Five years ago. I was in the living room doing the ironing. Mum was in the kitchen. Chris was upstairs.

*ring ring*

The phone rang and I stopped what I was doing. I knew it wasn’t a good sign. Nobody really called during the day, and nobody called the house phone in the middle of the day.

It was the hospital. They wanted to speak to Mum. They wanted us to get there as soon as possible because Dad wasn’t doing good.

We got in the car.

I kept thinking that he was doing good the day before. How he looked me directly in the eyes as we said goodbye for the night. The doctors said that they would put him on a rehabilitation program. That we would plan all sorts of exercises and therapies for him, similar to others that had had strokes.

We got to the ward. The curtain around his bed was drawn. The doctors told us he had stopped breathing in the early part of the night. It was at that point I chose to shut off every emotion I had. I chose to go into nodding dog mode. Into ostrich with my head in the sand mode. Into pragmatic, what should we plan to do mode. Anything, but to deal with it that very second.

Then that night, when I got home, after 8+ hours in the hospital with family, and endless phone calls to the US and the Philippines, I got home and cried in bed.

The first time I’d met my oncologist, it was in the midst of figuring out what surgery I would be having for my mastectomy.

Naomi and I had visited Suzy on a Friday night in October. She had run through the treatment options that I could go with. I instantly knew she was one of the best.

Her approach was calming, informative and cautious. In comparison to my weekly appointments with Katy, I was only seeing Suzy once every three weeks, so the rapport between the two of us was not on the same scale.

Since chemo had started, my appointments were usually the day before my EC sessions. Every time we would meet, something would be different with my appearance. My hair had gone from shoulder length to bob to buzz cut; and each time Suzy saw me, she would compliment me on it, then the consultation would start in the professional calming manner that she operated in.

My last appointment, I couldn’t do much more with my hair, so I sat down, took off my coat and smiled.

Suzy looked at me, walked to the door and caught her previous patients and team.

“Oh my god, she’s wearing a pink unicorn onesie!”

I knew at that point I’d cracked her and we had bonded.

When you train for any long distance run you have to take two things into consideration. The physical stamina required, and the mental battle that will come about. You hear about it all the time. How runners hit the wall.

They start at a steady pace, and move along. They mark off each mile or kilometre as they pass, and slowly progress. But then something happens. They run out of steam. They let the remaining distance get the better of them. They crack.

This very wall exists with chemo. People start their treatment. They go to chemo. They deal with it as best they can. Then suddenly they just want it to be over. The side effects get too much. They want to give up.

I’d hit the wall a month ago, but recently hit that wall again. This time with full force.

It’s been nearly 5 months since my diagnosis.

It’s been 4 months since my mastectomy.

It’s been 3.5 months since my fertility treatment.

It’s been 3 months since I started chemo.

It’s been 4 weeks since I shaved my head.

The scars from surgery are fading. I’m nearly half way through the duration of chemo. A fair amount of time has passed since this all began, but the remaining time I have left for treatment still continues; and I couldn’t wish any harder for the finish line to come closer.