Fucking falafel.

I thought twice  about writing today, because it will be predominantly negative, and this all seems like such a set back but it’s not my fault and I am not blaming myself for any of it.

I always have a very bad time after chemo in terms of emotions – huge doses of steroids are taken for  good reasons and there’s no getting away from them, but there’s always a crash and it’s vile. Moodswings, panic, anger, convincing yourself you’re going to die, negative thoughts all around for one day sometimes two. 

The thing is with cancer after the shock of diagnosis wears off a bit, you reach your new normal but so does everyone around you. In the beginning its all sweetness and light and people walk on egg shells around you, but after 2-3 months, regardless of your terminal diagnosis, people revert back to how they are. It’s exhausting for people around you to act like someone else after all. Life goes on and people revert back to how they were when everything was fine.

So my  dad has this obsession with wasted food. To me wasted food is wasted food. So what? I don’t even eat meat so I’m not hurting anybody. I’m not killing an animal for nothing.  I buy a lot of food because I don’t know what I will fancy in the week. I never eat it all, and sometimes I’m too tired or ill to cook. Anyway the wasted food caused a big argument, the day after my chemo, the steroid come down, it was the wrong day to start a fight with me. The air turned blue. There was steam coming out of my ears.


I got such a telling off about wasting falafel and humous, all hell ensued.

 “Just throw the fucking food out for god sake, and stop acting like a fucking jerk. Its just fucking falafel. It’s not important in the grand scheme of things.”

I was raging. The day got worse. My dad had to leave the house which I was glad of but I stewed over the food argument all day and became more and more angry. 

Then I stupidly started reading about  median survival rates for my cancer; 2-3 years, which depressed me even more, and you could say that everything seemed just hopeless. I even started wondering what the point was of all this? All the time I have left I will be under treatment, a lot of the time like today I will be ill, unable to enjoy life or go outside. It seems that treatment for mets is like a desperate cling on for life no matter how short, we are prepared to do what it takes regardless of the affect on our health and quality of living… 

What I’m saying is cancer is hard enough without a secondary diagnosis. Without knowing you have an average of 2 years to live. Without people having a go at you over trivial things. Without the bloody steroids. 

Sometimes I just want a break… 

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