54. What happens when you weep in woods

My failure to find rest and solace on an autumn tree trunk, and the subsequent weeping, has got you all terribly concerned. It has been heartwarming, your emails and texts and FaceBook comments.

The only other blogpost that has drawn this much feedback is the one on the How are you question, but that was mostly face-to-face. Even now, three months later, people squeak "I'm not going to ask you how you are!" even though I really don't mind if they do. Some people have tried to solve the dilemma by asking "How is Owl?", but that is almost worse, because the answer is either too flippant or too profound.

Let me put your minds at rest and reassure you that I am fine, really.

I think I just needed to accept that the Suddenly, I feel much better moment simply won't come until all this is over, some time in January perhaps.

And even then, the booklets warn me, it could be months and months before I feel better. I'm skipping the 'After Treatment' sections that tell me the recovery time can be "one of the hardest times to cope with", a time "when you need the most support". Can that be true?

The hardest times are those that fail to live up to expectation. I thought my energy would return, and it didn't. As soon as I try to step into the fray of daily life, and the demands stretch beyond the basics, my skeleton seems to turn to jelly and is ready to collapse in a sorry heap on the floor. Sometimes I didn't even know I had expectations until I'm in that heap.

(Ah. Perhaps they are right about the After Treatment problem. Everyone, including myself, is looking expectantly towards Christmas, when it should all be over and I fancy myself merrily skating off into the snowy winter. Spring, I imagine, will be even better. There I shall be, dancing among the blooming cherry trees with my newly sprouted hair. I'll probably read this then and laugh - or, more likely, cry - at such optimism.)

It's easier now that I have realised I will be tired for months to come, with no let-up.

I just have to accept that I cannot walk far, cycle far, swim far, sing loudly, or sit up at my desk for hours on end. I should have known. I should have listened to others who have gone through chemotherapy in the past. "It's cumulative," they say. "With every cycle of chemo, it just hits you harder." No wonder many people feel like giving up after about four cycles.

I have gone back to work this week, but this time, I am just working quietly at home. That may sound like madness, given the state I'm in, but actually, it has been bliss. The very good news is that my brain is working fine. I enjoy being able to focus on work, rather than on my own bodily functions (or lack thereof). And since I'm at home, I can even do some of it lying down.

I have been touched by everyone's concern, kind thoughts and offers of help.

This is, after all, a highly tedious and uninviting road, so thank you all for sticking with me.

One set of friends, whose house sits in their own bit of woodland, said "You are very, very welcome to come and walk in our wood, and we will always offer you a cup of tea." Sounds good.

I was most heartened by the response of Knee Owl Friend, who I see as a remarkable Strong Woman. She never complains about her many health problems (not in public, anyway) and I've never seen her cry. Turns out she could happily come along to Promised Wood and do some weeping of her own.

"I so relate to the tears," she wrote in an email. "With less reason for them, I’ve been there myself – struggling to do something, go somewhere, achieve a bit more than last time – I have dissolved into tears of frustration and disappointment because of cancelled trains, rude people, routes that were meant to be short-cuts but turned out to be longer, full buses that sail past my stop, and so on.

It seems to me that there is a very fine dividing line between being in control and able to cope, and it all falling apart. Most of the time we can keep the lid on these emotions very securely, while other times the bubbles underneath threaten to blow the lid off.  It’s when we’re physically fragile that the lid is more unstable."

Perhaps that's just it. My body is so weak and tired all the time, it just wobbles all over the place.

Don't worry when that happens, folks. There's always the prospect of spring and sprouting hair.

52. Weeping at the wood's edge

There. Today, I have outed myself as a Weeping Woman. No longer is the blubbing confined to the dark.

She has gone into hiding, Wonder Woman who can cope with anything and who is, above all, able to keep herself in one piece (and a dry one at that).

