Plot twist

My friend Dani once told me that the best way to respond to life’s surprises was to simply yell “plot twist!” and start a new chapter.

Great tragedies aside, I’ve always thought of it as a beautiful way to reposition the WTF or unexpected moments (that might otherwise unsettle us) as blips; little chapters or features in the greater narrative of life. Plus, an important reminder that our worlds would be bloody boring if we got everything we wanted and life went exactly to plan.

Miss a flight? Plot twist. Fired from your job? Plot twist.

Diagnosed with cancer? PLOT TWIST.

That exact plot twist came for me 360 days ago. May 9, 2024.

That was the day, after weeks of tests, that my doctor finally confirmed what we all assumed to be true.

“It is a breast cancer,” she said.

That was the day everything changed.

I’ve never really been someone to remember significant dates or anniversaries. But there’s something about that date and the many other cancer dates that followed that are deeply etched into my soul.

June 3 was the date of my first surgery. June 12 was surgery result day and the one where they said ‘chemo is the next step’. July 4 was the first day of chemo. November 18 was the last. December 9 was the second surgery. December 23 was the third. February 3 was the first zap of radiation. February 21 was the last.

As the one-year diagnosis anniversary draws closer, I find myself in a constant state of retracing these dates and remembering the moments and the minutes that have led me to where I am now, reminding myself of how much has happened in such a short amount of time.

It’s a funny place to be.

As I write this, still none of it seems real. Sometimes I down play the experience, reassuring myself and everyone around me that ‘I’m fine’. Other days it feels like there aren’t enough words or emotions to adequately convey what’s just happened - it’s a plot twist that needs its own book.

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to go through cancer treatment, the best analogy I’ve read is this one, from Caitlin Feeley:

(And for the Aussies, mountain lion = big cat)

It’s something like this: one day, you’re minding your own business, you open the fridge to get some breakfast, and OH MY GOD THERE’S A MOUNTAIN LION IN YOUR FRIDGE.

Wait, what? How? Why is there a mountain lion in your fridge? NO TIME TO EXPLAIN. RUN! THE MOUNTAIN LION WILL KILL YOU! UNLESS YOU FIND SOMETHING EVEN MORE FEROCIOUS TO KILL IT FIRST!

So you take off running, and the mountain lion is right behind you. You know the only thing that can kill a mountain lion is a bear, and the only bear is on top of the mountain, so you better find that bear. You start running up the mountain in hopes of finding the bear. Your friends desperately want to help, but they are powerless against mountain lions, as mountain lions are godless killing machines. But they really want to help, so they’re cheering you on and bringing you paper cups of water and orange slices as you run up the mountain and yelling at the mountain lion - “GET LOST, MOUNTAIN LION, NO ONE LIKES YOU” - and you really appreciate the support, but the mountain lion is still coming.

Also, for some reason, there’s someone in the crowd who’s yelling “that’s not really a mountain lion, it’s a puma” and another person yelling “I read that mountain lions are allergic to kale, have you tried rubbing kale on it?”

As you’re running up the mountain, you see other people fleeing their own mountain lions. Some of the mountain lions seem comparatively wimpy - they’re half grown and only have three legs or whatever, and you think to yourself - why couldn’t I have gotten one of those mountain lions? But then you look over at the people who are fleeing mountain lions the size of a monster truck with huge prehistoric sabre fangs, and you feel like an asshole for even thinking that - and besides, who in their right mind would want to fight a mountain lion, even a three-legged one?

Finally, the person closest to you, whose job it is to take care of you - maybe a parent or sibling or best friend or, in my case, my husband - comes barging out of the woods and jumps on the mountain lion, whaling on it and screaming “GODDAMMIT MOUNTAIN LION, STOP TRYING TO EAT MY WIFE” and the mountain lion punches your husband right in the face. Now your husband (or whomever) is rolling around on the ground clutching their nose, and they've bought you some time, but you still need to get to the top of the mountain.

