I have no idea how I’m meant to feel or behave

Having cancer was weird.

Any excuse to post a Labyrinth pic

An audio version of this article (by me, not a robot) is available below:

I am struggling to understand how I’m supposed to feel right now and who I’m meant to be. Someone asked the other day how I’m finding being a new mum and I had to tell them that it’s been strange because I’ve also just had cancer and it was touch and go for a while there, hahaha, isn’t that funny, what a weird time, who wants a drink?

From most objective viewpoints, having stage 3 colon cancer while pregnant and only being diagnosed after you’ve given birth is a pretty big deal, which brings with it an odd pressure, both external and internal. There’s a weight that comes with the word ‘cancer’, a collective raising of the eyebrows and softening of the voice. It’s the same response I’ve witnessed whenever I have to tell people that both my parents are dead or that I’m divorced. I’m now part of several clubs that absolutely no one wants to join and membership seems to bring with it this expectation that you’re either worldly-wise or damaged goods. Both, in my experience, are true in different ways. 

So, after getting the cancer all-clear six weeks ago, my natural inclination has been to brush what happened under the rug – to throw myself into ‘living’ to prove that I am, in fact, still alive, all the while choking on the emotions clogging up my throat. I worry that if I allow myself to feel them I may drown in the flood. More so when I think of how this has affected my family and friends – the fear and uncertainty that it has brought into their lives. It makes me feel guilty and frightened, reminding me that at one point when things looked particularly bleak, I was relieved that at least I wouldn’t be left behind to grieve because I’d be dead. Pretty cowardly, no?

Hoggle from Labyrinth (not the bravest)

Yet my partner, Koen, and I are both grieving anyway. We’re grieving the loss of a sense of safety and security. We feel raw and vulnerable in a way that is hard to come to terms with, especially while also navigating our feelings as brand-new parents. Our hearts now live outside of our bodies and in deciding to have Billy, we made a pledge to look after him… something I failed at straight away. I know that wasn’t my fault, but it was nevertheless devastating.   

It’s odd to notice physical symptoms healing when you’ve only just started taking stock of the mental wounds. My stomach looks like someone bought a knife to a gun fight and decided to use both… but those scars are getting better. In a couple of weeks I can have an eye test as the ‘optical disc swelling’ from the chemo (*shudder*) will have reduced, my nose and gums have stopped bleeding, and my hair is growing back. My body is fixing itself and, even though I’m aware that it will take years to recover fully – just from giving birth, let alone from cancer and chemo – seeing positive developments like those makes me feel as if I should be healing as quickly emotionally too. 

Labyrinth’s Ludo (my permanent expression nowadays)

This feeling is compounded by being kicked out of the medical system so decisively. For the past year, the local hospital and Amsterdam Cancer Centre had become my second homes. I’ve gone from having appointments every week, phone calls and home visits from nurses to hearing absolutely nothing from anyone professional at all. My cancer therapist even ghosted me. Come back, Bernice! I AM NOT FIXED. It is intimidating to realise that the next appointment I have will be the three month check-up to see whether the cancer has returned. To say I’m not looking forward to that is an understatement akin to saying that Holland isn’t very mountainous. And yet, what are the doctors meant to do – continue meeting up for a brew and a strained hug? (Yes, please.)

Despite my best attempts though, it’s impossible to stay numb or to pretend that everything is okay. It’s not okay. What happened happened and it was a big deal. Other people have been through worse – there is always worse – but that was as bad as it’s ever been for me and I once got stuck in a glass lift with Shakira for 20 minutes with tourists taking photos outside. 

I guess what I’m learning is that the aftermath of a life-upending event is often more emotionally tumultuous than being in the thick of it. The adrenaline has worn off, the urgency of the immediate moment has passed, the support team has retreated, and you’re left picking up the pieces thinking, “Wtf just happened?” I’m having to fight my natural inclination to pretend EVERYTHING IS FINE as well as my imposter syndrome in thinking that I can’t join the cancer club because everyone else in it is worse off than me. I’m in the club whether I like it or not and someone’s got to hand out the canapés. 

Just One More Thing… 

Maybe confronting what happened will not only help me, but other people too – which is why I’m publishing this even though I fear it’s a smidge self-indulgent. Perhaps you’ll recognise yourself in what I write if you too have struggled to get a handle on life after a mad experience. So, while I won’t be making any videos lying in corn fields à la Kate Middleton, I may make a few lying on the floor. I’m no royalist by any means, but what Kate said (us cancer folk are always on first-name terms) struck a chord, sun-dappled trees or no sun-dappled trees. The last year has been terrifying and coming out of the woods (sorry) brings new uncertainties. Accepting that is part of the process. The feelings will always get you in the end so best to invite them in on your own terms. 

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*Exceedingly modest reminder that I have written eight bestselling mental-health books which have been translated into at least 10 languages. I’ve also written a book about the TV show Friends which would make a delightful gift for any Friends obsessives. All are available to buy online or at your local bookshop.