I'm sorry to keep disturbing your joie de vivre with reports of further misery, but this is day 11 of the third chemo cycle and I'm still exhausted. This is disturbing. I'd pencilled in the Suddenly I feel much better moment for yesterday, day 10, as on previous occasions. Alas, no such joy.

So, in an effort to revive my spirits and to rest my weary bones, I've come to our place in East Sussex for some proper breathing (tick), a swim in the sea (tick), a wander among my baby trees (tick) and above all, peace and quiet (tick). The unticked box was a walk in the woods.

I've been looking with longing at the London autumn sunshine. I love all seasons but autumn is my favourite, with its rustic colours, damp wooden smells and nature's promise of rest. I tried to route my daily walk across Clapham Common, which was nice enough, but what I really needed was a proper wood without car fumes and police sirens edging in.

Today was my day for a woodland walk.

I had to plan it carefully. My husband, having driven me here yesterday, has gone back to London to be with the children. He and my younger daughter won't be back here until later today (the older ones, being older ones, busy elsewhere). No car, so I'd have to be able to walk to The Chosen Wood.

There are small bits of wood all around, but I wanted a proper large one, with ancient trees and ancient smells and a space in the middle where I could just sit and sit and sit on an old tree trunk.

Walking has been wonderful. My doctors and all the booklets recommend daily gentle exercise ("it helps with the side effects"). Swimming is good but involves getting to the pool, which currently uses up the daily amount of energy. Cycling is also good, but this week I found that my eyes can't focus very well and I feel strangely detached from the outside world, which is not brilliant when negotiating London traffic. So walking it is.

Today, I reckoned, I could manage about an hour. Perhaps more, if said tree trunk in The Wood helped me recuperate.

I studied the map and figured I could make it to Promising Wood, about a half hour's walk away.

It looked nice and big, with proper tracks. We've been once before, last year, to the Open Day of the animal shelter it houses. 

Off I set, pockets filled with a water bottle, a couple of biscuits and (afterthought, which turned out to be just as well) a large clean hankie. All went fine, but blimey, did I need that tree trunk.

I noticed yesterday that my bones are beginning to ache. Probably a side effect of the daily injections I've been giving myself this week in an attempt to lure my bone marrow into producing more white blood cells. They've upped the number of injections this time round, as my blood count has been hovering alarmingly near the edge when they ought to creep back up to normal.

It's not particularly debilitating, but aching hip bones are not great when climbing the gentle hill up to Promising Wood. At last! There it is.

But hold on, what's that sign on the entrance track to the Visitors' Centre at the edge of the wood? No Entry? You Need Permission?

I walked past the sign and up to the building. I've got cancer, I told myself (Dutch people are law abiding citizens who respect Signs). Signs don't apply to me. If I can get a Golden Ticket to the hospital's blood letting department, surely I can get a Golden Ticket into the wood? Shall I play the Cancer Card?

"Excuse me," I accosted the women chatting around their mugs of tea just beyond the open door. "Can I just have a walk around these woods?"

"Sorry, no, you can't," said one of them, stepping outside to explain. "These woods are private."

Turned out I didn't need to play the Cancer Card. It played itself, because just like that, I burst into tears. And once I started, I couldn't stop. It was as spectacular as That Collapse in the shop with the funeral outfits, four months ago. But at least then I had my sister with me so I didn't need to explain myself. Here, I realised, some sort of explanation was required.

So I said, "I'm sorry, this is ridiculous, crying over a walk in the wood, but..." and blubbed incomprehensively about having only just made it here, having planned it so carefully, my yearning for The Wood.

"In the middle of chemotherapy," I added by way of justification for both the tears and the need, and in the vague hope that the C word would give me my Golden Ticket into the wood.

It didn't. She faltered, that poor woman, calling to someone else, "she can't just go in...?" No, she can't. Rules, etc.

So I dragged myself to a conveniently placed nearby bench, took off the headscarf that had been annoyingly clammy, put my head on my knees and sobbed.

