There for the grace of God, go I

     Hello, lovelies.

           They say that worse things happen at sea. Someone always has it worse than you. That there are plenty more fish in the sea. No use in crying over spilt milk. That we should always look on the bright side of life, as every cloud has it’s silver lining. But what if all these well-worn sayings haven’t been telling us the whole truth. How can a few concise words help put aside some of life’s hardest days. Is it always at its darkest before the dawn? Yes, it is. I mean, we know that. We only need to look out of a window to see it for ourselves. So how can the famous proverb that dates back to at least 1650, help us today? And what happens when the darkest times in our lives, are actually the easiest? What if the dawn doesn’t bring sunshine and a bright new day, but it shines a spot light on just how hard our lives actually are?

         I have always been a glass half full kind of girl. Even when life was so hard that I didn’t even have a glass, let alone it being half full. But I would put on my happy Emma face, and just carry on. I always thought it was because I was pig headed and stubborn, but in truth it was the only way to deal with my life. If I stopped and thought about what was happening, then I ran the risk on not being able to get up and carry on. So, I kept running. Running in any direction, it didn’t really matter. As long as I was moving then I wasn’t thinking. And thinking was my enemy. I told myself that there were many people worse off than me. All I had to do was look at all the things that I had, and just be happy and grateful for that. So I did. 

           I grew up in a very loving but neglectful home. My mum showered my brother and I with love, but she was always so busy that she hardly any time for us. We grew up and learnt how to be independent and self-reliant. And as there was always so much to do, there was never any time to sit and think. Then, at 17, I met my ex-husband. He was a monster, and kept me on my toes for the next 23 years that we were together. Most days I didn’t know which way was up, let alone any time to think. Over time, and with more than two decades of manipulation, gaslighting, coercive control and a large dollop of domestic violence and fear, I lost the ability to think. My thoughts became cloudy and impassable. But still I put on my happy Emma face, and I would try everyday to do my best. Not so surprising that my best was rarely good enough. 

           Those were some really dark days. I had a life time of dark days. Then I found out that my husband was cheating on me. And had been for our entire 23-year relationship. But my head was so full of pain and guilt, that I would have forgiven him. It was only when I saw him treat our children the way that he had treated me, that the light went off in my woolly brain. I divorced him, and took my children with me. And then started the long and arduous journey of trying to find out who I was. Who was the Emma behind the mask? Was there some one behind all those smiles? And if there was, would I even recognise her? Would I even like her? 

              And then along came the cancer. And I began to run again. I ran so fast, that I hardly noticed all the appointments, blood tests, scans and surgery. I laughed and joked my way through all the pain. Poked fun at my bald, shiny head. Told everyone that I looked like a reptile with out my eyebrows and eyelashes. Told myself that the pain wasn’t so bad. I still had to work, as my children still needed food, and my mortgage needed paying. Life still had to go on. And as the saying goes, there is always someone worse off than me. So I ran. And ran. And ran. And I haven’t stopped yet. But I am one of the lucky ones. The first I knew about the cancer was when they removed it. And it was only small. 5mm. The size of a small pea. And now it is gone. Yes, I still had to go through all the follow up treatments, and no, they are not fun. But I’m still alive. Things could be so much worse. I should just suck it up and smile. What’s done is done, and life still goes on. 

               And I do have so much to look forward to. So much to live for. And that was never more apparent than a conversation that forced me to stop running. I was having my tri weekly chemo transfusion, and struck up a conversation with a chap in the chair next to me. He was fascinating. He’d worked for New Scotland Yard. Driven cars for VIPs, celebrities and dignitaries. He had a life full of missions and adventures. So different from my life. He had a loving family, successful children and had been looking forward to his retirement. We then compared cancers. Funny how we all do it. Where it is. How big it is. How are you dealing with the side effects etc. It was then that he told me how his cancer had struck. But unlike mine, his hadn’t been found in time. And as the saying goes, his days are numbered. The life saving chemo wasn’t going to save his life as it had mine. All it was going to do was give a bit more time. And that, if nothing else, stopped me dead. 

            As I left the Marsden, I cried. I cried so hard and for so long. Cancer is horrible. Life can be horrible. That guy had been the first terminal cancer patient that I had ever spoken to. It would have been so easy for him to throw up his hands and declare that he was done with it all. But he didn’t. He told me that the most important thing was for him to live long enough to see his first-born grandchild. He wasn’t angry or bitter. He was just determined to see the baby. 

          Once I stopped crying, and mopped up my red and blotchy face and thought. My poor over worked brain sifted through decades of fear and anxiety. Anger, hatred and pain. Loss and confusion. I worked my way through most of it. Well, the stuff that I can remember. Thankfully I have a lot of disassociated memories that I will never get back. And I discovered that thinking isn’t half as bad as I thought it might be. Okay, a few memories weren’t some of my finest moments, and there is no chance that I will ever be reliving some of the thoughts ever again. But all the pain and fear, that was in the past, and as long as they stay there, they can never hurt me again.

         It would be so easy for me to carry on running. Afraid that if I were to stop then I would be right back to where I started. But I won’t be doing that. If they hadn’t caught my cancer when they did, I would be facing months instead of years, too. But they did. And I will have many more years to come. I want to enjoy every second of it at a very slow and leisurely pace.