll rejoin reality shortly. Hopefully. 🤞

Tonight, I am throwing myself a once-off pity party. Guest list: me.”

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Truly, deeply, what the actual hell - angry

Right. With that out of the way. I am angry. Truly pissed off.

Why me? Why now? What did I do to deserve this?

Was it bad luck? A statistical blip? Did I unknowingly tick off every superstition in one go?

Or is this karma finally cashing in?

For pretending I’m not home when the door knockers arrive, despite clearly being visible through the front window? No, I do not want to discuss solar panels, local council elections or the word of the Lord.

For the internal, and occasionally external, sighs at work frustrations (and a few choice words underbreath)?

For those long-forgotten minibar crimes as a young adult, and creative refilling techniques that surely fall outside the statute of limitations?

Or are we going further back?

Like to the time, in primary school, where I stole Hubba Bubba chewing gum from the newsagent? In my defence, I was caught, shamed, and made to pay it all back - all 0.99c of it from my own pocket money.

I even think I had to wash the car and moisturise my mum’s feet and legs as additional punishment. So justice was well and truly served on that one. 🤮

Or perhaps the time I dropped my brother on his head? Yes. That would explain a lot. I’ll however let you guess which brother, as both have occasionally exhibited signs consistent with that particular incident.

And then, separate to all of that, I’m just angry at everything right now.

Angry when I see other people out and about living their best life while I’m stuck in bed, or carefully avoiding the public and all their festy germs like they’re airborne glitter with consequences.

Angry that my life feels like it’s been put on hold, waiting for someone to press play again, and that I can’t make future plans until I know what my treatment and recovery actually look like. No holiday plans, no 5-year goals, no idea what comes next.

Angry at the smallest, most ridiculous things.

That I don’t have the stamina to finish the tasks I start. That I have appointments, tests and medications coming out of my ears, and having to remember them all.

That even getting dressed properly is still a gamble, because legs in separate pant holes, or clothes the right way round, is seemingly not always a guaranteed outcome with me.

Anger which, as it turns out, also has consequences.

Like the moment I found myself half out the car window last weekend with both birds fully flipped, enthusiastically yelling “you dickhead” at an impatient tailgater through Woodvale, while Tim calmly reminded Harry to just focus on the road and not his temporarily unhinged mother in the backseat.

Okay so not my finest parenting moment. 😬

But also not entirely surprising. Because right now everything feels like too much, and that day was very much a “rough symptom day” kind of day.

Plus the guy was a total tosspot.

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And don’t even get me started on the chemotherapy side effects.

It feels like I’m just ticking off the TCHP side effect list like a very un-fun bingo card, with only a few numbers left to go…

Is it not enough that I currently resemble a fuzzy peanut?

Why does everything smell incredible but taste like I’m licking the charred remains of a roast tray? Or hurt to swallow?

Why do my bones ache like I’ve aged forty years overnight? Why can’t my digestive system pick a lane and commit - just one, I’m not asking for much?

Why does every bathroom trip to pee feel like a high-stakes, broken-glass-lined extraction mission? Why am I having to replace ultra-soft toothbrushes weekly?

Why is my bald scalp and hairless body covered in an acne-ridden chemo rash? Why am I always covered in scabs and bruises from needles and my spectacularly enthusiastic reactions to medical tape and Band-Aids?

Why do my headaches feel like a jackhammer to the temple, while my eyes have become drier than a nun’s proverbial…? 😉

And why, cruelly and offensively, has my once-beloved afternoon nap gone from luxury to necessity without delivering any actual rest?

Then there's the chemical menopause. At 38. Just to really round things out nicely. I mean I just love sweating myself to sleep and all.

Though I will say, in this particular downward spiral, I’ve thankfully been spared the nausea and vomiting so far. Small mercies, I suppose.

And I’ve kept my nails for now. However, given my boy-mum painting skills in an attempt to keep them, I’ve managed to varnish more skin than nail, so perhaps that’s not the triumph it sounds like.

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But underneath all of that… I feel fear.

But aside from all of that - the anger, the sarcasm, the complaints, the moments of unhingement - there’s also something else.

Fear.

Fear that it might not just be contained to where we thought. That the left side, the one that was meant to be the “good” side, is now also being questioned. Which means more scans, more waiting, more time for my brain to go absolutely feral in the background.

