Adrift in my Little Rickety Boat

This blog is my way of navigating the cancer journey I've been dealt. I've been reflecting a lot lately on what it feels like to have this diagnosis hanging over me. I wrote about a month ago that it was rather like having a shadow with me at all times. It is and I'm coping with that, but I thought the other day that I felt somewhat "adrift" - that's it! That's exactly it! I have been cut adrift in a rather rickety little boat!

So, here's how I feel it went. When my Consultant gave me that ground-shattering news, it was like she put me in this little boat and pushed it out onto the water. It was a rickety little thing - bobbing about to such an extent that I felt it might just tip over at any minute and I'd drown. I don't even like boats really - I never feel stable in them, especially rowing boats that you have to manage yourself. I hate the rocking motion of this particular boat and even more I hate that I have no control over it. I am literally adrift - at the mercy of this deep water that's surrounding me more and more. I'm scared of rowing the boat, of sailing the wrong way - but I'm equally as scared of the water. At times it looks so dark and it moves all the time. There are obvious undercurrents that seem terrifying - where might they take me off to?

Every now and then, someone comes alongside my little boat, which sometimes feels as if it's leaking or being dragged away in a direction that isn't where I could choose to go. These are experts who come alongside - some of them invite me on to their boats for a while, for rest and comfort. I like these bigger boats - they seem more robust and secure and I get provisions from them - I feel safe for a while. Back in my own boat, I feel I can maybe handle the oars a little better. Thewater isn't quite so terrifying. I feel stronger.

But it doesn't last. Soon I'm drifting again; caught in those undercurrents and I feel I'll be swept away. I can't steer, I can't row. I just want to curl up in this boat and let the waters take me. It really can be this scary.

However, in real life, away from my clumsy analogy, I'm surrounded by beautiful people who really do want to support me and are generous in that support. So I feel somewhat churlish to be talking about feeling I am adrift - when they clearly want to be at my side and they really do want to help. I get all that. And I feel bad for these people. However, in the end, it really is me on my own going through this. I am the one in the boat - and it is rickety. No one can sail it for me. I have to do it alone. No one really gets what it actually feels like - and I understand that. But sometimes, a lot of the time really, it can feel as if I'm watching everyone else competently sailing in their fine, sea-worthy boats, heading off to locations that are bright and sunny, and I'm left bobbing along on the dark, cold waters. with no clue at all as to where I'm heading.

Last week, a wonderful, empathetic friend, took me to a Maggie's Centre in Oldham. It's

a wonderful charity providing free expert care and support to cancer sufferers and those who love them, at centres across the UK. Cancer specialists, psychologists and therapists, along with trained volunteers are there to offer the warmest of welcomes and a bright, open, relaxing space for anyone facing any kind of cancer. The centre at Oldham is everything a hospital isn't. Inviting, colourful, calm, bright and peaceful - and yellow!

It has a silver birch growing through a space in its yellow floor - reaching up through the created space in the roof to the skies beyond. The huge glass windows at either end of the centre enable you to lift your eyes from where you are, far above the rooftops of a grim and industrial Oldham, to the beautiful hills far beyond. You feel hopeful just being in the space.

I was greeted, nay swept along, by a delightfully warm female volunteer, who introduced me to others and told me all about what was on offer - her volunteer husband even made me coffee. They get it! I saw that immediately. They'd faced this; they'd had a child who had faced it too. There were others who were still navigating the choppy waters. They knew all about rickety boats and not being in control. Within minutes of arriving I was in tears and very shortly found myself sitting in a comfortable, curved chair by the windows, talking to Suzanne, a cancer specialist. She listened! Really listened. For the first time, without fear of upsetting, affronting or intimidating anyone else, I could say what it was like for me. All the irrational fears; all the night-time scary moments; the despair of not being there for my kids and grandkids; of grieving for the fit woman I once was; for all that was lost to me, or had been taken from me - I could let it all out. And not feel judged. And not be anxious that I had caused someone to be alarmed about my state of mind.

After our chat, we were told we could stay as long as we wanted and "just be". My friend who had taken me had also found someone to talk to and so the two of us then remained sitting in that beautiful, yellow space - cossetted in a cosy corner, with sound-

deadening walls - and chatted - and we both felt very much at peace - as if we could "just be". The whole experience was like pulling into a sheltered harbour. A place where I could tie up the boat, step ashore and be totally refreshed. I feel quite safe when I go for my treatments at the local cancer unit. The nurses are fabulous and everyone there "gets it". But it's all about being filled with drugs for the next few weeks. They are professional and friendly, but very busy and don't have much time to sit and listen, although they are kind and sensitive. But at Maggie's it's all about you, the cancer sufferer. All about hearing and understanding and helping you. Back in my boat, it suddenly didn't feel so rickety any more. As though someone had mended a few holes; repaired the seat and made it all a bit more stable. The water around me didn't look quite so scary - the undercurrents felt more manageable. I even found I had more strength to row myself and even though I'm still not sure where I'm actually going, I feel much less alone.

Since this trip to Maggie's I've reflected a lot about how fortunate I am to have such a wonderful circle of support. I've been able to put so much into perspective since then. I have an incredibly supportive husband. So practical and rational and sensible. Not always the best at emotional support - but goodness, he tries. I have a circle of friends who are so loving and supportive that I am often brought to tears. They come here and

talk to me - they make me laugh - they walk with me and don't seem to mind that I'm really slow! We go out to lunch and they understand it can take me an age to choose what to order, depending on how I feel that day, because of intolerances. They take me to art galleries and cathedrals and just share their companionship with me. They are - each and every one - amazing. I cherish them and give thanks for them. And my amazing family are always there. Someone is in touch every day. I love the cheeky WhatsApp messages, the texts and the Voicenotes. I am constantly reminded that I am loved and needed. I matter to others! That never ceases to amaze me.

My Cancer journey is testing my faith to its limits. I do find myself asking God why is there is need to suffer. But he has reminded me that these safe harbours are what he has provided - he has put these friends in my life. I know he is with me and upholds me. Somehow, knowing the certainty of him walking alongside me, that helps. Even in a rickety boat I am never really alone.