The significance of the day
I have just notice that it is the 18th of September. This is memorable for two reasons. First it was the day my mother was born in 1921, and second it was five years ago today that I had my mastectomy. The fact the it is the anniversary of my mothers birth is the only reason that I can remember the exact date. I can’t remember the date of my diagnosis, and I can only remember the day that I went to the Royal Marsden Hospital in London for a second opinion in 2009 because it was my brother’s birthday, or the date of the fall when Ollie (niece’s dog) pulled me over because it was my other niece’s birthday. Are you seeing a trend here?
So on family birthdays I should wrap myself up in cotton wool and hide away carefully (!). The other trend is that I just don’t bother to remember anniversaries of things that happen unless I can connect them to something far more important. How could anything be more important than the date of your diagnosis I hear you ask? Well, to me the question should be how could anything be less important in the grand scheme of things? It may have rocked my world in the worst possible way, but it was not the end of my world. My world earthquaked for quite a while after my Stage IV diagnosis, but it didn’t end. I only remember the my Stage IV diagnosis as the day I had the total hip replacement which was needed because of the damage that the tumour had caused, and as a way of being able to celebrate how far I have come from then. It is a measure of success and achievement; of bloody minded determination; of the need to prove the medical profession wrong. So far I am winning.