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 7th 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.
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