I was diagnosed with cancer a week before Christmas
Rachel
In 2020, Rachel was diagnosed with cancer a week before Christmas. Whilst Christmas is a time of joy and connection for many, both during and after cancer, for many young people, December can bring about a lot of anxiety. Rachel has written a piece giving a vision of what Christmas was like for her at the time of her diagnosis, and now three years on.
Being diagnosed with cancer in 2020
Christmas is a bittersweet time. A season of snowflakes, joy and connection for most. For me and many other young people, December goes hand in hand with anxiety and uncertainty.
Being diagnosed with an advanced, aggressive cancer exactly one week before Christmas was not on my 2020 bingo list. Biopsies, procedures and hospitalisations meant overhead clinical lights replaced the twinkling lights scaping trees and houses. The smile on my parents’ faces no longer spread as far as I remembered. Cancer didn’t allow for Christmas as an escape from reality. That Christmas I grieved a life which was no longer mine, with cancer as the thief of my identity.
A mid-December biopsy and increasing pain meant Christmas came early in the form of morphine (thank you Santa! And the NHS). Shorter days and a fleeting sun worsened my rising anxiety. I desperately wanted to remain the person I was pre-diagnosis but simultaneously felt the pressure to adapt to my new circumstances. Admittedly, this pressure came from my conflicting inner emotions and guilt.
Guilt for the lack of communication between my body and mind. I felt distrustful; if my body didn’t detect cancer, how else was it failing me? Christmas dinner left a bittersweet aftertaste. I couldn’t grasp the concept of fuelling my body when it felt undeserved. It is inexplicably strange how quickly your life can change, and my mind had trouble accepting this new reality. At the time, confiding my difficulty felt impossible, the feelings were extremely isolating and the longer they remained unspoken, the stronger they became. Unfortunately, thus took me longer than it should have to admit. But I am indescribably proud of myself for accepting help.
Considering my past-self
Admitting you’re struggling and reaching out for help is the epitome of strength. I reflect on this time with an abundance of love for my past self, I want to reassure her that everything will be okay, that the way she is feeling is completely understandable, that she’s not alone. A phrase from this time I now carry with me is ‘become comfortable in the discomfort’. As I navigate my new normal, I allow myself to feel - no matter how deeply - not how I think I should feel.
Family support and humour
One of the most difficult parts of being sick is not the sickness itself, but being witness to the impact on those you love. Not only did this disease steal my identity, but those of my parents and brother. Our lives became Cancer; altering the dynamics of our relationships, the way we experienced life, our priorities.
Events like Christmas seemed insignificant compared to our current reality, but my family are profoundly resilient – using humour to cope with the darkest of days. Their ability to find the light was the North Star, guiding me back to myself. On Christmas Eve, new traditions were initiated despite our circumstances. Gingerbread house constructions and matching pyjamas have now become a reoccurring tradition. I single-handedly gave my brother the most atrocious shaved head known to man (take the perks of Cancer where you can get them!) and despite being in significant pain at the time, that day represents happiness and warmth for me.
The luxury of time afforded to me allowed the entirety of Christmas to be spent in the comfort of my family’s arms. Relationships with my friends were cultivated and blossomed in the Winter sun, growing our unconditional love for one another.
My 3 year cancerversary
I feel an innate gratitude for not only my health and life, but the healthcare staff who graciously donated their time and spirit, ensuring my Christmas remained as positive as possible. My perspective on life itself has shifted because of the entire experience. The pride I take in my body, mindset and relationships with others makes the tumultuous journey just that little bit easier.
My 3-year cancerversary (as I like to call it) looms on 18th December and remains present in my everyday life despite my best efforts. Now, even 2 years later, dismantling the Christmas Tree still bursts the comforting bubble of festivities, bringing me back to reality, yet simultaneously represents my eternal gratitude for having a future and continuing these traditions for another Christmas.
