TESTING TIMES

A journey through cancer

Major Rosemary Dawson describes how she survived her battle with serious illness

GILL. Sandra. Ian. Pamela. Me. During the past twelve months all five of us, at the same corps, have undergone some kind of cancer surgery or treatment. It has certainly been one of the most testing times of my life, but the support we have received from each other through the highs and lows of this shared experience has brought encouragement, strength and positivity. My own faith has grown stronger because of it.

I take particular inspiration from one of our group and her continual battle against the disease. Despite enduring all kinds of debilitating treatments, her attitude remains: ‘Bring it on! Throw everything you’ve got at me! I’m going to get through this.’ It helped put my own illness into perspective.

Being told that you have cancer arouses different reactions. Some people are completely dazed. Some are emotional. Some are angry. Most are inwardly fearful. The reality is, life is never going to be the same again.

Cancer directly affects one in three people, but you never expect it to happen to you. When it does, it seems like a bad dream from which you hope you’re soon going to wake up.

Surgery usually happens fairly quickly after diagnosis, allowing little time to come to terms with it. Trying to soften the news for your family, assuring them that the prognosis is good and the treatment effective – and convince yourself at the same time – is difficult.

I managed (just) not to go down the ‘Why should this happen to me?’ road. Instead I tried hard to look at it from the ‘Why not me?’ angle.

Jesus never promised that his followers would escape testing times. He tells us plainly: ‘Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows.’ But here are the words that make the difference: ‘Take courage, I have overcome the world’ (John 16:33 The Living Bible).

Another verse also came to mind: ‘No test or temptation that comes your way is beyond the course of what others have had to face. All you need to remember is that God will never let you down; he’ll never let you be pushed past your limit; he’ll always be there to help you come through it’ (1 Corinthians 10:13 The Message).

I simply do not know how people can get through cancer without faith in a loving God or the support of Christian friends. I certainly couldn’t have. In the beginning I felt too numb and dazed to utter many words of prayer, but can testify to feeling as if I were lifted on a cushion of supportive prayers said by many others on my behalf. I was continually humbled by the assurances of friends, colleagues and people I hardly knew at the corps, that they prayed for me every day. The flood of encouraging cards and emails, the unexpected kindnesses of neighbours, were at times overwhelming.

Being positive about diagnosis and treatment definitely helps. So does a sense of humour. But trying to be positive all the time is hard work! There are days when you just want to curl up in a corner on your own and have a good howl. That’s not being defeatist or selfish; it’s a natural release from tension, and nothing to be ashamed of. I think it’s also important to take time to deal with the ‘what ifs’ and consequences surrounding your situation. Being in denial about cancer will not benefit the healing process.

Then there were practical issues – a holiday to be cancelled and what to do about work and corps commitments. Apart from a few weeks in the beginning, I was able to continue my work for the Publishing Department at THQ and found that tapping away on a computer gave me much-needed focus and purpose. I owe my colleagues huge thanks for pretending not to notice when lack of concentration – commonly known as ‘chemo brain’ – affected my work from time to time!

The calendar quickly filled with hospital visits, blood tests, treatments and scans. I came to appreciate why my appointment was never on time: the consultant was giving someone else the same degree of attention he had given me. I have nothing but admiration for those whose job it is to impart bad news, and its consequences, every day.

The surgery was the easy bit. After that comes the treatment.

Chemotherapy is individually prescribed according to the kind of cancer and the degree of its aggressiveness. Six very toxic drugs were administered through a drip, designed – as my surgeon put it – ‘to zap out’ any cancer cells left behind. Unfortunately drugs cannot discriminate between cancer cells and healthy cells – hence the unpleasant side-effects of sickness, nausea, mouth ulcers, loss of taste, hair falling out and exhaustion.

Having to avoid infection meant not being able to see my young grandchildren on a regular basis for a few months, which was hard. However, their matter-of-fact acceptance of the ‘nasty medicine’ that made my hair, eyebrows and eyelashes fall out, their interest in my wig, and excitement when they saw my new hair finally growing, helped me deal with it too. I felt very self-conscious the first time I wore the wig to the Army, but am grateful for those who went out of their way to say how nice and natural it looked – even if I didn’t altogether believe them!

Repeatedly recounting your treatment to family and friends can in itself become a negative experience. It’s nice to talk about other normal, cheerful things too! As a television advert for cancer research so aptly puts it: ‘Today was a good day. Today wasn’t all about cancer.’

Although appreciating the thought behind it, I found visitors – even family – very tiring as the effect of treatments increased and my energy levels decreased. I hope they understood when I asked them not to come for a while.

Life steadily became more difficult after the third chemo session. I was scheduled for eight, but after number six I caught an infection that led to two short stays in hospital. I was diagnosed with chronic fatigue – my body’s way of saying it had had enough – and the last two chemos were cancelled, which was a huge relief. I could hardly climb the stairs or lift the iron at that point, so radiotherapy was postponed a while to allow me to regain some strength. This also had an unexpected bonus: my husband had to learn how to iron!

It was a truly joyful moment after the last radiotherapy treatment on Easter Monday, when I ceremoniously tore up my hospital appointments list and emptied out the hated bottle of mouthwash. But the end of treatment does not immediately signify the return to full strength and health; it is just the beginning of recovery, which can take anything up to two years.

I feel that this needs to be better understood. People getting over cancer should not be expected or pressurised to resume commitments until they themselves feel able to do so. Doing too much too soon can have a detrimental effect.

Six months on, I still cannot manage too many prolonged periods of exertion and need frequent sit-downs during shopping trips. I am having to learn to live with the frustration of not always being able to do as much as I want to do when I want to do it.

The hospital appointments have finished, the cancer is gone, but there is no guarantee it will not return.

Cancer has changed many of my priorities. Things that once seemed so important now appear trivial, and I value each day as a gift from God. I leave others to judge whether or not it has made me a better person.

I share the testimony of John Newton:
Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
(SASB 308)

• Major Dawson, who lives in retirement in Norwich, continues to work for the Editorial Unit at THQ