My mad, unruly curls have all been chopped off. Shame – I’d grown quite fond of them once they’d moved on from the tight, grey, just had a perm stage. People pay good money for curls like that. But I knew they weren’t destined for a long life and my hair really did need cutting. It is now two years and about three weeks since that awful, dreamlike day when I was told I had cancer. Almost exactly two years since my hair started falling out, 19 months since I noticed the first hint of bum fluff returning to my bald head.
That’s not so long, really. All over and done with in the blink of an eye. My cancer is old history now and I’m just a statistic. I don’t think about it so often these days and I suspect most people around me don’t ever give it a thought any more. And that’s how it should be. I fully expect to be one of the 73% of ovarian cancer sufferers who survive to 5 years after diagnosis. I plan to be one of the 30% or so who make it past 10 years. The statistics for ovarian cancer survival make grim reading but I’m one of the lucky ones, diagnosed early before the cancer had spread outside the ovary. Potty Mummy has just written a post about ovarian cancer symptoms and there’s a bit more in one of my posts from earlier this year. If you have any of the symptoms, don’t dismiss them, don’t let your GP dismiss them and whatever you do, don’t leave it too late.
Now that mine’s all done and dusted, I wouldn’t mind having my brain back. I wandered through the chemotherapy in a spaced out chemical haze of poor concentration and useless memory. The fog might have lifted but my concentration these days is, well, crap. And that’s not great when you work at home – there is so much scope for displacement activity. It’s really difficult to say to clients “Sorry that report’s overdue again. It’s the chemobrain, you know.”
Oh well, back to the sudoku.