‘The strong, silent type’

Tony Soprano getting 'in touch with his feelings'

Today’s post comes from my partner Ronnie, about his experiences with counselling.

So, it’s Episode 1 of heart-warming family drama ‘The Sopranos’. And Tony Soprano is distinctly and dangerously out of his comfort zone. He’s been suffering from anxiety attacks during his day job as a Murdering Sociopath, and so his doctor has sent him to see a therapist. And said therapist, Dr Jennifer Melfi, is encountering some resistance, from Tony, to therapy, ‘as a concept’, as you’ll see in this film;

Jennifer Melfi, listening hard

‘Let me tell you something. Nowadays, everybody’s got to go to shrinks and counsellors, and go on Sally Jessy Raphael and talk about their problems. Whatever happened to Gary Cooper? The strong, silent type? That was an American. He wasn’t in touch with his feelings. He just did what he had to do. See what they didn’t know was, once they got Gary Cooper ‘in touch with his feelings’, they wouldn’t be able to shut him up! And then it’s disfunction this and disfunction that…!’

Well, though my work and my life bear very little resemblance to Tony Soprano’s, I do resemble him in one way. I am a strong, silent type. And as I’ve said before on here, for the first three years of Sarah’s breast cancer and treatment, I stuck my head down and, like Gary Cooper, I did what I had to do. Well, here, I want to write a bit more about the damage that did me. And the good counselling is doing me. Because, if you’re still reading, whether you’re the person with the diagnosis or their carer, I think it might be good for you too.

Beginning with now. A few weeks back, Jo, my counsellor asked whether I wanted to stop now?

It all comes back

November 2007, picking Sarah up from hospital after her oopherectomy

Today’s guest blog, from guest Editor, Ronnie, picks up on Barbara Ehrenreich’s classic article ‘Welcome to Cancerland’. This one’s about ‘Carerland.’ It’s right next door.

So, it’s Monday evening, this week. Sarah’s just gone out boxing and the phone goes. It’s the hospital, offering Sarah a cancellation slot for her next surgery, this Thursday. ‘Do you think she’ll take it?’ I’m asked. ‘Well, I think she’ll hit the roof, blame me for the short notice, stomp around the house for a few minutes, and then agree it’s probably best to get it done now,’ I tell her. And an hour or so later, this scenario plays out, more or less precisely. Sarah takes the appointment, and immediately begins her blog about it, published on Tuesday.

Tuesday morning for me, I’m out on what’s becoming my regular run. From our house, ten minutes down to Sefton Park, once round the park, twenty minutes or so, then back up to our house – bit more than ten minutes, mostly uphill. Monday morning I’d skipped round this. But Tuesday’s different. In the end, my times are pretty much the same. But there’s a heaviness in my legs and in my heart. Skipping it isn’t. And half way round I realise I’m running through previous preparations for surgery, previous waiting rooms. And it all comes back. Welcome to Carerland.

I am ready

Kapow! In the ring with Billy.

Today, at the moment, my life is good. I am lucky. Lucky for many reasons. Because breast cancer brings with it so much loss I have greedily embraced the life I have back, snatched at the good things, selfishly demanded time for myself, for activity, space for me, for pleasure, for fun.

Back in 2008 after I’d been through my first treatments and surgeries for breast cancer I had a sense that any shred of the life I had ‘before’ was lost. Loss was one of the biggest emotions of breast cancer. It still is. What I lost. Can I ever find it again? And at that time, I agonised over the decision to start the surgical process of breast reconstruction, a massively complex set of procedures with no guarantee of success. This is what I wrote at that time.

Extract from Being Sarah:

If breast cancer were just a single one of the ordeals I have faced then that would seem enough. If breast cancer were ‘just’ a mastectomy that would be a tough experience. Or if it were just an oophorectomy that would be extremely difficult. If it were just four general anaesthetics, or a couple of D&Cs. Or all those doctors’ appointments and blood tests and waiting for results. If it were any one of these it would be enough. If it were just physical, a simple medical condition, but it’s not, it’s charged with emotion. With the possibility of dying. And it’s still not over. The reconstruction is another round in the boxing ring. Several in fact.

But breast cancer and the treatment to prevent recurrence is so complex. So many things, so many decisions. And you face all this with the background knowledge that it might kill you. Death hovers at all stages of the journey.

Three years later I am pleased to report that things went well for me, although my surgeries are not finished yet…. no matter, I knew it was going to be a long process.

May 2010, my new gloves

But I wrote about a boxing ring, which is funny because I’d never been in a boxing ring then. I have now.

Being Ronnie 2

October 2011, Ronnie at Hilbre Island on our walking days

Today’s post is another piece by my beloved partner Ronnie, it’s a follow up to the piece he wrote last month about being my carer which resonated deeply for many people. A man speaking about breast cancer. Honest, direct and with love. I’m really delighted actually how doing these pieces has involved Ronnie in my blog and he’s now friends with some of the great women I inhabit and share cyber space with. It’s a great feeling. 

So here’s some more from Ronnie. I just like to say thanks very much to Ronnie for your continued support.

“A Monday morning, early in September this year, and I wake up depressed. Drag my body out of bed and walk with difficulty through the house, like the air is liquid, holding me back. I never usually feel like this on Mondays, certainly not since we dumped the ‘Monday morning feeling’ by simply not working or doing boring admin on Monday mornings. Then, of course, I remember. I’d spent yesterday writing my guest blog for Sarah about my experiences as a carer. And in one day I’d gone back through four years of shock, fear, grief and isolation. No wonder I wake up depressed.

So, this morning, Sarah turns into my carer. And by the time we go out for our lunch to Greendays in Lark Lane, life is starting to feel fine again. By this time, Sarah has also published the blog, ‘Being Ronnie’.

And when we come back in, she checks how its doing. ‘Well, people are reading it, Ronnie,’ she turns round and tells me, ‘hundreds of people’.

When I ran for charity

2 October 2011, start of Speke Hall run

Yesterday morning I ran a 10K. It took place in the grounds of Speke Hall in Liverpool, a nearly 500 year old manor house near the river. No charity fund raising, just me, running. For the sheer pleasure of being able to. It was a humid damp day, but it was fun to do this with friends, and go for breakfast afterwards. There’s a one minute film of the run here.

Runs are often done to raise money for charities by people who’ve been treated for cancer. Me included. Last year, one of the goals I’d set myself was to run a 10K, and raise money for charity. The charity I’d chosen was Yes to Life, who had helped me during my treatment for breast cancer, and I wanted to say ‘thank you’ to them, and raise money for them so they can continue to help other cancer patients.

In November 2009, I had my sixth surgery following my beast cancer diagnosis in February 2007. I’m pragmatic enough not to say it was my last surgery, or that have finished my treatment and surgery. I’m still on prescription drugs, I still have regular check ups with various doctors, I still have minor surgery to finish my breast reconstruction. But, as far as I know, for now, I have finished the major treatment, and the major surgeries. For now.