I went to my GP yesterday, just to confirm that I have a nasty buggy virusy thing and not the sort of thing that, if left, would require 6 months of antibiotics and an ‘if only you’d seen about it sooner’ glare.
And yes, it is a virus. Yay. Rest, fluid, finish knitting my sweater and wait it out, basically. (The doctor didn’t say the bit about knitting but I know she meant to.)
Fair enough, I said, it’s just that, with the ongoing anti-cancer treatment and all, I feel a bit vulnerable. Remember, said my doctor, Tamoxifen aside, you are a young, fit adult.
OK, I said.
‘Young, fit adult?’ My mind was tying itself in knots trying to figure that out. My inner child was hooting and rolling around with laughter at the very thought.
It’s not that I feel old, exactly, but I am at an age where I’m aware of my body starting to creak, my skin to pucker, my hair to grey. And having a 15 year old daughter to point out all of my old lady ways means I have no way of pretending to myself I’m sill 29.
It’s not that I’m unfit, really, in that I can go about my life without needing special help and consideration, all of my bits work, and I mostly go to the doctor for repeat prescription of Tamoxifen. But I feel as though having cancer puts you permanently into the ‘not fit’ category.
And I know that I’m officially a grown-up – I’m married and have children and can drive and I get to choose my own shoes and everything – but there are still times when I feel no different to the way I felt most mornings walking into school. A bit overwhelmed, a bit scared, hoping to find my place. Glad to be praised, afraid to be singled out. Very, very small in a big, tumultuous world.
In the past I have, as you know, been ready to challenge the medical profession as I saw fit. But on reflection, I think the doctor was absolutely right. I am a young, fit adult. Oh yes. That’s me. It’s a wonder I haven’t noticed it before.
Now, if someone could just make me another cup of tea, as I can’t quite face getting off the sofa…?
I went to my GP yesterday, just to confirm that I have a nasty buggy virusy thing and not the sort of thing that, if left, would require 6 months of antibiotics and an ‘if only you’d seen about it sooner’ glare.
And yes, it is a virus. Yay. Rest, fluid, finish knitting my sweater and wait it out, basically. (The doctor didn’t say the bit about knitting but I know she meant to.)
Fair enough, I said, it’s just that, with the ongoing anti-cancer treatment and all, I feel a bit vulnerable. Remember, said my doctor, Tamoxifen aside, you are a young, fit adult.
OK, I said.
‘Young, fit adult?’ My mind was tying itself in knots trying to figure that out. My inner child was hooting and rolling around with laughter at the very thought.
It’s not that I feel old, exactly, but I am at an age where I’m aware of my body starting to creak, my skin to pucker, my hair to grey. And having a 15 year old daughter to point out all of my old lady ways means I have no way of pretending to myself I’m sill 29.
It’s not that I’m unfit, really, in that I can go about my life without needing special help and consideration, all of my bits work, and I mostly go to the doctor for repeat prescription of Tamoxifen. But I feel as though having cancer puts you permanently into the ‘not fit’ category.
And I know that I’m officially a grown-up – I’m married and have children and can drive and I get to choose my own shoes and everything – but there are still times when I feel no different to the way I felt most mornings walking into school. A bit overwhelmed, a bit scared, hoping to find my place. Glad to be praised, afraid to be singled out. Very, very small in a big, tumultuous world.
In the past I have, as you know, been ready to challenge the medical profession as I saw fit. But on reflection, I think the doctor was absolutely right. I am a young, fit adult. Oh yes. That’s me. It’s a wonder I haven’t noticed it before.
Now, if someone could just make me another cup of tea, as I can’t quite face getting off the sofa…?