These last couple weeks have disappeared. No writing, no reading. This past week, I haven’t even left the neighbourhood dog-walk route. Leaving chemo behind is like leaving a pond, slogging through the mud at the shore. My feet sucked down. Pins and needles.

My fingertips: pins and needles. I feel like I am in a constant state of thaw – my body trying to let go of an illusion of numbing cold. I pull on wool socks, a wool cap. Then I’m hit by a hot flash that nauseates me.

Since I hadn’t even wandered into the library all this time, I figured I had nothing to process, really. I’m not sure now. I’m not feeling much of anything. I did cry on the way home from the clinic yesterday, but was not sure why exactly.

The oncologist stopped chemotherapy, saying that to continue would risk increasing the likelihood that these pins and needles will be permanent. As it is, the odds are good that it will resolve over the coming months. Maybe getting worse before it gets better.

I fell yesterday morning, walking Leonard, when he tugged to chase the cat that was stalking us. He is a big dog, but that hasn’t happened before. I went down easy, but was startled by the fact that I went down at all. It has started to affect my balance, and today I notice that I am actually afraid to go for a run on my own.

The oncologist assures me that 8 of 12 of this type of infusion is fine, that I have probably gotten nearly all of the benefits already. He says stopping early because of neuropathy is common. I still feel as though I failed chemo.

In America, I see people ring a bell, supported by a cheering nursing staff – they get a certificate of completion: you are sort of guided through an emotional response. They don’t do anything like that here. Though my oncologist smiled when he said he was stopping chemo and referring me straight to the surgeon. I could tell he was expecting me to be… happy? relieved? I have no labels for what I felt. My toes were tingling in my boots. I felt cold. Tense. Maybe even ashamed. A chemo flunky.

I drove home, sobbed exactly twice along the way. I ate lunch. Then I drove back into town to see the (private) gynecologist: a quick check to see what damage the chemo may have done to my vaginal walls. She complimented me on how well I seemed to be handling treatment – not a comment on my vaginal walls, but on my demeanor. I told her that losing B. to a glioblastoma in June put my diagnosis and prognosis in perspective. I will be fine. At least for now.

I have to admit, I am frightened when I read all the news articles about recurrences. When I think I am stopping chemo early and there may be (likely are) microscopic cancer cells floating around in my body, that can take hold… whenever. (Should I have tried to push the doctor to push through the last 4 weeks? Is this tingling really all that bad? Am I reporting this accurately?)

I’m frightened when I listen to doctors talk about how it’s okay to enjoy that glass of wine because quality of life is as important as length of life. But I’m not there yet: weighing quality of life against length of life. I am not ready for those thoughts. Maybe because I am still wondering what the quality of my life is/can be.

I still get irrationally angry when I hear/see comments about prayer or positivity curing people’s cancer. (As though God is swayed by popularity online or off. Or the universe punishes people for not being happy enough – there are enough crotchety old people in the world to challenge that idea!)

I watched The Blue Zone on Netflix, looking for guidance regarding what I should change in my life to live longer. I was disappointed by how utterly non-scientific the whole thing was. It was interesting was cherry-picked as “cause” and what was ignored entirely. When journalists pass off anecdote and observation as science I think they are leading the front of misinformation.

On an instagram campaign for Breast Cancer Awareness, an older Indian women is telling people breast cancer is caused by the lack of nurturing one received as a child. Another says it is caused by the inability to nurture. A pretty, young white woman in yoga pants answers my objection saying that I need to respect other people’s “beliefs” on the matter. My head is going to explode in the internet realm of opinions as alternative facts. I try to let go of the indignation. The anger. This is absurd. I should be beyond this kind of emotional farce. I am ashamed of myself.

I need to make changes to have a better quality of life – whether or not it includes wine. It probably shouldn’t include interacting on social media.

There is a narrative that I am guessing dates back to the very first stories ever told: the idea of growth through adversity. The hero’s journey. I think it is interesting that we have this idea, yet still undervalue older people in our current culture. It’s as though we have taken the concept of surviving beautifully and applied it primarily to a visual aesthetic. I noticed that this month the faces of breast cancer online are not aligned statistically with the ages of women who are diagnosed.

Breast cancer mainly occurs in middle-aged and older women. The median age at the time of breast cancer diagnosis is 62. This means half of the women who developed breast cancer are 62 years of age or younger when they are diagnosed. A very small number of women diagnosed with breast cancer are younger than 45.

American Cancer Society

It seems to me that breast cancer patients are inversely represented by age in awareness campaigns. I also read something about how women in their 40s were hit harder by a diagnosis (in terms of being forced to deal with mortality/mutilation) than older women. I would love to see how they are measuring that. I am 57. It doesn’t mean I am thinking, eh- lived my life, ready to die. Or that losing a breast is no big deal at my age. It seems to me this is about women adopting the male gaze, not the living experiences of women from a personal point of view.

I have mentioned before that there is a kind of pressure to – not only survive cancer – but to somehow turn it into something people call a “blessing”: a catalyst for a better life. This isn’t new to me. CSA and a bipolar diagnosis carry with them the same kind of pressure to excel: to reach a point where you say that your adversities were a “blessing” that made you who you are. That is a lot of pressure. You can’t say that and be average. Not only is the bad luck yours to deal with, it is yours to justify by way of being “better than” in some way.

Health – mental or physical – shouldn’t a competitive sport. Resilience so admired as to give us secular saints for a capitalist economy. I have to remind myself of that. It doesn’t have to be a means to an end: just a means to enjoy each day on its own terms. Have we always been such a performative species? Is it just me that sees it this way? It very well could be just me.

But there are a surprising number of cancer survivor gurus/coaches/teachers who will guide you through the process to find your better story. It is an entire industry. And it is so very seductive.

But I am not going to see this time of my life as a blessing. I do hope that I am learning things, but I have always hoped that I was continually learning to be a better person.

You know, if anything, maybe I am learning that all this effort at “improvement” is unnecessary: that maybe the clearest view is from a point of average.

Mundane even.

Invisible.

I don’t know. I reserve the right to change my mind. I can’t really make sense out of something so arbitrary. And, after all: I failed chemo.