What comes next?

Last night we celebrated Samhain on Plot 44. A place where I garden, and where I share the cycles of nature that I find so calming and necessary to have in my life. And no, it has nothing to do with breast cancer, well other than being a place of solace for me.

30 October 2012, candles in the dark at Plot 44. Samhain.

And I need a place of solace, I mean I think we all do, I need somewhere to go to find peace, to turn off the outside noise and distractions. Even though I do have a two excellent tools – a very finely tuned shit filter (yes, you read that right, everyone should invest in one, and they’re free); I also have a well-oiled quack-o-meter (yes, I prefer informed discussion) – despite both of these essential tools, I still find there’s too much noise in my life at times.

Nearly six years now since I was diagnosed with breast cancer. But despite the circumstances that propelled me into the breast cancer community, I’ve found some extremely supportive and valued breast cancer friends:

“But I am not turning away from that community, no. I’m still here, but just so tired, so worn out – by the years of being a breast cancer patient, and now after months of working on Rachel’s book reminding me sharply and keenly, and reminding all of us too, that we simply haven’t got the right tools at our disposal to stop women from dying of breast cancer.”

And this year has been a very difficult year for me. To lose Rachel so suddenly, my dear friend. The grief has been enormous.To be immersed in her words and work on her book has meant I’ve had little time for much blogging of my own, or reading other people’s blogs.  And over and over I hear the same arguments and questions about the mainstream breast cancer culture. The pink-washing, the lack of research, the lack of awareness of metastatic breast cancer. I don’t want to keep repeating myself.

So not right

February 2012. Flying to New Jersey to say goodbye to Rach.

On the way home from New Jersey I find myself in a window seat next to two British women on the plane. They were sitting in front of me on the way over and I remember them, they are happy, laughing, enjoying themselves. The inevitable ‘what did you do?’ conversation ensues. They’ve done ‘everything’ in New York, having travelled over to see Barry Manilow in concert (does he still play I wonder to myself, although the women tell me he wasn’t well and the concert was cancelled.) So when it’s my turn I just say I went to a funeral. ‘Oh,’ they say. ‘My friend died,’ I say. ‘Of breast cancer,’ I say. They look at me. ‘How old was she?’ they ask. ‘Forty-one,’ I say. ‘Oh,’ they say. ‘It fucking pisses me off good style,’ I say. I don’t mean to swear but I’m so angry. And all this last week I’ve been having very short conversations which punctuate very long silences which consist of few words, ‘This fucking sucks.’ Because it does.

I look out the window. The runway, we’re moving out now. ‘American?’ they ask. ‘No,’ I say, ‘Australian British.’ ‘How old?’ they say, again. ‘Forty-one,’ I say. ‘Yes, we know a girl‘, they say, ’27,’ they say, ‘with a daughter. Yes, she left a daughter behind.’

Oh, I think, so that’s worse than Rach is it?