I had never felt better than in the weeks before my breast cancer diagnosis. I had great energy, great digestion, good sleep patterns, glossy hair and bright eyes.
It wasn’t until chemotherapy that I felt truly ill. It was not the diagnosis that stopped me in my tracks. It was the chemical-induced transformation of body, mind and soul that turned me into “a cancer patient".
Business as usual, control at all costs, came to a grinding halt - sparks flying from the brakes as the steam train hit the buffers. Once stationary, the last of the passengers disembarked, brakes cooling, steam released, I heard that same ‘still, small voice’ that had urged me to undergo this treatment now repeating; “You have to learn to live like this without the excuse of chemo”.
Whaaat?! Whose IS that voice? And who invited their judgement?
Live like this? Meditate, eat well, exercise gently, rest, listen to myself, enjoy friends and family, accept help, lend a listening ear to others, work when I have the capacity - and listen to this uninvited voice of knowing that seems to come from my inner being?!
The minutiae and monster mission of parenting, connection to our families, remembering birthdays, school drop-off and pick-up as non-negotiables without compelling reason, likewise, school lunch provision, clearing up after everyone - literally and emotionally - school meetings, volunteering, chairing meetings, staying in touch with old friends, maintaining new ones and the kids’ connections, navigating an education system I have no experience of, grieving … the emotional labour, constant surveillance of and thought for others? Who is going to do that?
I could get pedantic and list THE LOT, but it would read like any busy mother, wife, daughter, or sister’s normal life. One that we take for granted and handle internally without a peep.
We didn’t used to do this alone. We used to live in community with women sharing the care.
Doing it alone just seems to have crept up on me after the “breastfeeding-is-you” stage. And in some ways, I didn’t want to let go of everything that nurtured my children. It felt like my job and it was the best work in the world. I loved it, but it was also exhaustingly relentless and I wasn’t paying attention to the toll it was taking on my health. Had a community of women been caring for me as I cared for my little ones, they might have reflected that to me.
My husband worked long hours in his profession to provide the financial means for our lifestyle. That was our tacit agreement once we had children. An obvious division of labour, based on skill set. This meant he was gone before the kids woke, returned in time for a cooked dinner as a family and then hobby farm chores during which he could dissipate the stresses of the day, then fall into bed to set the alarm for silly-early again.
I am not complaining. I am simply putting on paper what a modern-day parent/mother’s life can be like and might even be expected to be. But it never used to be like this. We used to be part of a local community of elders and youngsters. We used to all benefit from a resilient continuum of care. Parenting never used to be done alone, and independence was never so praised.
I used to joke, “When did raising children become a competitive sport, with magazines and coaches to give you tips and sell you the latest ‘must-haves’?!” Ha. Ha. Let’s keep this light and breezy. Don’t want to complain about the joys of raising young ones. I had everything to be grateful for, but I never said that I felt like a long-distance runner, occasionally passing a baton to my husband, friend, and mother when visiting, but usually, it was a lone steeplechase. (And why do people chase steeples exactly? Don’t we have enough to do??)
Keep Calm and Carry On
Why, oh why and when, oh when, did I decide that I had to “Keep Calm and Carry On” - a phrase I have loathed from the first time I saw it on a yoga studio wall in Toronto when I thought I could also return to work and keep all balls in the air. I could feel the pink poster’s British, stiff upper lip, war-effort vibe from 100 paces. The phrase made my stomach clench and my heart sink. And now I knew why; the internalized stress caused by an attitude of Keep Calm & Carry On — with an inferred muzzle on all feelings — to a woman like me means; Breast Cancer.
I understand its intention for those extreme times in life. (The phrase was coined by the War Office to boost morale during Second World War Britain when under threat of air attack.) But please God, NOT as a way of life.
Even now I read the patriarchal admonishment; Don’t make a fuss. Don’t notice how it feels. Don’t let the side down. Don’t stop and think. Don’t change the status quo. Don’t mention that we are doomed.
Chemotherapy debilitated me long enough to see that I was running myself into the ground and not paying attention to the cost of that. I was doing a great job of keeping calm, but carrying on in the same way meant a breast cancer diagnosis induced by a suppression of the stress.
It was time to learn how to Keep Calm and Care for Self…and then others. Radical as that may sound.
Brilliant piece. It took complete disability by illness for me to wake up to all this. My body has been leading the way ever since.
Growing up British, the mantra 'don't make a fuss' is deeply engrained into my psyche. It's been hugely problematic in so many ways, and makes it almost impossible to ask for help! I feel you on this and only hope I can learn that lesson before life forces me to...