There were three people in the room: the consultant, a nurse and a registrar, and I remember thinking, it does not take three people to tell you you are fine. I was right. It was cancer.
I am a single parent and have been since my son was a baby. My first thoughts were about him. What would he do without me? Where would he go? Where would he live? Some of the anger I felt at my diagnosis was directed at my son's absent father, who had refused to have anything to do with us after I left him. In those first hours my thoughts were clear: he should have cancer, not me. My friends said it was 'the cancer talking'. They were right – because I would not wish cancer on anyone.
Oddly though, being a single parent gave me strength. I couldn't take to my bed with a box of Kleenex; I couldn't lie about feeling sorry for myself (boy did I want to do that). I decided on 'business as usual': I got up and did the school run, made the dinner, checked the homework, I kept on gently nagging about tooth brushing and music practice.
Getting a diagnosis of breast cancer was the only time I really worried about being a lone parent. For the first time ever I thought I'd been irresponsible in bringing up this child on my own. But then I wised up. You cannot stay with someone just in case you get sick some time down the line. Then I thought, maybe I was irresponsible for not trying harder to find a new mate and replacement dad. Too late now though. What would I put on my internet profile? Single white female, good sense of humour, one boob… I decided to look for the small mercies: at least I didn't have to worry about my husband worrying. I wouldn't end up looking after him, making sure he didn't get too stressed, trying not to wake him when I cried at night, keeping his spirits up.
Telling my son I had cancer was hard. Accepting help from others was hard. I was used to coping on my own and didn't want things to be different. But in this position, things were different. I had to accept all the help I could get, join support groups, let people into my life. I had to let them help me. I had to let my child see that I was not alone, that he was not alone.
During my cancer treatment I wrote my first book, B is for Breast Cancer - a sometimes funny A-Z of the emotional and physical impact of cancer. Despite good friends, I felt very, very lonely in my cancer and the book was a daily pep talk to myself. It gave me help and hope and because it was humorous, it let me laugh through the cancer. I was delighted when, after it was published, so many people contacted me to say it gave them help and hope too, and that it let them laugh.
The following year I wrote The Best Medicine - a comic novel about a 12-year-old boy coping with his mother's embarrassing diagnosis of cancer. The boy (Philip) is mortified that people will be going around talking about his mother's boobs all the time. In the book the fictional boy writes letters to the comedian Harry Hill for advice on coping with everything from his mother to the school bully to the girl he is crazy about.
Philip is an only child and his mother is a single parent – just like me and my son. However, the book is not about me, and it is not about my son, but it is for him. My life stood still the day I was diagnosed with cancer, but my son's didn't. He had to keep on going to school, coping with everything that life threw at him, from eccentric English teachers to beautiful girls. Some people might think you shouldn't laugh where serious illness is concerned, but life goes on for the children. They can feel guilty for getting on with their lives and having fun at a time like that. But of course they shouldn't. My book is my way of saying so. I wrote this book as permission to my son, and others, to keep on living and keep on laughing.
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Guest post: "My son's life didn't stop just because I had cancer"
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MumsnetGuestPosts · 29/06/2016 16:31
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