And sobbed. Don't care who sees me now. Told you, I've come out.

Too much effort, keeping up appearances whilst also trying to keep my aching bones upright and fighting off my disappointment at the non-appearance of the Suddenly I feel much better moment. Let them see they've turned away a poorly cancer patient! Ha! Then they'll be sorry!

(This is an alarming deviation from my usual character. Inflicting misery and guilt on outsiders? On purpose? Whatever next?)

Mind you, I didn't have a choice. Talk of opening the flood gates. Every time I thought I could stop, I was hit by a new wave.

She did come out, the No she can't woman. She was kind enough. Sat next to me on the bench, apologising. "Sorry, I didn't realise. We've got Cubs in the woods today. I thought you were one of the mums."

(What? She didn't realise that a hiking woman asking for access to the woods was in fact a cancer patient about to burst into tears? Well, I suppose we can let her off.)

Not that it helped. You can't let a bawling bald cancer patient loose in a wood full of children, even if she has an armful of glowing Police Checks at home attesting her lack of criminal tendencies. That was in the past.

No she can't woman did offer access to a minuscule corner of wood behind the office, and for that I thanked her kindly. What I really wanted was a cup of tea, and I should have asked. It would have made both of us feel better. 

Instead, I drank my water and ate my biscuits. And did some more sobbing hidden among the trees.

In fact, I am going to show you a picture of it. I may live go regret the eternal presence of this rather unflattering photo in cyberspace, when I'm back to being a respected Associate Professor in Nursing (and when my children start reading this blog).

But if I only give you the smiley pictures that invite the You are beautiful responses, however true they are (and they are), I am only telling you half a story.

51. Weeping in the dark

I almost interrupted your well-deserved break from this  blog. I had it all planned, just a couple of days following the third lot of Vile Intravenous Poison.

"It's much easier this time! I'm doing fine! Hurray!"

The things that had bothered me most last time seemed easier this time round. The previously all-consuming nausea was only just edging in at the periphery of my consciousness. I managed to string my sentences together, merrily debating the Scottish referendum at the dinner table. My head did not droop quite as alarmingly. My husband noted that I seemed to be up and about more, and he was right.

Even Chemo Tongue was beaten into submission. He has been a fickle foe (the lemons that were indispensable during Chemo Cycle 1 now taste unpleasantly bitter; a craving for Indian spices has been replaced by a need for Chinese flavours) but I am constantly vigilant and ready to walk to the shops to acquire the latest weapon.

Things were looking up, I thought. There were going to be Theories, leisurely shared with my readers.

Have I been under-dosed by mistake? Or has my body simply adapted to the onslaught, not quite as innocent anymore in terms of chemical warfare and therefore better able to accommodate the poison, like an alcoholic needing more of the same to achieve the same effect?

Was it the joyful knowledge that it had been the last of this particular cocktail of drugs? No more Red Poison! I have been promised a different set of side effects for the final three cycles of chemo, and I don't dare think about those yet. But at least, I'm told, there will be no more nausea.

Or could it be Reflexology Man, having put Nausea and Frazzle Brain under pressure?

But then, the downfall.

Because with the slightest glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel comes Expectation and Hope and the start of a To Do List. Buoyed by my recent re-engagement with work, with friends and colleagues, with life outside my four bedroom walls, I am eager to toss aside the cancer cocoon that has served me well but now feels restrictive.

I am well and truly bored of having cancer and feeling ill.

Cancer is yesterday's headline news. When I was tempted to fire off a quick blog update, I imagined everyone sighing, Oh no, not again! just as they were about to turn those headlines into cat litter.

But when I try to harness my new-found readiness to move on, I find that I can't. Like warfare in the Middle East, cancer is refusing to move out of the headlines.

I find myself utterly floored.

Tired doesn't cover it. To Do List? Ha! You wish.