Eventually you reach the top, finally, and the bear is there. Waiting. For both of you. You rush right up to the bear, and the bear rushes the mountain lion, but the bear has to go through you to get to the mountain lion, and in doing so, the bear TOTALLY KICKS YOUR ASS, but not before it also punches your husband in the face. And your husband is now staggering around with a black eye and bloody nose, and saying “can I get some help, I’ve been punched in the face by two apex predators and I think my nose is broken,” and all you can say is “I’M KIND OF BUSY IN CASE YOU HADN’T NOTICED I’M FIGHTING A MOUNTAIN LION.”

Then, IF YOU ARE LUCKY, the bear leaps on the mountain lion and they are locked in epic battle until finally the two of them roll off a cliff edge together, and the mountain lion is dead.

Maybe. You’re not sure - it fell off the cliff, but mountain lions are crafty. It could come back at any moment.

And all your friends come running up to you and say “that was amazing! You’re so brave, we’re so proud of you! You didn’t die! That must be a huge relief!”

Meanwhile, you blew out both your knees, you’re having an asthma attack, you twisted your ankle, and also you have been mauled by a bear. And everyone says “boy, you must be excited to walk down the mountain!” And all you can think as you stagger to your feet is “f**k this mountain, I never wanted to climb it in the first place.”

Initially, like any marathon runner, I ran hard from the start line. After weeks of tests and appointments and suspicions, the actual diagnosis was more of an acceptance than a shock. I’d had time to plan my climb.

I spent the weeks before the initial surgery firmly placing down the anchors that would get me through the cancer plot twist. I threw my house up on Airbnb and moved home to Mum’s. I bought a new bed, knowing I’d be spending a lot of time in it. My family had a TV installed on the wall of my childhood bedroom. We bought new Ugg boots, my cousin gave me cute tracksuit sets to wear to the hospital. We bought thermometers and big pump bottles of Dettol and organic mouthwash and gentle shampoos. I found people to takeover my work. The handful of people in my world who knew what was going on sent flowers and books and sets of pyjamas and little treats to make me smile and forget for just a second. My friend Sally took me on a pre-emptive wig shop. My friend Tory set me up with supplements to support my body through what was about to hit.

Treatment started and life went completely still. Everything that wasn’t cancer related ceased to matter or exist. Work fully came to halt. The weeks felt long. Childhood friends and family came to visit often and sat for hours on my bed. Sometimes they got right in under the covers. There were a lot of mini trips and getaways on my good days between treatments. People offered their holiday houses and we said ‘yes’. We baked A LOT and took the sweet treats to the chemo ward for the nurses. I joined the local Pilates studio on the advice of my doctors and I did as much as my body would allow. The beach where I’d grown up became my daily solace - on the days I had enough energy, I’d walk down. On the days when I’d didn’t, we’d drive down and sit and watch the waves and I’d envy the healthy people on stand-up paddle boards.

We knew the order of treatments to come and the expected side effects they came with. Life was dictated by appointments and a knowing of times I would be sick. Outside of that, the days were open and simple and plan-less, mostly spent curled up in bed, or propped up on the couch.

And you know what? I didn’t always hate it.

During those times, I’d dream about the life I wanted to live post cancer. My plan was to take all the bits I loved about my pre-cancer life (because there was so much) and combine them with the cancer lessons and epiphanies I’d had (about the fragility of life, the beauty of slow, and gratitude for time with people around me) and turn them into a recipe for some kind glorious lesson-filled life soup; featuring rich aromas of calm and joy, and hints of stand-up paddle boarding.

Now in hindsight, those early days and even the treatment days seem easy. They were because I had a plan, and easy because I knew where I had to be and when. The plan developed along the way (more surgery, added chemo, new drugs) but we always knew what was to come. Side effects and time lines were clear. I was in constant contact with my doctors and support teams, and held by the walls of the hospital. The finish line was far away, and even through I couldn’t always see it, I knew it existed. People’s expectations of me and my expectations of myself were small. For nine months, my only job was to get through. I was ready for it and I was IN IT.

