Ignorance is Bliss

It seemed that none of my friends or acquaintances was suspicious that I was hiding the biggest secret of my life and I was glad of that. I felt that I had burdened enough people with the truth– my family overseas and my family in New Zealand, Alex’s co-workers and our friends the Smiths. One day Charlotte said:

      “I understand why you don’t want to tell anyone. Whenever I’m at the Smiths they want to know how you are. It’s all they talk about.”

         Although deception is a bumpy path it was the right one for me. I was not the type who required a support group to unload on, a website dedicated to my unfortunate circumstances or a cupcake with the letter “C” on it. I didn’t want to be the person everyone talked about. Instead I had my family if I wanted to talk about it and I had my friends to help me forget about it if only for an hour or two. It was a good combination.

      Ignorance is bliss and it was easy to fool everyone while I looked “normal”. Two weeks after my first high dose chemotherapy on May 7^th 2012, my head looked like a comical comb-over. Two weeks after the second high dose of chemotherapy in July, my head was a cue ball except for a couple of determined strands. I didn’t know how I was going to maintain any semblance of normality with no hair. So I retreated. My socialising went down to zero. I didn’t call anyone and I didn’t arrange anything. I never initiated contact. It didn’t bother me. I preferred not having any obligations or having to make any excuses. It was my disease, and it was enough of a weight around my neck without the added burden of how it affected others.

      There was another reason to lay low beside the fact that I looked the part of a dying woman. To be honest, when you think you are about to breathe your last, everyday conversation has limited interest. While I looked the part of a healthy woman I enjoyed taking part in chats about family, children, pets, jobs, even the weather. But when I looked in the mirror and saw this strange woman looking back at me, I walked through a door exiting my previous life. I no longer gave a shit about the weather, the latest iPhone or Angelina Jolie. Listening to complaints about unappreciative family members or difficult salespeople made me want to scream. It’s a cliché, but when you have your health you have everything, including the ability to listen to banal conversation. So it was better that I hid away. I had nothing good to say.