I pulled up on the side of the road. I knew I had the right address, as the pink door was the giveaway. I had always admired Cat for her quirky way of decorating her home; so it was a no brainer that as soon as I stepped through the front door I wanted to move in.

We hugged. I got a tour of the house. I met her dog, and her adorable son.

“OK, you can sit down, and I will ask you questions, and I want to hear all about it.”

I smiled. I loved Cat for her no bullshit approach.

You can ask me anything you want. If I don’t want to talk about it, I’ll tell you.

I hadn’t seen Cat for over a year. We had exchanged texts here and there, but since I’d last seen her, she had had a baby, and I had been diagnosed with, and finished treatment for breast cancer.

I started talking. Cat asked questions. I responded. We discussed what was next for me. I cried. We exchanged stories of our existing life choices/situations. We laughed. And before I knew it, three hours had passed, and it was time for me to go.

Thanks Cat, I really needed that. I feel much better. 

I got in the car and drove off realising it was the first time in months that I’d felt I could talk properly.  I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

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.

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.