“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”
Albert Camus
A Collection of Artistry by Women in the Group
This collection reflects some of the large range of people’s responses to the diagnosis of advanced breast cancer. These are examples of strategies to deal with the sadness, loss, anger, rage, grief, and fear that are a result of the invasive, violent and intrusive nature, not only of the illness, but also of some of the treatment of the illness.
Sometimes these responses can be raw and confronting, and can cover a powerful range of emotions. However they can be helpful and creative ways of trying to express what people are feeling, and may enable people to think about and understand their experiences, while connecting with others around them.
This collection also reflects the realisation that life is precious, and the wish to embrace it in a myriad different ways.
On 10th anniversary of Advanced Breast Cancer Group, and as a tribute to Dr David Spiegel (Stanford University, USA) who believes no matter what the challenge, the human heart of endurance has the resource of previously unchartered depths.
I hear voices of kick-arse women determined to disprove endurance limits;
I hear of visualising pacmen/chemomen eating cancer cells;
I hear stories of timely fulfilling dreams;
I hear stifled tears in goodbyes to tired souls seeking peace;
I hear voices reaching out in fear, and comfort answers;
I hear voices charting the unimaginable, the inestimable, all the while knowing the journey’s end;
All this keeps kindling hope in my strength.
Fran
A Brand New Day
The dawning of a brand new day as out of bed I climb.
I’ve found since I got breast cancer, I’m pretty short of time.
I’d love to accept invites, but my friends don’t have a clue
I’m just so bloody busy with the things I have to do.
First task I’m in the kitchen with my “new best friend” the juicer
I can feel myself get better (I can feel my bowels get looser)
All organic beets and oranges, five kilograms a day
Without a frown I slurp it down and then I’m on my way
Monday is lymphatic drainage, with a deep massage to follow
Then I touch base with my naturopath for hints on what to swallow
On Tuesdays I have counselling then full 3 hours of reiki
A phone in with some ladies leaves my schedule somewhat shaky
I don’t eat chook or dairy, anything that had a “Mum”
But once a week a man comes round, sticks hoses up my bum.
I meditate 3 hours a day in candle lit seclusion
It’s not so hard to find the time, that’s just a false elusion.
Twice monthly I’m rebirthing, the feeling’s so unreal.
My Mum (who doesn’t understand) says her stitches never heal.
You’ll find me on a Friday with a group so dear and kind
And we tweeze out old forgotten hurts round campfires in our mind.
I don’t drink tea or coffee, alcohol never a drop.
I’ll list the things I eat and drink. Fruit, vegetables full stop.
It’s a very hectic schedule and for wellness that’s the fee.
But if you smell burning martyr, well OK, I guess it’s me.
Deep in my dreams I lunch with friends and time does not construe.
I order steak and chips and gin and 20 Winfield blue.
Lyn
Lyn
21-9-03
Conversation #1
“I have a really bad back” I say, staring past the young lady Doctor I have chosen because she has the same name as my best friend.
I have to take a deep breath because there is no point in coming here unless I screw up my courage to add “and I have a lump in my breast”.
The words catch as I squeeze them out. Has she heard? Yes.
On the examination table she kneads my underarm. “Is there anything there?” I ask
“I can’t feel anything”.
“Yes” she whispers, eyes squinted in concentration, “at least 3″.
“And the breast?” I manage, “You think it’s cancer?”
“Oh yes” she says “No doubt in my mind”.
I breathe in; gather my courage but I never get the question out. No matter, she sees and understands.
“2 years” she says “but some do better”
“What are you doing for the pain?”
I mumble about codeine and nurophen and she nods and believes me.
I wish she could read again in my face and help me without my having to ask.
“You’ll need to see a surgeon very quickly,” she says.
I start to cry, “Isn’t it too late?”
Tears plop down my face and I look around the room and realise there are no tissues.
A big number 11 forms on my top lip and I purse my mouth shut. She leaves.
She comes back with tissues but I have already used my sleeve.
“The surgeon is just your first stop, she’ll advise you on what will happen” she says looking across the table at me with newly sad eyes. “You’ll need a doctor, I’d like to be your doctor”.
“I knew once I came here and told I would be on a roller coaster”
“I’ll be there for you if you choose me, at any time during this journey, if you need me”.
It’s the first time I have heard the word journey along with anything except trains and planes and buses.
She hands me books and brochures and sticky notes with phone numbers on them.
I clasp it all to me and stand up without shaking and leave the room and the building and strap myself into the 2nd last car of the biggest roller coaster I’ve ever seen.
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Glenis and her quilt.
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Detail |  |
Garden
| Before | October 2005 | Spring 2005 | Evening Buddha. | |
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Artwork
Lyn’s quilt
If you would like to contribute to this page, please contact us at
Contributions do not have to be literary – we would like to display photos of paintings, sewing, pottery, gardening, or anything else that you may have done while managing this illness.