Dear Medical Team

I’m fully aware that every time we meet, I’m crying. I’m either crying because you’ve given me bad news, crying because you’ve given me no news, crying because you’re about to stick that shit in my arm again, crying because I’m lying on a steel bed while you fill my organs with a small dose of Chernobyl or crying because you’ve said something very kind and thoughtful. Sometimes I’m crying on the way into the hospital. Sometimes first thing in the morning on chemo day or scan day or results day. Sometimes I’m crying in the waiting room trying to get it all out before I see you because I don’t want to be crying in front of you.

Because you’ll think I’m depressed. All this crying must mean I’m depressed, right? I can understand why you keep gently suggesting raising this with my GP. I understand that antidepressants are not off the cards at some stage in this shitshow. But right now, I promise, I’m not depressed. I am all shades of emotion at any given moment; including joyful, elated, angry, regretful, hopeful, hyperactive, silly and calm. Just not depressed.

But here’s why you think I might be…

Imagine the hospital is not, in fact, a hospital, but a small place on the side of the road. It’s a place where a really traumatic accident happened. And unfortunately, the person it involved has to walk past that spot, every day on their way to work. There is literally no other path that person can take. So every day, as they walk past that spot, they cry. Because crying feels like release and is something that can’t be held. Crying is the body bowing at the feet of Trauma; because Trauma must be acknowledged. Crying is my body’s way of reminding me that this is something I am not expected to bear without injury. And maybe crying is also a reminder to you that you should not be expected to witness it without injury.

I will be the first one to raise my hand and ask for antidepressants when this becomes a state from which I cannot mentally recover. I’m an advocate for any treatment that is tried and tested. I see this as a real possibility as the time between treatments shortens or the treatment possibilities become fewer. And yes, I am seeing a psychologist on Friday. There’s a lot on the agenda. I hope she’s had her Weetbix.

But seven days ago I dressed up in an eighties aerobics outfit and recorded myself dancing to one of Olivia Newton-John’s lesser known hits. I knew it would be ridiculous. I knew it would make me and everyone else laugh and feel joy. And it did.

I’m still able to generate my own laughter. The people around me help me to feel lifted. So far, my people, myself included, are my antidepressants.

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