I had a brush with death last week. It sounds dramatic, I know, but it felt very real. A few months ago, I found a lump. It was so small that, at first, I wasn’t sure if I imagined it. I am hyper-vigilant in the hope that I can outsmart disaster which means I often see things that aren’t actually there. Then, when I could no longer deny its existence, I took to checking it countless times a day. Had it grown? Was it painful? I suspected it was nothing sinister, but a lump … in me … I was terrified.
So I did what every rational person would have done. I talked about it a lot, had other (non-medical) people feel it and avoided the doctor’s surgery. Basically, I buried my head in the sand and hoped that it would go away.
It didn’t go away
It was only after a reiki session, when the therapist told me she’d picked up on something close to my right shoulder, that I finally took action. I had to wait a couple of weeks for a GP appointment and while life carried on as normal, the fear squatted in the back of my mind like an unwelcome visitor.
The softly spoken GP had a kind bedside manner. He made the full breast examination comfortable, taking the time to explain what he was doing and why. When he told me he’d have to refer me on the 2-week cancer pathway, he showed me the narrow referral criteria and reassured me that he wasn’t overly concerned.
Still, you can’t help but fear the worst. You Google the what ifs and presume that you’ll be one of the few who receive the worst news. I couldn’t even delude myself that cancer doesn’t happen to people like me, because I’ve seen with my own eyes that it does. To people my age, to seemingly healthy people; cancer does not discriminate.
Clarity
Those 10-days waiting for the specialist appointment were long and arduous. I retreated into myself, quietly running through all of the possibilities. The petty inconveniences that usually stress me out fell away when I considered that I might be facing invasive treatment, maybe even death. Like the blinkers had been removed, I could see with clarity what really mattered. Time with my daughter, my family. That is all.
I had a second realisation. We take for granted that we’ll reach old age. We fight against it’s advances, bemoaning the wrinkles and the grey hairs. Last week I felt death a hair’s breadth away. I saw that growing old is a privilege not all us will realise. Our lives can turn on a dime. It could all be over in the blink of an eye.
Of course, there are preventative measures that we can take to give ourselves the best chance: eating well, exercise, getting adequate sleep, avoiding stress. Being told repeatedly that my good health was advantageous, reinforced why I do all of these things.
So lucky
Thankfully, I got the all clear, a clean bill of health. But, one or more of the women I saw at the hospital that day won’t have been so lucky. Their lives will have been turned upside down, their future now unclear. This thought has given me perspective, I feel so lucky. For the first time ever, I truly appreciate my health.
This experience has shown me how difficult it is to fully empathise with somebody when you haven’t been there. Almost every woman I shared my ordeal with had been in my shoes. People close to me, my mum, my sisters, my friends. Yet when they reminded me of this, I had only a vague recollection. At the time I probably made sympathetic noises, told them that everything would be fine, but I didn’t pay close enough attention, I didn’t appreciate how frightened they would have been. Now I know.
It has taught me to be more mindful. To properly listen, to avoid trying to fix, to offer support. As horrible as this brush with death has been, I can’t help but feel that I will grow because of it. I hope that I continue to heed its warning, that I’ll stop sweating the small stuff and make every second count.
