The C word is big and scary one, but people tend to think it goes away once the chemo is over and the hair grows back. I'm living proof that this isn't the case, and it's hard to know how to adjust to the fact that you now have your whole life ahead of you... again. I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma Stage 3 in 2010, and spent half the year enduring painful bouts of chemotherapy and discovering an aversion to flavour of any type. 2011 saw me take my first tender steps into remission, and I'm now 6 months ensconced in this new arena. Part of me is thrilled- I now have a variety of exciting options available to me once more; I can eat chilli, take to the skies, and my arm is looking less heroin chic and more St Tropez.
I can now enjoy the remainder of my twenties with a carefree spirit and return to being just who I was... except that's impossible.
That's what all my friends and family would like to happen, but the thing about cancer is that it changes you irreversibly- not just the body, but the mind as well. I may have an unlined face, but the scars from the last year lie deeper than that.
It's hard to talk about ones experience of Cancer without delving into clichés and I'm going to do my best to avoid that, but excuse me if some sneak through. When you're faced with your own mortality you have a few options- you can hide under the sheets, punch a wall, or sob on a friends shoulder. Then (in most cases) you get on with the next bit- chemo (if you're lucky) and adjusting (if you're not).
Though many people describe you as brave, that doesn't really cover it. You might be having horrible treatment on a daily or weekly basis, but they tend not to really be optional- you're not choosing to do this- you're more scared of death than you are of hairloss or nausea.
Once you're cured, everything is supposed to be all peaches and cream, like the great Karmic book in the sky has smiled at you and life will now beat to the rhythm of a Journey song. Sadly, it's not always the case, as though you may physically have recovered, the period of readjustment to all that you know is a slow process, and there is no magic cure.
I've felt sadder and more helpless in the wake of chemotherapy, rather than during it, and this is because for the first time in ages I've bee able to sit down and simply think. Think about what has happened, what I might have lost, think about what I want- I spent so much of the last year just being and doing that time for reflection didn't really happen. Part of me feels that these feelings are ridiculous and that as I'm so lucky to have recovered I shouldn't waste time being down- in fact, aren't my blues a slap in the face to those still undergoing treatment- but I can't seem to quite let them go.
The first round may have been won by my body, but I still need to heal my mind, and my process of readjustment to the world is by no means finished.