I got the call this morning of your passing.
It was unexpected. And I am not okay with it. I broke down as the sunrise hit our windscreen and sobbed all the anguish and anger I have been holding. I wish something had prepared me for your farewell so that I could work through the raw searing emotions.
Grief is not something I find easy. Its long weary sensations of loss, of being lost, of emptiness, really pisses me off because it is something we have no control over. Always with you yet ever evading, lurking in the next song, the mannerism of a stranger or phrase or even just a word. I have lost so many times before and yet it has not gotten easier with experience.
I remember asking our doctor how you were doing, and she reassured me that you were fine, ‘indestructible’ was what she called you. I remember hoping that this was true as I was reading her body language to see if she was hiding something from me – she was avoiding making eye contact and I was immediately suspicious. You had endured at most, 7 years of chemotherapy. Seven fucking years. We had a joke, because you laughed at my OCD of methodically counting and ordering things… 47 chemos… 3 more to go…. How many more before I kill myself with this toxic meds… 63 under wraps, 7 more to go… and you used to tell me to stop counting because it was unimportant.
Two weeks ago I finally went for my annual oncology appointment – not out of choice, but out of necessity. I had found two lumps in my back and discovered a few more all over my body and I was really concerned. I wrestled with anxiety and fear and eventually agreed that I need to see the doctor. She was all needles blazing, biopsies all over, my head spinning with possible results and praying for positive outcomes. I got sent off with mammogram instructions immediately.
My results for the biopsies were clear – alhamdulillah. My mammogram was clear. But my ultrasound was inconclusive as I have swollen lymph nodes in my neck area. I got a call for more biopsies and scans while waiting in the recovery room for my husband who was having a mastoidectomy – ear op. I wanted to vomit and choke on it. How was I going to tell my husband? My parents? My children? My head was racing and I had difficulty breathing.
I thought I was going to have a breakdown…
This is the nature of this disease. I keep telling myself.
It comes back. It comes back and haunts you. It comes back
and terrifies you.
It comes back and breaks you, your false sense of security, your normality,
your plans, your hopes.
It comes back… and steals your dreams.
I reached for my phone and let you know. I typed with such urgency and a knotted throat. Not thinking that you were unwell, or hospitalised. Always kind, you offered to go with me, sit with me and stay with me…
Just as you always have. You sat with me through my first diagnosis in 2012 as we shyly and slowly became friends. Two young women diagnosed with breast cancer, sharing our stories. You sensed my trepidation and my guarded demeanor – I did not want to make friends with people in the chemo room… but you and a few others made it easy for me to change my mind. We laughed and cried, shared and debated and always kept in contact.
I am saddened that I will probably walk this round by myself but am comforted knowing that I hold you in my heart and that you will be with me no matter where I am.
Rest In Peace, Nicky Handfield, you will be missed… till we meet again…
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