And with this overwhelming exhaustion comes an unwelcome bedfellow. He is the reason I have refrained from blogging (and today's offering takes a herculean mental effort). I am loathe to inflict him on the outside world. Torn away from my optimism by sheer exhaustion and a persistent inability to Achieve Things (even minor things), there he is.

His name is Self Pity. He has me weeping in the dark, when no-one is looking.

I hate Self Pity. He clashes with my sense of myself as a Positive Person.

How about all that lovely and profound stuff? Acceptance of life? Understanding that moods, feelings, emotions all rise and fall like waves on the surface, not fundamentally affecting the calm deep ocean underneath? Self Pity has no respect for such luxurious thoughts. He lowers my mood and drags me down.

I remember saying, in the midst of debilitating nausea/chemo tongue/etc: "Yes, I'm tired, but I don't mind being tired. If I'm tired, I can just rest."

But of course that's not true. When one complaint goes away, another surfaces, Maslowian-style. (When I start to complain about the weather, I shall consider myself fully recovered.)

Advice and reassurance from friends or family barely helps. Of course you are tired!! You need all your energy to fight off the chemo! That should be your focus! Don't worry about Not Achieving Things! etc etc. They are lovely, my family and friends.

Sometimes I remind myself to look back at how far I have come, rather than look ahead at how far I still have to go. That doesn't really help either. Looking at the long road travelled only reminds me of the length of the road.

It is a struggle, this cancer road.

The slightest sign of recovery, the slightest glimmer of hope, and I try to grasp back my sense of self-worth, which has always come from Feeling Useful. To my family, my friends, the world at large. Feeling helpless and useless is difficult for someone like me.

So I sink back into the pillows, trying (and, right now, failing) not to despair.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I just need to go and find a clean hankie.

44. The sorry song

This morning's unexpected collapse certainly qualified as being in a Public Place.

In church, in front of a microphone, trying to help hundreds of people sing the right notes at the right time.

I know, I know, it wasn't a bright plan. The thing is, it wasn't a plan at all. I just wanted to go back to church after a long absence. Honestly, I wasn't going to join in with the singing.

(In case you are wondering about my tales of Buddhist temples: yes, I am at home there too. There are many different ways up the mountain, and I am happy to wander across several paths, or go off the beaten track if needs be. The Catholic road is well-trodden and has the advantage of being used by the rest of the family, which provides a bit of company.)

Ours is a vibrant church with a strong sense of community.The congregation is a kaleidoscopic mixture of people from all over the world (one of the joys of living in London). Sunday morning mass sees women coming in early to exchange gossip in the pews, elderly people with worn bibles and prayer beads, busy parents chasing toddlers along the aisles, teenagers seeking each other's company. It's often standing room only. Our children meet up with friends they made at the primary school next door.

For the past 15 years or so, I have brought along my guitar to help with the music.

Somehow, I have ended up as the unofficial ring leader of a bunch of amateur musicians and a handful of people who sing. You cannot call us a proper band or a choir. It's more of a motley crew. There's a dedicated chap from Jamaica with a guitar, a drum and expertise with the sound system; his calmly supportive wife; a woman from Venezuela at the piano with a recorder-playing son; young women from Spain and Germany who bring a cello and a flute.

The Jamaican musician and myself are the regulars, keeping the show on the road. Others come and go, and we rarely know beforehand who's going to turn up. There are no rehearsals and there is no conductor. We like it that way. It's not a performance, it doesn't matter if things go wrong, and it blends nicely with the crying children.

But it does help if someone has a vague idea when to burst forth, and it also helps (I'm told) of someone sings into the microphone so the people hovering at the back of the church can keep track.

That task falls to me, mostly.

Yep, that's me with the guitar, singing in church about a decade ago

The women huddled in the pew stopped gossiping and grabbed my arm in delight as I walked into church this morning.

We're glad you're back! We've missed you! It hasn't been the same!

