Feeling at home in my body
Is one of the reasons I’ve struggled to feel at home - not just here in Yorkshire but from my twenties onwards - because I haven’t felt at home in my body and in myself?
H.O.M.E.
Home. This short word, these four little letters have occupied a lot of headspace these past few weeks following my last post and various conversations, especially with Lindsay Johnstone who writes What Now? and other writers on her Memoir in a Month course. (I’d highly recommend it, she’s running another in September if you’re interested).
There’s been a lot of scrapbook writing. Odd thoughts tapped into Notes on my phone as I walk into town, sentences half heartedly strung together in my notebook and the occasional flick through the photo album.
There’s also been a lot of not-writing writing. The writing that happens while washing up and doing all the other life stuff like making parent’s evening appointments and picking up yet more milk from Tesco.
I try to capture these fleeting thoughts and ideas, but the longer I leave it between posts the harder it is to pull them together into something that makes sense. I made a commitment to myself and to you though, to write regularly. Or rather to share my writing regularly so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll put on my writing playlist, sit down with a cup of tea and see where the writing takes me. Bear with…
Feeling at home in my body
Later this afternoon I’ll be driving along the A65 to Airedale Hospital for my annual mammogram. Six years post-diagnosis, five year after finishing treatment my scanxiety, that knot in my stomach, tends to surface around halfway through the drive to the hospital rather than in the days before as it used to.
It appears somewhere between Addingham and Silsden but disappears the closer I get to Aldi, distracted as I work out if I have time to pop in before my appointment and have a rummage through the special aisles, or not. Stopping at Aldi and picking up flowers and brioche (not to mention cushions and candles) was as much part of my cancer routine as the weekly PICC line flushes, blood tests and scans.
The mammogram appointment letter arrived a few weeks ago, around the same time I found out I could stop taking Tamoxifen, a friend was diagnosed with breast cancer, bumping into a woman I’d met in the chemo lounge years earlier but not seen since, and Mother’s Day.
Mother’s Day, the ninth since mum died, passed in a blur of grey sky and rain. I’d been silently congratulating myself on feeling fine about it even though I’d been surrounded by Mother’s Day cards and gifts at work. I was surprised then to feel so wonky on the day, much as I had last year.
Spring is a strange season. I mean it’s very welcome with its blossom, lighter afternoons and lush foliage and all those signs of regeneration and growth but it’s also the season of mum’s death, as well as my annual mammogram which brings memories of my diagnosis to the fore all juxtaposed with the joy of childrens’ and Andy’s birthdays.
The final fraying thread connecting me to cancer
The thing with being told I could stop taking Tamoxifen is that it was the final, fraying thread tying me to breast cancer. A little over five years of daily pill taking. It had plunged me into chemical menopause overnight, the last line of defence in the treatment plan for my oestrogen positive, ductal invasive breast cancer. I thought five years of pill popping might call for more than the brief text message.
“Hi Mrs Mason
The specialist advised a 5 year course for your Tamoxifen
so this can now be stopped.”
I called the breast cancer nurse who confirmed the text was correct. I asked if I could expect any side effects as I had when I first started taking it, ‘Oh, I don’t know’ she said, and our conversation was over.
And so I found myself in tears in front of the GP the other Friday afternoon. I’d made the appointment after feeling some pelvic pain in the days after I stopped taking Tamoxifen. Discomfort and pain that disappeared as the appointment got closer and I came close to cancelling because I wasn’t ill, was I.
I didn’t want to use up an appointment for no good reason but I also felt that there needed to be, or rather I needed some sort of conversation with a human being to acknowledge that treatment had finished, that I was done.
I didn’t ring the bell in the chemotherapy or radiotherapy waiting rooms after my final appointments. A bell was too loud, too public. The clanging of metal on metal too harsh, and it didn’t feel like anything was over. I guess it wasn’t over, not only because I was on Tamoxifen but also because there’s something insidious about cancer. It can stay with you long after the hospital appointments disappear from your diary.
I guess it’s also worth adding that I’d also spent the morning before seeing the GP with the recently diagnosed friend and was surprised at how emotional I felt as I drove away from her.
Do you talk about it?
