Tiny Glimmers in a Bit of a Shitstorm
- timandcloe
- May 11
- 6 min read
“Tiny reminders that even in some of the shittest times, life can still be unexpectedly beautiful, funny and kinda great.”
Pre-confirmed diagnosis, I listened to a podcast by 37-year-old breast cancer survivor Lucy Ormonde sharing her own cancer story. A podcast I suddenly couldn’t bring myself to finish once my own diagnosis became a reality.
Oddly, it was easy to listen to while mentally preparing myself for all the “what ifs” during scans and tests. But once I knew I’d actually be going through something similar, it crossed the line from hypothetical to “absolutely not, ma’am, close the tab immediately” levels of real.
But as I’ve sat in the shittiness that is the first week post Cycle 3, which, can I tell you, has hit me the hardest so far, I’ve accepted my reality enough to go back and finish it.
And by hardest, I mean “if someone could rotate me every few hours like a rotisserie chicken to avoid bed sores, that’d be fabulous” kind of hard.
What I noticed listening back was something they spoke about that I’ve unknowingly been doing too: finding “glimmers” in the everyday.
Glimmers being those tiny moments where you somehow still notice something beautiful, funny or joyful, despite life currently feeling like a medically supervised bin fire.
And as I scrolled back through my camera roll, aside from all the project plans I’ve been mapping out for Tim and my elite-level online shopping strategy catalogue of pre-purchases (you know: add to cart, leave it there, wait for the inevitable “10% off if you complete your purchase” email, then remind myself I have cancer treatment bills and close the tab. Like the financially responsible queen I never asked to become), there they were:
My glimmer photos.
Now, whilst some are your standard run-of-the-mill glimmers - sunsets, coffee cups, freshly bloomed flowers (yes, I’m officially in my late-30s gardening era) - what they don’t show is the achievement behind them.
Like yes, even though my body from the neck down felt like it was spontaneously combusting from ache and exhaustion (honestly, I would’ve been perfectly happy living the rest of my life purely as a floating head), I still managed to walk a lap around the block and take a photo of the skyline.
Or even though my eyesight was so blurry I could barely see one hand in front of the other, I still helped Tim rip out our front garden to start again (Project Tim #5) and noticed a beautiful new bloom on one of our magnolias.
Or the 4km coastal walk I did with a friend when neither of us were feeling 100%, where we stopped at a coffee van and sat there whinging about absolutely everything under the sun whilst enthusiastically applying our newly learned phrase of “dicktim”. And even though coffee currently tastes like salty engine oil to me, I still bought one to cling onto some sense of normality. (Also because she absolutely wouldn’t have got one unless I did.)
Then there are the utterly unhinged glimmers.
Like taking an impressionable 16-year-old to a place known as “Succuland” and buying an oddly shaped cactus for his collection whilst searching for a huggable cactus of my own. Naturally, my boys immediately demonstrated just how capable males are at breaking words into syllables which I clearly missed.
Very mature. Another very proud parenting moment.
Or getting Tim a new wedding band because 18 years of marriage has apparently resulted in a slightly larger waistline and a smaller fitting ring. Which somehow led to an impromptu renewal of our wedding vows and exchange of rings whilst sitting on the couch in track pants, with Harry beside us fully focused on his failing fantasy football team with his mates and teachers to even notice.
Very romantic. Very random. Very us.
I even found a glimmer whilst absolutely filthy that the only two parking metres at the hospital weren’t working on a particularly rough symptom day. Because whilst it was a complete ball ache sorting it out, and don’t get me started on paid parking at hospitals, it still represented a day where I managed to get myself out of the house to attend a free “Look Good, Feel Better” workshop designed to help people going through treatment navigate changes to skincare, makeup and wigs, and still feel beautiful.
And I walked out with a goodie bag full of products. Dior lipsticks, Morphe makeup brushes, shimmering eye palettes and all. How good is that?
Let’s just hope I can remember how to naturally draw on my own eyebrows, which apparently disappear towards the end of treatment along with eyelashes, so I don’t end up looking like a deranged Frida Kahlo self-portrait.
And my favourite glimmer moments so far?
Celebrating Mother’s Day with some exceptional mothers in our lives and then sharing my own celebrations by walking in the Mother's Day Classic with my two fabulous men - an event honouring and raising funds to support those who have experienced or are experiencing breast and ovarian cancers. Funds that go towards their goal of zero deaths from breast cancer and earlier detection of ovarian cancer.
This was not only a physical achievement for me this week, but an emotional one too.
Because three months ago, my world didn’t involve the words “I have breast cancer”.
And... it also didn’t involve the sheer volume of profanities and innuendos I now seem to fire off daily either. I swear, it’s like chemo has unlocked some sort of deeply inappropriate comedic alter ego where I simply no longer give a shit and am fabulously hilarious for it. But anyway.
So what’s the takeaway here?
Well, if you’re going through treatment yourself, take the photos. Even on your worst days. Even when you look and feel like Uncle Fester who’s survived solely on Hydralyte and de-puffing eye masks. Take them anyway.
Because those photos become proof that even in the roughest moments, there were still glimmers of joy, hope, humour or achievement hidden amongst it all.
And if you know someone going through treatment, maybe send them glimmers too.
And by that, I don’t mean sending them updates about all the fabulous things you’re out there doing whilst they’re horizontal in bed feeling like a swamp goblin.
I mean send them the weird stuff.
Lawn porn.
A truly terrible parking job by some twat at the local supermarket.
A baddie from afar they’d risk it all for.
A dog that looks exactly like its middle-aged male owner (“How are they both bald?”).
The new TV series you’re insisting they watch immediately.
Because sometimes those tiny moments become the distraction someone desperately needs.
And they may even send glimmers back, which can quickly evolve into competitions like:
whose photo is the most disturbing,
which image would absolutely get us arrested without context,
“is that what I think it is…?” …zoom out. Nope. Just an unfortunately shaped vegetable.
Whatever form they take, everyone needs glimmers at some point. Tiny reminders that even in some of the shittest times, life can still be unexpectedly beautiful, funny and kinda great.
Although some people’s glimmers may also reveal far more about them than you ever wanted to know… and instantly make you regret ever asking how their day was.
My glimmers from Cycle #3
This blog is to allow me to write a little more about it (my blip) along the way. Partly to keep friends and family updated, and partly because writing has always been how I make sense of things.
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