I want to hand my cancerous body over like a broken-down car – give it back to me when it’s perfect again
Cancer is the bully in the playground. It waits around corners, lurks in the corridors of one’s mind and lives to trip one up when one least expects it. Mine was no different from anyone else’s. A diagnosis of Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma – one that required serious, five-star chemotherapy – is no walk in the park. Trust me. In order to navigate my way through it, I found that dark humour was imperative. I’ve always believed every cancer is as unique as each individual’s fingerprints.
I wrote my memoir Dancing with the Red Devil in real time, in an effort to make sense of what was happening. But I also wrote it in the hope that others would relate to it and see that there’s always a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.
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It’s 7th December and I’ve figured out something really important today. A revelation. I now acknowledge I must have felt like crap for about five months prior to my diagnosis. Cancer didn’t just strike me out of the blue. I must have been so out of tune with my body that I failed to notice any telltale warning signs. I thought the dragging, full feeling in my groin was due to putting on 6 lbs during lockdown. The fact that I’m middle-aged explained the need to continually get up in the middle of the night to pee. I imagined the weird itching of my thighs and buttocks was just an allergy; the strange welts that appeared out of nowhere were nothing to worry about. I even saw a dermatologist about it during one of the lockdown circuit breakers. He said it was stress. Or hives. A washing powder I was allergic to.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Rookie error.
Today, despite having four ulcers in my mouth, rapidly thinning hair, and a porn star bush, I feel fantastic. Really great. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. Last night, I slept for seven hours straight. I’m relaxed, I’m content. Happy with my lot.
I’ve come up with an analogy: if ever I have a car that goes wrong, starts smoking, makes a whining noise whenever I shift gears, or gets a flat tyre, I drive it to the nearest garage. I want to leave it with them to sort out. I hate it. And right now I feel that way about my body and my illness.
I’m going to hand this cancerous body over to the specialists, and I’m not interested in getting it back until it’s perfect again. I’m not engaging in the broken version. Don’t want the one that’s got a port implanted beneath my breastbone, nor the one that’s intent on producing fur balls, nor the one on a mission to wither. That body – that pathetic version of my body – needs to stay in the garage until it’s fixed. Until it’s been valet polished, has new brakes and is full of oil, gas and anti-freeze. Then, and only then, will I take back full ownership and drive off in it.
I can abide by this analogy I’ve come up with. I can relate to it. As long as I think of my body as a wreck that’s been towed away to be fixed, I can do this. My sadness is that I can’t rent a fancy new car to drive in the interim.
But after a good day, things turn ugly. Like a strange, sinister children’s party entertainer who doesn’t really care if the complexity of his tricks makes a child cry with frustration, my hair is now not performing well. Tonight, my mane has turned into a right royal diva. I’m shedding huge clusterf***s of fur balls every time I touch it. It’s way too volatile and unstable to wash, brush or touch. I turn around and find I’ve left my mark: strands of hair lie at my feet on the kitchen floor. It reminds me of when my daughter India was 16 and used to experiment with cheap, tacky, DIY hair extensions she’d buy in Brixton market. I’m not talking about a few stray tendrils, like when a baby grasps your hair and comes away with some strands; I’m talking about big chunks. And another one hits the floor. I am shedding.
‘Dancing with the Red Devil’ is out now, published by Headline