Now, I don't know whether that was you as in Irene, or you as in all of you lot. This was the musicians' first Sunday back after a 6 week summer break, and absence makes the heart grow fonder. We always feel most appreciated in September.

I explained that I hadn't come to sing this time. See, I haven't brought my guitar. I'm just here to be here. Haven't been well. But how nice to see you too.

But then I found that there was only the Jamaican guitarist who can't sing and play at the same time, and a couple of singers who need help finding the right starting note. I simply couldn't bear to sit there with them struggling, so I sat myself down in front of the microphone to start them off. "Brothers, sisters, let me serve you..." Never a truer word.

Bad idea, though. What did I think I was? Indispensable or something?

I'd forgotten that singing is as bad as exercising in terms of the need for extra air in the lungs, and this is my worst week for Shortness Of Breath. Think back to the octogenarian-with-heart-condition-effect.

Halfway through the first hymn, the dizziness started.

By the time the second hymn was through, I felt the cold sweat trying and failing to find an escape route through my headscarf. (Is it OK to whip it off in the middle of church? With people already looking and wondering, presumably, what the scarf was all about in the first place, and why I was singing sitting down rather than standing up, guitar-less? Told you. Public Place and no mistake.)

With the tears dangerously close to trickling out (one or two of them escaped), my best plan was to Get Out. Singing the next song would be bad. Not singing the next song would be worse. (People, looking, wondering, etc. Quite apart from the risk of Actual Collapse).

So I made my way past the crawling babies and the people standing around at the back, and went to sit down among the flower pots in the church yard. At least it was secluded. Off came the head scarf (relief, relief for the clammy scalp). Slow went the breathing. And the tears gently sank back down, like mud in a pond quietly clearing after being disturbed.

More songs drifted through the stained glass windows. It sounded fine. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that I Am Not Indispensable.

(Could someone remind me of this, please, when I feel I have to cook hearty meals for my family five nights a week? I'm sure they are just as happy with frozen pizza.)

I left it until the final hymn was safely over before I went back in (scarf back on, smile back on). I did truly want to see the many people who have been thinking of me and praying for me. Everyone has been so kind.

"I was going to come and help out with the singing," said the wonderful young woman with the tear-jerking voice who sings at midday mass (but also comes to our 10 o'clock mass for good measure). "But then I heard you sing and it sounded lovely! How do you do it!" She gave me a huge hug. "I was praying for you last night, and now here you are!"

How can you not feel lifted by people like that?

You are looking really well! they said. Am I? Thank you. (Earrings, eye-liner and multi-coloured clothing undoubtedly helps).

How are you? they asked. Whilst that question has been much easier to answer in recent months, today I was lost for the right words. I wasn't fine. But I was indeed there, and if you'd seen me last week, you wouldn't have thought that possible. So things weren't too bad either.

Today's Sudden Collapse, however, belies my appearance and my genuine smile.

It's very confusing. The brief tears were not so much caused by feeling so weak and tired, but by utter frustration and distress that I am actually not that well. Not really. Not even in a Good Week.

I keep trying, though. Next week, I will feel better - and I'll bring my guitar, even if I have to pass the microphone to someone else.

34. The wig appointment

Another hospital envelope in the post. What is it this time? New appointment with the doctor? Scan? Test results? They all look the same, these letters.

But no: it's an appointment with the Wigs Clinic.

The Wigs Clinic! Yes, apparently there is such a place, hidden somewhere in the hospital building. Along from the Warts Clinic perhaps, or the Prosthetic Leg Clinic.

That impression is confirmed not only by the look of the letter, but also by its tone. If you are unable to attend.... can then be offered to another patient... It's signed "Prosthetic Department."

(See? I was right. Just next-door to the prosthetic legs.)

It keeps me firmly in my place, this letter. I am, lest I forget it, a Cancer Patient. Honestly, couldn't they offer my cancelled appointment to another woman? Or (assuming they do men's wigs too) another person? Or even just simply someone else? In fact, couldn't they have called themselves the Wigs Salon?

