So here I am nearly a week later and the most recent news we've received about my cancer is still just as hard to swallow as a wheatgrass shot laced with pigeon poop, it never gets easier, if anything it gets harder. Oh and did I mention it's 4.30am, no, not an early start, I haven't even slept, what with my increased steroid dosage and the pain from something like 30 tumours in my abdomen and pelvis, sleeping evades me lately.
I'm still walking around dazed and confused with a constant look plastered on my face that could best be described as something resembling Alicia Silverstones expression on the Clueless DVD cover, except of course, much less blonde, slim and Hollywood C lister, for those of you beautiful rockstars that are reading this now and thinking "who the fuck is Alicia Silverstone"? What the fuck is Clueless and what is this DVD thing you're talking about? I feel sorry for you and I highly recommend getting more of your Gen Y girlfriends over to watch a download, come on wot r u w8in 4? Snapchat or FaceTime or text your girls to get their squatting butts over to your place right now and you can thank me later.
The last blog I did, I discussed my fear of death and the unknown afterlife or existence of heaven, even though I consider myself to have strong faith and people are amazingly supportive and loving, one thing I probably doubt or admire is their unwavering belief that there is something after all of this, it's even better than being here on earth and they're not scared of their mortality. I don't know if you can truly know what your feelings about death are until you're faced with it. Before this bastard of a disease, I had no doubt that there was a heaven, but now that I'm faced with my own death, that part of the dying process isn't so certain. Sit in a room with your Doctor, hear the words, you have cancer and you only have weeks, maybe months to live and let's see how at peace you are with it then? I yearn for that peace of mind I used to have, I'm not saying I've lost faith, I'm simply saying my religious GPS hasn't had its recent update and hopefully once it has I will be back on track and be comforted by the thought that one day, I will be reunited with my loved ones.
In a time that we have a President Trump elect and a bunch of women with big asses, sex tapes and a husband who thinks he's Jesus or a clothes designer or a singer or the future President or whatever it is he wants to be this week dictating what lipstick we wear and how to wear it, here I am trying to figure out how I'm going to keep going, keep breathing, keep moving forward. How am I going to push through this time? Everyone keeps saying, you've done it before, you'll do it again, but I've never had this much disease before and with each radiation, the less effective it seems to be, eventually it won't work at all. People are so positive that I'll make it, but they're not the ones inside my diseased body, my body has been battling against itself for so long, eventually one of us is going to have to give in and looking at my recent scans, it seems it's me that's reaching for the white flag.
My days have consisted of constant pain, pain "relief" (in inverted comma's because there is no relief, with every injection my pain remains the same, but the tiredness and confusion momentarily distracts my body from it), lethargy, laxatives, sleeping, watching enough reality TV and HBO series that I could pick any True Blood cast members ass from a line up and probably the worst thing I've done over the last week is ignore phone calls and text messages.
I've withdrawn from my friends, which I know is wrong, they only want to support me, but the sheer energy it takes to make my thoughts connect with my mouth is too much. I love them and they love me, my longest term best friend, my number one in my squad, (hey if Taylor Swift can have one, why can't I?) is Rebecca (known as "Bec" or in the crossfit circle as "Coops"). Rebecca has been by my side through it all, from the time my Mum found a squashed cigarette in my Maths folder (I swear Mum, I was minding it for Bec) to the time I lost my first love to his cousin's best friend (can anyone say Nepotism?), to the time I rang her hiding in a person's front yard after running from my ex boyfriend during a particularly heated argument we were having in the car, to probably the second hardest phone call I've ever had to make, telling her that I had cancer and then the hardest, calling her to tell her my cancer had come back and I was terminal. Rebecca has been there, from pimples to palliative care, she's been my rock and here I am building an emotional wall protecting me from her and my friends. I mean, who does that? Who treats their friends like enemies? Me, I do.
As a young terminal cancer patient I have so many thoughts about it all and I often feel guilty for thinking them, like the "heaven" question. When I'm dealing with the post traumatic stress of the most recent scan, I often have a truly terrible thought, and before I divulge it let me make a disclaimer on behalf of myself and Emma, we DO NOT hate or resent elderly women, it's just that sometimes when life gives you one dried up lemon, it's difficult to hear a person whose had an abundance of fruit baskets throughout their life complain about it, we simply wish we were that woman, if anything I suppose you could say we envy them. As I sit in my GP's waiting room with my pain driver pumping my life's juice into me, with the word "palliative" blazoned on the front of it and the 90 something year old woman sits opposite me complaining about her cataract, I can't help but think, be grateful you made it. You were one of the lucky ones and I know it's wrong, but this shituation takes your mind to dark places, thankfully I read my friends blog "Dear Melanoma" and she mentioned that she too has the same thoughts and it's one of the reasons she doesn't like to share a room in hospital with elderly women, because it's a physical reminder that she's' not going to get to make memories over the next 60 years. Emma, in her mid 20's, is in hospital as a lab rat trialling yet another drug, trying in vain to find something that will either cure her or give her more time, meanwhile Betty in bed 320, is buzzing the nurse for the fifth time to complain about the air conditioning (Betty is a fabrication, purely for editorial purposes, sadly Emma is not).
Believe me in a few days when the inoperable tumour dust has settled, I'll regret thinking these thoughts and I'll definitely regret publicly posting them, but as I always say, I've promised you warts and all and to start holding back from you now would be wrong.
It's simple, I'm in love with life and to die, is to take away my greatest love.
I hope in coming days that I will be in a better place, I've made contact with my councillor, so hopefully that will help and I got out of bed today and had a shower, so that's good and I didn't go back to bed, I actually made it into the lounge room to watch TV. So whilst myself, my friends and family face the latest plot in our own personal soap opera, I thank-you for your love and support, with one radiation down and two more to go, we can only hope and pray that it works, because quite frankly if it doesn't, I'm fucked. Stay fabulous rockstars ❤️🤘🏼
My BFF Rebecca ❤️❤️❤️
My name is Lisa Magill and I have been navigating the minefield that is cancer since just months after turning 30, people have been saying to me for years that I should put my thoughts into writing and as time has progressed I thought I had left it too late, well here we are nearly 4 years in and for some unknown reason I've decided to start to write today.