08/08/2025
𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸, 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗶𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲
I had been warned by my therapist that it might happen. Instead of bringing a sense of relief — even joy — the end of treatment can be a difficult and confusing time for cancer patients and their families.
In short, being told “you’re cured,” by the oncologist isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be.
In the days that followed my discharge as an outpatient, I tried to make the most of my newfound freedom.
For the first time in almost a year, I had no tests to worry about, no painful procedures to endure and, above all, no hospital schedules to adhere to.
Nevertheless, joy soon gave way to doubt. Was the original lump that had been removed in October starting to reform? Were the aches and pains I was experiencing really just a side effect of the medication I have to take for the next seven years, or were they something more sinister?
Any and all attempts to rationalise these dark thoughts were in vain, despite my husband Jeff’s best endeavours.
Desperate for reassurance, I even called the oncology department to voice my concerns, but that didn’t help either.
Having spent all year yearning for the day my treatment would come to an end, I assumed that my life would get back to normal at that moment.
With cancer in the rear-view mirror, there was no reason to think that it wouldn’t. I’d be able to start working full time again, go to the gym every day, and clean the apartment from top to bottom without getting exhausted.
It soon became apparent, however, that my carefully thought-out strategy to throw myself back into my old life wasn’t going to happen.
Sadly, I’m not the same person I was then — something I’d have to accept, I realised, if I wanted to move forward.
Acceptance and patience were key, both for me and my family, particularly my husband who was as keen as me for my treatment to be over so he could get his wife back.
And so, we’ve all moved onto a new footing. I’m not trying to be Wonder Woman, putting everyone else’s needs before my own. My recovery comes first.
Gaining strength while avoiding stress is the primary goal which, in practice, means resting, exercising, and easing myself slowly back into work.
Whereas before I got sick, I wasn’t happy unless I had at least half a dozen articles in the pipeline, right now I’m satisfied with just one — this column.
And on the subject of friends, I’ve never had many, but since my diagnosis, I’ve noticed a palpable shift in this area.
Some people whom I’d previously thought of as friends have dropped off the face of the earth, while others, who were barely known to me before, have been extremely kind, going above and beyond with practical help and support.
I’m told by those who have been in a similar position to me — having suffered a life-changing experience such as a serious illness or a bereavement — that this is extremely common.
One bereaved mother confided that someone had actually crossed the road when they saw her to avoid the “awkward conversation” that would inevitably follow. I wasn’t surprised.
Awkward conversations, the head tilt, and “the face” — resigned smile, sad eyes, furrowed brow — are all part and parcel of being a cancer sufferer.
It doesn’t matter where you are, or who it is, the response is almost always “the face”.
One morning, for example, when arriving at the hospital for a chemo session, the guard at the hospital car park stopped us.
“My wife has a chemotherapy appointment,” Jeff explained.
The guard peered in and saw my bald head. Without uttering a word, he simply gave us “the face” and waved us through.
I had hoped that this sort of thing would end along with my treatment, but sadly it hasn’t.
Last week, for example, as I was packing my stuff to leave the gym, a woman whom I knew appeared. The last time I had seen her (when I had very little hair) she had looked through me.
She now candidly explained it had been because she simply didn’t recognise me.
Later, when the reason for my near hairless state dawned on her, she decided to avoid me as she didn’t know what to say.
With nowhere to hide that morning, she’d been forced into that awkward conversation.
Yes, it’s awkward for me too, but the idea that someone would go to the lengths of avoiding me, as if I’m a pariah, is extremely hurtful.
I will always carry the burden of cancer with me. The lingering side effects of the treatment and the worry that it will return, are just two of the many problems that plague survivors.
I just hope that others will have the courage not to look away as difficult and awkward as that might be.
To them and indeed everyone I’d like to say . . .
“Cancer isn’t catching!”
Diary of an Expat
Andrea Samuels
