Once upon a time in Myelomaville, I set myself numerous targets and challenges to achieve in an attempt for me to cling on to something normal. I have stopped setting them now, in part, because I feel like it is better to let things happen naturally, because My Myeloma is unpredictable (it is also predictable in terms of my cycles, confusing huh?) The other part is because I cannot handle the total devastation when my hopes are dashed, but I do not like to think about that.
That said, for as long as I can remember in my new life, I was to be able to achieve one thing, that over time, in my head, became a symbol of defiance. I was going to be able to go with my friend, who I basically forced into giving me his spare ticket because I have cancer, to see The Book of Mormon. To put this into some perspective about how difficult a task this was, there was a time when it was incredibly difficult to get tickets. Today, they are just expensive. Regardless of that, in my head, going to see the show became my marathon. I was going to be able to go, regardless of whatever circumstance I found myself in. I had to. Anything other than attendance would equal one big fat win for those cancerous cells. For a long time, I thought that I would be fighting the post transplant demons when the time came to go to London’s West End, indeed, the date of our tickets was changed to accommodate this fiction. After my Bad Day, the first thing I thought, seconded by my friend’s wedding, was, at least I can definitely go and see The Book of Mormon now. If memory serves, it is actually something I discussed with others, in an attempt to find a silver lining.
Imagine my horror then, four weeks ago, when I was last crashing from the ‘roids and I realised that Wednesday 15 May fell smack bang in the middle of my predicted crash. I felt physically sick, such was the importance of going to see the show. I cannot articulate how this became something so much more than musical theatre to me and I have absolutely no idea why. Such was the importance, I decided that regardless of my crash, I would go. If this meant that I would fall asleep in the theatre, then so be it. If I was going to go down, I was going to do it fighting.
And so Wednesday came, I felt terrible. It took me three hours to have a shower and get dressed because I had to break every movement with a nap, I spent £40 on taxis because public transport was a no go area, but on Wednesday night I left my flat and managed to get to the Prince of Wales Theatre and boy, was it worth it. Not just because the show was a delight that Haemo Dad wouldn’t get. It was worth being bookended by sheer exhaustion and pyjamas.
I am sure in different circumstances, I would have enjoyed it more, for I really was a zombie on Wednesday. I cold barely converse/focus and for that, I must apologise to the universe. In spite of that, the less than ideal circumstances, I am so proud of myself for not giving in. My last week has been controlled by My Myeloma, but I like that somewhere inside me I managed to find four hours where I could do just what I wanted to do. I paid for it after, but I repeat, it was worth it.
I would like to confirm that I definitely did not secretly cry when the lights went down with relief and pride in equal measure.
And I also realise this blog would have had more of an impact had I written it on Wednesday, but I spent my energy doing something which was much, much more important.