I Do Not Want A Wig... and I cannot imagine myself ever wearing it, so I'm not sure why all this matters, but somehow it does.

What also mattered was the date of the appointment, the 10th of September, several weeks into projected baldness. I Do Not Need A Wig... and yet, being given this appointment a good five weeks into my chemotherapy treatment is unexpectedly upsetting. It conveys that having no hair for a while doesn't matter, and by implication, patient H4418813 doesn't matter either.

(I've made that number up, by the way. Patient confidentiality and all that.)

All this is not helped by the fact that I have only reluctantly succumbed to getting a wig in the first place.

I Do Not Want A Wig, I told Breast Care Nurse number 1 several months ago. 

"Oooh, but you should! NHS wigs are really good these days!" she enthused. "You should have it done well before your hair falls out, so they can match it to your own hair. I'll make you an appointment."

I Do Not Want A Wig, I told Breast Care Nurse number 2 last month, who was somewhat more perceptive.

"Hm," she said. "You may think now that you don't want one, but you'll be surprised how upsetting it can be when your hair actually falls out. You may be so shocked by it that you just want to cover it up, even if it's only for a day. Why not have one handy, just in case? I'll make you an appointment."

OK then, I thought, why not? If anything, it'll be a nice addition to the dressing-up box. Someone might want to pretend to be a Grey Old Lady one day, and benefit from my perfectly matched fake hair-do. Also, this might be one of the very few hospital trips that could be a jolly outing for the girls.

(How about the boys? I hear you ask. Alas, my son isn't interested, and my husband has been disqualified on account  of the fact that the pixie cut was one of the few haircuts he's ever noticed. I'm not complaining. It means that my lack of hair won't bother them in the slightest.)

So the 10th of September was no good. Not only because baldness will have struck before then, but also because I cannot imagine trying on wigs without my daughters' help, and they will be back at school by then.

I rang the Wig Lady.

"Sorry," she said, "that's the earliest I can do. I only do this clinic on Wednesdays. I'm fully booked next Wednesday, and then I'll be on holiday for two weeks."

So, for the first time ever, I played the Cancer Card.

"Oh dear oh dear," I said. "I will go bald in the next week or two. I am really worried about having no hair and no wig. What am I going to do?"

It worked. (The Cancer Card always does.) She relented. So now I'm going to be fitted for a wig the day after tomorrow.

(That's another bit of vocabulary they use. This is a Wig Fitting. As if I'm being fitted for a bra, or braces. This is clearly a serious business.)

To my profound surprise (because all this happened on one if my first good days after chemo, when I started to feel strong and positive) I had a Sudden Collapse after that phone call. Where has she gone, that calm and composed woman of yesteryear, who was not easily knocked sideways by life's minor upsets?

Perhaps this wasn't minor. Perhaps part of me wasn't playing the Cancer Card at all, but in genuine need of a wig-shaped safety net.

Or perhaps it was yet another reminder of the significance of hair loss.

However at ease I am in my skin, however comfortable with my lack of glamour (and I genuinely am), needing a wig/scarf/hat is not the same as needing glasses or braces or a cast on your broken leg.

In most cultures and many religions, hair is hugely significant. People shave their heads, or other people's heads, for all sorts of reasons - but it is never done lightly.

For buddhist monks and nuns, it is a solemn vow. The ritual of shaving is as important as that of exchanging wedding rings.

For women who had relationships with German soldiers, it was a horrendous punishment. The shaving of their heads was an act of shaming.

For today's men and women, it can be an act of charity. Shaving your head can raise hundreds of pounds.

So, regardless of my positive attitude and my guess that I may very well end up wearing nothing on my head at all, I am bracing myself.

To be on the safe side, I have also asked a friend to come along. She is not only the most stylish of my friends, but also one of the most perceptive and sensitive. Her wig fitting credentials are demonstrated by the fact that she has accompanied friends to the Wigs Clinic before. 

