Twelve years

Today is the twelve year anniversary of my diagnosis and my whole life being changed irrevocably, but not as one might imagine, badly.

I keep on living and I continue to stay in remission. Hurrah!

I outlived my mother, who died in December 2020. Not exactly a Hurrah! but the chance of her outliving her daughter was very high when I was first diagnosed. I’m glad that didn’t happen.

I continue to live with fatigue, brain fog, anxiety and back pain, all meaning that paid work is not possible. Also Hurrah! (For the ‘early retirement’ not the other stuff.)

I continue wondering about purpose and meaning and other existential questions. Hurrah?

Where my thoughts go, not only in the small dark hours of a wakeful night, but often and at any time of day. It’s a balancing act of awareness and appreciation of both life and death and their interconnectedness, not ignoring either, but finding my way along the tightrope that swings between them; making the most of life; managing responsibilities as a now orphaned daughter, sister, aunt, friend and citizen of a world; creating joy or contentment where I can and being mindful of my own privilege/luck in surviving, while acknowledging and preparing for death and the unexpectedness of old age, complete with its aches, pains, frailties and losses.

This might seem like a gloomy topic for a celebration of my survival, but I don’t see it as gloomy, just realistic, honest and surprising/fascinating.

Some years I celebrate… some years go past more quietly, but the date is always noted. Yesterday, without thinking about the significant date, I bought myself a present: an old painted wooden shutter from the window of a Thai courtesan house. If I can manage it, I think she’ll be installed in Gloria (my campervan).

I also had a manicure and pedicure with my friend, which entailed a lot of hilarity. What better way to celebrate than laughing and bright red nails?!

I don’t have any particular plans to celebrate further today, other than acknowledging the ever-stunning miracle of my twelve year survival (when 3-5 years was the average life expectancy at the time of diagnosis); and relishing the ongoing adventure of being alive. Of course, cake might be eaten.