Rebecca, diagnosed with incurable, secondary breast cancer earlier in 2018, looks at what a prognosis means to her, and whether it would change the way she lives.
Rebecca, diagnosed with incurable, secondary breast cancer earlier in 2018, looks at what a prognosis means to her, and whether it would change the way she lives.
What does a number mean?
In life, we put a number on everything and, depending on the context, that number will likely be considered simply 'good' or 'bad'. Think, for example, of your salary, your temperature, your weight, the number of followers you have on Instasnappybook. A 'good' number for you may be considered disappointing for your neighbour. If 500 people like my blogs, for example, it means the world to me because it means I’m connecting with you and perhaps, fingers crossed, helping. But I imagine Taylor Swift might fire her PR team if only 500 people express an interest in her work.
Should I look more sick than I do?
So, what about life expectancy? What's the good number on that? My gran lived to 100. That was cool. I used to think I too would one day receive a card from the Queen (or King). Now, that’s statistically unlikely... but my body doesn’t care much for statistics.
Statistically, I shouldn’t have breast cancer (considering age, lifestyle, family etc etc). Statistically, my cancer should have responded to treatments (plural!). Yet I have secondary breast cancer, and, in the months since getting the 'all clear', my cancer has resisted multiple treatment plans and spread to my bones and vital organs. As I’ve said in a previous blog, it’s not great on paper, and considering the number of (startled-looking) people who tell me I look good, perhaps I 'should’ be looking much more sick that I do.
I wonder how my 'number' would make me feel
I’ve not been given a prognosis as yet. I don’t know ‘my number’, good or bad. My wonderful oncologist says it’s something we may discuss after my next scan, but that makes me wonder:
1. If my number is good, will I lose that new-found appreciation of the wonders of life I wrote about previously? If I’m told that I can expect that special tasseled birthday card, there’s a danger I may fall back to old ways, hurrying without pausing, living life inwardly, nose perpetually on the ground or on a screen.
2. However, if the number is bad, what if I’m tempted to hold a kind of living wake, spending my remaining time on earth weeping in a corner for what might have been? Good grief that sounds depressing.
3. Therefore, do I want a prognosis? Knowing me, if I’m given a number, I’ll at least double it and make that my target. But if I then reach that target, will I automatically keel over at midnight, like a sad Cinderella?
For me, the less-than-perfect answer is to be given a very vague ‘category’, for want of a better word. Am I looking at months, years or decades? That way, I have a moveable goal that I can keep shifting forward. Way forward. For once, I shan’t listen to my oncologist!
I want to enjoy every second of life
I can tell you now - and hold me to this - if the prognosis is bad (for me), I’m going to multiply it several times over, figure out how I can achieve it, and enjoy every second I have while doing so. Perhaps I’ll put a call out for someone to helicopter me to the top of an epic, isolated mountain so I can meditate there. Maybe I’ll organise wonderful days with my husband, family and friends.
Now that I think on it, whatever the prognosis, and perhaps even my number if I’m given one, I choose to live my life in the manner I'm proud to say I’m living now. Adventure, new friends, new complementary therapies, and a deeper appreciation of what I already had. A prognosis is based on statistics, but ask my mum - I never was a numbers girl.
Now, anyone got a helicopter?
If you have secondary breast cancer, you can find support by speaking to our breast care nurses on our free Helpline.