The GP was fabulous, she listened, passed me tissues and gently asked if I ever talked about my breast cancer. I paused, and realised that no, I don’t think I do talk about it. Much like I don’t often talk about how I miss mum. I don’t think I mentioned her at all on Mother’s Day which seems really odd now that I see it written down.
With the cancer, I might reference it, as in this thing happened but that six years post diagnosis I didn’t think I had a right to talk about it anymore. I was fine, wasn’t I? Time to move on and continue the forward facing position I’d adopted.
I apologised for using up the GP’s time and told her that I almost cancelled. She put me straight and we agreed that I was probably overdue a return visit to Maggie’s cancer centre for a chat.
I think I hesitated in answering the GP’s question about whether I talk about cancer because I recognise this habit I have of talking and writing a lot of words but not necessarily sharing how I feel.
Or at least only wanting to share feelings that are somehow appropriate and acceptable.
I also hesitated in writing this post because I don’t want to sound like I’m moaning. I know I’m six years down the line, that my cancer was common and with good outcomes and I’m still here, fit and healthy.
I’d also been persuading myself that I should be writing about ‘home’ after my last post, but I’ve found it hard to string my thoughts together into anything that makes sense. I think I also came to the realisation that it’s all connected anyway.
Feeling at home in your body
I suspect that one of the reasons I’ve struggled to feel at home - not just in Yorkshire now I think about it - but from my twenties onwards is because I haven’t felt at home in my body, or in myself. From shingles and post viral illnesses to ME/chronic fatigue and fibromyalgia and cancer. The signs have been there, the body knows the score indeed, it’s just that I haven’t been listening properly.
Because how can you feel at home, knit and weave yourself into a landscape and community if you don’t know yourself. If you aren’t paying attention, listening, acknowledging what’s really going on inside?
And I guess as I’ve hinted at here, it’s not just the cancer. It’s what came before it. Stripping out and naming the emotions linked to each individual event is hard, impossible even and while for the most part I walk through life happy, content even there are times when I feel its weight creep up on me.
I get out daily, and take my vitamin D. I walk on the moor and go to Pilates, stretching my body at home too. I love the jolts of energy and colour that working my shifts at Oliver Bonas brings as well as writing for my clients not to mention chats with friends and family, but that can all be true whilst still feeling the heaviness.
We need safe spaces to explore our complicated emotions
I hope that what I’m creating here in Gently Does It is a safe space not just for me to share and explore these themes and feelings, but for you too. I loved reading the comments following the last post and I guess it shows that many of us are walking around harbouring these conflicting and sometimes confusing emotions.
I’ve included a few of the articles, books and podcasts I’ve found useful over the past few weeks as I’ve been thinking about feeling at home in my body (and anywhere else for that matter). I hope you find something interesting and/or helpful there too.
And with that I’ll leave you in peace. Thank you for reading, the comments are always open and I’ll be here reading and ready to reply. If you’re not a Substack-er simply hit reply to the email and message me directly.
Harriet
Something to read
Nervous system regulation isn’t everything, All Parts by Eliza Butler on Substack
“Trauma leads to disorganization in the various systems of the body, which causes the body to work even harder to find any semblance of coherence. For some who have experienced trauma, you might feel like an entire section of your orchestra has betrayed you and left the building; another person might feel like a few instruments are out of pitch. Either way, our bodies learn how to play the music the best we can given our situation.”
I'm longing to return to the place we used to live but is this still nostalgia? Annalisa Barbieri in The Guardian
“Nowhere is perfect. Is it really the old place you’re longing for, or just the fear of permanence where you currently live?”
“In the moves I imagine myself making, I’m always in a perfect place. A house that doesn’t leak during heavy rains. One with no musty smells in the basement. One without walls that crack and need repair. A home without a filthy oven that needs cleaning. A place where there will be no health problems, no marital problems, no financial woes, no income tax, no work that feels banal and boring.'“
Louise de Salvo, On Moving: a writer’s meditation on new houses, old haunts and finding home again
Something to listen to
What does it mean to belong? Conversations with Annalisa Barbieri featuring psychotherapist Mark Vahrmeyer
“We also look at how important attachment is in determining how much we feel we belong, or don’t. How self esteem also impacts and how very important human connection is to psychologically tether us to a sense of belonging. We also look at why you might feel you don’t belong in the very place you think you might have an automatic right to - your own family.”