And now I’m not.

It’s been two months since the active treatment (surgeries, chemo, radiation) ended and about two months minus two days since I hit the ground running, pulling up all those anchors I’d so carefully placed for myself to help get through.

As soon as that hospital treatment ended, I went off to live that life I’d dreamed about. I was on a plane within days. I moved back in to my own house, 20 minutes away from my family and my village (sounds close, but when you’re used to living with everything and everyone within reach, it feels far). I switched to a Pilates class closer to my house. I set up my home office. I started thinking at what my business could look like, catching up with old clients, excitedly talking about the future. I still went to the hospital a lot for ongoing treatment, and mostly I went alone. I planned dinners with all the people in my life I hadn’t seen enough. For a few weeks, maybe even a month, I was running on adrenaline and loving this new ‘enlightened’ and independent version of myself.

And then I started to crumble.

The first sign was the tears. Tears that came out of nowhere, tears that were uncontrollable and tears that were always at moments when I “should be happy” and “should be so relieved”. The second was the brain fog and the brain freezes. Again, always at times when I needed my brain to function. The third was a couple of weeks ago when I landed in the ED with an infection that made me feel more sick than any dose of chemo ever had.

It was like my body was literally screaming at me to slow the f**k down.

It’s only in recent weeks that I’ve really started to understand just how much of a toll the mountain, the lion, the bear and the people spruiking kale has had - physically, mentally, emotionally.

What I now realise is that I pulled up too many of the anchors that were holding me, too quickly. I tried to go back to ‘normal’ when normal was never going to exist.

All this to say, it’s been a big couple of months.

Right now, I feel like I’m back at the bottom of the mountain, and I don’t quite know which way to go. I keep trying different roads, I take a few steps out and then panic and come back to base. I joke that I’m like a baby learning to walk.. It’s a weird and, let’s say, interesting place to be, especially for someone who has always prided herself on living a big, fast life.

A psychologist I’ve been following calls this period ‘the re-entry wobbles’. The time when cancer patients start and stop and come to terms with what’s just happened. That same psychologist also says there’s one thing she’ll say with certainty for cancer patients and that is that “the reality of what you've been through will inevitably catch up with you.”

In a particular teary moment a few weeks ago, I reached out to my very wise friend Gabby (who has a lot of experience in this kind of stuff) hoping some kind of magic words or answer to help me get through. Her response? “You need to give yourself a year”. A year to recover, a year to heal. “The therapy begins now,” she said. “Slow, steady and you’ll come back new.”

It’s taken me a little time to accept the reality, but I think she might be right.

My body has been through some shit, and it doesn’t function the way it used to. My head? It’s been through some shit too. And it’s only just starting to wake up and process it all. Plus there are still so many appointments, so many checks, so many drugs to keep the cancer away. Cancer is still a full-time job.

And that’s where this writing comes in. We’re calling this the Year of Healing. Back to slow. Back to mum’s. Back to the beach. Back to the Pilates studio where they know my name. Back to baking. Back to the mini-trips. Back to asking for, and accepting, help. Back to days with no plans.

It’s been a long, long time since I’ve written about myself, but I suspect some of the healing might come from writing, and that writing about treatment will help me process it too. I suspect the healing will come from nature and adventures and spending lots of time with people I love. I suspect there’ll be a lot of therapies. And I suspect I’ll wobble my way through this period in the same way I have wobbled through these past two months. And I suspect life won’t ever go back to the way it was before and I’m ok with that. I’m not who I used to be.

What I know for sure is that I won’t ever regret giving myself this time. It’s a new narrative in the plot twist chapter and already I can feel the change.

Because here’s the thing I’ve come to learn about plot twists. If you’re lucky, the plot twists won’t kill you or anyone you love. But what the twist might do is take you in a direction you might not have gone in otherwise. And I have a feeling it’s in those new places that the magic (and the stand-up paddle boarding) happens.

So let’s go … slow.

The healing has already begun