"You might need to warn your girls that it is not remotely glamorous," she said. "It would be so nice if it was."

It would indeed. But at least my expectations are low. That way, it's a win-win situation: I'll either end up with a lovely wig that I'll actually wear, or with some entertaining pictures for my blog. I rather suspect the blog will be top-heavy on the (No) Hair Theme in the coming weeks.

You have been warned.

Copyrighted image taken from Getting On With Cancer

10. Sudden Collapses in Public Places

What a brilliantly titled collection of poems by a woman with breast cancer. When I heard of it last week, I wanted to stand up and applaud, because that is exactly what happens: sudden collapses in public places.

If you've followed this blog, you'd be forgiven for thinking that I've sobbed my way through the past few months. In truth, I usually look (and often feel) fine, which confuses and even troubles my friends.

It's OK to cry! they say, encouragingly. You don't have to be strong all the time! If ever you want to talk... (and, by implication, weep and wail on my sofa...)

The thing is, I cannot book my emotions into the diary like that.

Yes, I often suppress them in order to cope with daily life, but I also know that tears must find a way to the surface lest they drown my insides.

I do try, looking forward to having that time of quiet solitude or meeting that wonderful lifelong friend, stacking up on the hankies in anticipation. But when it comes to it, I find that I am either too tired to talk or cry, or that I am looking at my trials and tribulations with genuine laughter (because honestly, life does often look rather ridiculous at present).

The tearful collapses spring up on me when I'm not looking.

They come at moments when I think everything is under control, I have accepted my lot, I am OK with it.

I. Am. OK. Really. I. Am.

And then something happens - a snippet of a thought, a snatched piece of music, a kind gesture, an unkind gesture, a tiny insignificant setback that seems large and unsurmountable - and there I go. It can happen anytime, anywhere.

There I was the day after my diagnosis, in the office, trying to get a research funding application sent off before I was being sent off for surgery. Wandering the corridor, clutching a form that needed filling in, look, I am competent still, I am doing forms. Can't you see me smiling?

"What are you doing with that form?" a colleague asked sternly, whisking it out of my hand. "You are NOT doing that. Give it to me, we will do it for you."

"Oh," I said.
"OK," I whimpered.
"Thank you," I whispered, admitting defeat, in sudden tears.

There I was, yesterday, at a school music concert. Merrily chatting to one of the mums, until she said how she, and lots of other school mums, would be more than happy to keep me supplied with healthy meals once I'm laid low with chemo. It was only a small collapse, but it was very unexpected, very sudden and too public for my younger daughter's comfort.

But my most spectacular collapse in a public place happened in a shop in Holland, the week before my mastectomy and shortly before my mother died. It makes me smile every time I think of it, and the story gets pulled out of the bag every time a friend worries that I am being "fine" far too often. It went like this...

"What are you planning to wear to the funeral?" my sister asks.

Ah, well, I’ve already got my outfit, it’s in my suitcase, tights and handbag included. But of course things have changed. My mother disapproves of the idea of dying so much that she is taking her time over it, so I will have to carry the dress and the smart shoes back to England. I am now looking at a post-mastectomy funeral. 

Is my lovely dress going to be too close-fitting and revealing? 

I have had to pack quickly, but given enough time, I would have gone shopping for something new. My sister wonders about something with roses. That had crossed my mind too. My mother has always loved roses. ("Don't let anyone bring chrysanthemums to my funeral!" she has been threatening me for decades. "I hate them! I'll get up from my grave!")

Given enough time? Unexpectedly, there seems to be enough time now, with my mother in no rush. Almost in unison we pronounce: 

"Truitje Kopen!"

Truitje kopen. Literally: "buying a jersey", but that doesn’t do justice to the idiom it has become for us. In a very distant past, when my sister was going through a challenging exam period, her tutor suggested that Truitje Kopen was the perfect antidote. If your mind is sufficiently overloaded, the extravagance of splashing out on a top that you don’t really need is fully justified.

