Early on Saturday morning I packed the car and headed off for a week in the idyllic French countryside with a friend. This trip has come with the same energy as so many other things on this ride – a gift, given just when I needed it. The generosity of strangers somehow weaving its way into my life. Helped in no small way by social media, which ironically is also how I met this friend. So here I am, sitting in the morning sun looking on to a paddock hundreds of miles from C and all of the other c’s that are in our life at the moment.
The decision to come was an easy joint one. I’m sad to be missing out on C’s ‘good’ week but we both need this. I smile at the thought of C having a week to herself. In her space. On her time. Near and far.
The perspective has been jolting. I’ve been so ‘in’ our situation that getting a bit of distance, a wider lens, I’ve been struck by the scale of it. I’ve had a few ‘Holy shit C’s got cancer’ moments. A thought that’s probably been too obvious to grasp for a couple of months. Not as hard to hold as the original diagnosis. But it still feels just as absurd. Just as out of place with the laws of my universe.
I’m trying to find my way of easing into this moment. It hasn’t been easy. I feel like I’m in a soup of thoughts, feelings, and emotions. Thoughts about work and all the things I could ‘get done’ this week. Thoughts about ‘project rest and recuperation’ – I really MUST relax. Feelings swimming around giving me the sense I could go off in any direction.
In all honesty I’m still in survivor mode and not even nearly ready to process a thing. I can feel the depths bubbling. There’s a whole pile of shock, grief, anger and pain that hasn’t had the time and space it needs because this ride carries on with a relentless pace. I’m not so much afraid of what might be lurking under these layers of protection my clever body and psyche have constructed around me, more afraid that if I let it bubble up I may not be able to salvage a strong enough version of myself to go home and straight into Round 4 and a whole host of new unknowns.
We’re not there yet.
This isn’t the finish line. I wish it was. But it’s not. It’s a resting station on a hard journey. It’s the table of water and energy drinks half-way round the marathon. It’s not time to stop but I can take a moment, a small rest and a chance to think about what fuel I might need for the remainder of my journey. The hard part is that pausing for a moment makes it easier to feel just how much my bones wish we were done. They’ve carried me a long way. Stopping, just so you can carry on, almost feels cruel. But this isn’t cruel. It’s a lifeline. A necessary chance to think about what I need to help me on the road ahead when there are no more resting spots in sight.
So far I’ve selected walking from the options at this rest station. We’re surrounded by woods and there are acres of footpaths to explore. It's good to feel exhausted from physical exercise rather than exhausted because I'm emotionally drained. I've also selected drawing as a resource for the road ahead. My inks have come with me to France and I’m using this time to give space to that playful side of myself who loves to exercise her own brand of humour on the page. She doodled a flying vulva yesterday. I'm going to need that kind of humour to help me cope with everything chemotherapy and cancer still has to offer us.
And the rest? I’m not sure yet. I still have time to choose from the books, projects and possibilities on offer. This rest station is temporary. But I don’t have to go home just yet.
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