Fear of the surgery that’s coming. Not just the operation itself, but what it means.

What stays. What goes.

Such as not knowing whether my nipples will survive the removal of my boobs, and if not, whether I’ll end up with tattooed replacements that, knowing my luck, will look like two wonky eyes having a bad day.

Fear of what comes after surgery. The pain. The recovery.

Whether the chemo did its job in shrinking the tumours and nodes and amount of cancer cells within. And if not, will that then mean more chemo on top of the targeted therapy, with twelve months already locked in and hormone suppression for the next decade.

Also how much radiation will I need, and for how long, is still another unknown.

All of it - just a long, slow extension of something I am already quite ready to be done with at this point.

And then there’s the genetic testing. Not the Maury Povich “who’s your father” episode variety - that one’s unfortunately very obvious (DNA match by eyebrows alone) - but the kind that quietly determines what this means for the future: recurrence, risk, what I may have passed down to Harry, and whether other parts of me, like my ovaries, become optional extras in the name of prevention.

Even if they are more ornamental than functional these days, they're still mine. This thing is already taking enough.

So much of this is out of my control; my life currently sits in the hands of people in scrubs, charts, and treatment plans. And for a control-freak like myself, that’s a tough cookie to swallow...

Even my body feels like it’s no longer fully mine - constantly exposed, touched, prodded - measured in ways that feel both clinical and strangely distant. And they always have cold hands. Impressively so. I mean honestly, at this point, I’m just concerned about their circulation.

But the hardest bit of all of this?

That underneath all of this noise, there’s something quieter. Something that doesn’t really care about jokes, coping mechanisms, or bravado.

It just sits there anyway - quietly, persistently. As even as I remain an optimist, I am also a realist:

Will they get it all? Will I survive this?

Because your guess is as good as mine at this point. And I’m learning to sit with that, even when I don’t want to.

💔

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So, fuck you cancer. Yes, you.

Truly. Madly. Deeply. Without qualification.

For everything you’ve taken, everything you threaten, and everything you’ve forced me to feel.

"You dickhead!"

🖕 🖕

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There. Said. Moving on.

And that’s it. Tantrum thrown. Dummy well and truly out of the cot. Imaginary cake smashed against the wall.

My pity party is now over. The singular candle has been fully extinguished, and my party whistle officially retired.

Because I’m not one to make a thing of this. To sit in the depths of despair for long. To dwell on the current state of affairs. To fully commit to a self-indulgent pity spiral (tempting as it occasionally is, for about 0.5 seconds).

You see, I see this whole thing as just a chapter for me. A rough one. A deeply inconvenient, wildly unfair, occasionally absurd chapter, yes - but a chapter nonetheless. The sort you don’t reread for fun, but apparently still have to live through.

And I hope to ring that bell one day - to say I’m cancer free - and, if I do, I want to turn the page, move forward, and not look back or define myself by what was.

I don’t want to carry this as an identity, but as something I’ve been through - not something I am. There will be no lifelong label or neat little hashtag to tack onto my story. #RefusingTheBranding (and honestly, refusing the merch line too).

I do however want to be intentional about what I do define myself by.

I want to focus on what I’ve learned along the way - and what I can give back because of it.

Showing up for others the way people have shown up for me. Volunteering my time to support those walking the same path I have, and those angels who have kindly done so - and continue to do so for me. Sharing in the hard bits honestly and, where possible, still lacing them with humour, because sometimes that’s the only way through (and occasionally the only thing standing between me and screaming into a pillow).

I want to stay open to the good, too. To notice it, even when it’s small. Even when it’s fleeting.

To carry all of this forward - not as something that defines me, but as something that’s shaped me. A reminder of what matters, and how much of it is people.

And as much as I don’t like it, I know there will still be future moments like today - days where everything feels like too much, where I’m more tired or angry than brave, and where the best I can manage is simply getting through it. And in those moments, I will allow myself grace.

And maybe… even another solo pity party.

Where, at the very least, there will be misery cake - because hopefully by then, I’ll at least be actually able to taste it.

One order for a Mississippi baked cheesecake please… 🥳

Oh, and in case you haven’t already worked it out, it was Patrick. #sorrybro

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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...