The Cancer Survivors Club by Chris Geiger Page A

what they felt would be the best approach for my treatment. The consensus was to prescribe eight rounds of chemotherapy. The doctor said to look at it as an insurance policy; that I was putting the optimum number of years of survival on my side. I’ll never forget that day. Like the day I found out I had cancer, this day also passed like a slow-moving dream. I questioned myself over and over again; I wondered if this was even real. Was this really happening to me?
    I was introduced to the oncologist who would be responsible for my chemotherapy. I was also introduced to my pivot nurse, or personal nurse, who would oversee my treatment. My ‘new’ oncologist gave me what for him must have been the millionth repetition of a speech on what tests I would undergo before starting the chemotherapy. He also went through the dangers of undergoing such severe treatment and explained what medication I would need to take during my treatment and why. Then, without asking, he took out a form and enquired if I was employed. He started filling it in while I nodded, confirming I had a job.
    Herein lay what would be one of the forks in the road that I went down. I had a choice. I could have nine months off work with the stroke of a pen while I went through treatment and recovery. Yet I had no intention of stopping work, so politely pushed his completed form back to him, while explaining I wanted to continue working if I could; I tried to sound as confident as I could. I felt empowered when I told him and I truly believed it. It was the first post-operative decision I made that was in my best interest. I needed to prove to my daughters, who were thirteen, ten and seven years old, that I was going to be fine. I wanted to give a positive example of how someone can fight with strength and dignity. I wanted my family to have as normal a life as humanly possible. So I worked my sixty-hours-a-week job, except for the two days I needed to take off every second week for my treatment. I arranged to have my treatment on a Thursday, so that by Monday I had gone through my physical and mental crash and was back on track. Once you go through the first treatment, the others tend to keep the same pattern. It’s like a rollercoaster ride with the same peaks and troughs each time you go around.
    Some of the best advice I got at this stage of my journey was to bring a friend or family member to chemotherapy with me. I did as suggested and it made each session much easier for me to handle. We would spend the time together chatting, laughing and reminiscing; this really distracted me from the treatment. In my case, the toughest part of the treatment was actually at the beginning of each session, when they inserted the needle. It was always so hard for them to find a vein big enough. The stress for me was them being able to hook me up. Once that was connected, it was just a question of getting the prescribed drugs inside me.
    Soon after the first chemotherapy treatment, the inevitable happened. My hair started to fall out. At first it was in tiny wisps but eventually it was coming out in bigger clumps. Fortunately, my hairdresser is also my friend. So, armed with my new wig, I went over to my friend Dianne’s house to get my head shaved. This was another choice I wanted to make, and I’m so glad I made the decision. As with any opportunity I chose, it was empowering and allowed me to remain in control. I’d been mentally preparing for this since my personal nurse told me I’d lose my hair. I actually think it was harder on Dianne who was much more emotional over this than me. Once my hair was off, we made a cup of tea and looked at the wig. What were we to do with it? I stuck it on my head but it just didn’t look right. It required a trim and needed to be much flatter. Eventually, we put the blow dryer on low and flattened the synthetic hair down. I knew it would take some getting used to, but it was the new ‘me’ –