Let’s call it Top Shopping.

If ever there was a need for Top Shopping, this is it.

Briefly released from weeks of worry, we hit the shops in a somewhat giggly mood, like absconding school girls. We have no idea what we are looking for. Shirt? Dress? Jacket? Skirt? We walk into the first clothes shop we come across, "for inspiration" we tell each other, because clearly this is the Wrong Shop. We would never otherwise contemplate going into the kind of establishment that exudes Mature And Dignified Ladies.

Within minutes, however, my sister hits on the perfect jacket. White roses embossed on a dark background. We discuss colours, sizes and availability with the shop assistant, who enthuses: Lovely jacket! So handy, goes with anything, jeans, skirt, you can wear it to any occasion… parties... or how about this one… 

In order to put a stop to a string of unsuitable rose-free suggestions, my sister explains: "Actually, we are trying to find something to wear to my mother’s funeral. She’s not dead yet but we’re getting ahead… It’s got to have roses because her name is Rosa and she loves roses."

"Oh I’m so sorry," says the stricken shop assistant. "That’s given me goose pimples all over."

We reassure her, smiling cheerfully: don’t worry, it’s all fine, we are ready for this. (Because we are. We think we are.)

Whilst my sister goes off to pay for the jacket, I idly leaf through the racks.

Suddenly, there it is. My funeral top. It’s not just perfect, it has been made especially for me on this occasion. Beautiful fabric, just the right colours, lovely rose pattern: my mother would have adored it. 

And it’s exactly my style, but with a twist. This top shows rather less cleavage and has an extra, flattering piece of fabric that loosely covers the breast area.

I grab it off the rails and run into the fitting room because there are sudden tears rolling down my cheeks. Here is a top that is not just perfect for my mother’s funeral but also for covering a fresh mastectomy. 

I may announce to the world that I have accepted the loss of my breast before it’s even happened, but this vivid, tangible evidence of what awaits me forces me to look at it with too much honesty.

I can hear a voice in the shop, "I just need to find my sister, I’ve lost her." I wave a feeble hand through the curtain, "I’m here," and my sister rushes in to find me slumped on the floor wearing the perfect top, dissolved in tears.

It's not just a metaphorical collapse. It is an actual collapse. My skeleton simply refuses to hold me upright.

She drops her bags, staying with me. No need for words. She understands immediately why this is such an emotional find.

The shop assistant can hear me sobbing and thinks she also knows why I am crying  – but of course she literally only knows the half of it. She peeks in, helpless: "Can I get you a glass of water?"

My sister points at the puddle I’m making on the floor. It actually makes us laugh whilst almost choking on tears, because this is just utterly ridiculous. These are tears of someone who never ever cries properly in the company of others, let alone sitting in a crumpled heap on a shop floor, let alone in sufficient quantities to cause a slipping hazard. For good measure, I add a bit more to the puddle. Might as well do things properly now that I'm at it.

I don’t even check the price tag. We take a deep breath, get the hanky out (I make sure I take it everywhere these days, as I never know when I might suddenly need it) and smile at each other, heading for the checkout. Pfff, what a state of affairs we find ourselves in. You couldn’t make it up.

The shop assistant is visibly moved by our shopping requirements and makes noises of sympathy and understanding.

I can’t help myself. I start to say "And that’s not all…" but I catch my sister’s eye. She’s shaking her head and she is right. What could the shop assistant possibly do with my bit of information, except feel even more miserable? I bite my tongue, I pay, we leave.

Afterwards, we sit down on the grass eating an ice cream (plenty of time on our hands, this was the most efficient Top Shopping ever), laughing and laughing. That poor woman, she’ll never be able to sleep tonight... it was bad enough having customers who are looking for something to wear to their mother’s funeral without me saying Oh and by the way, it also has to cover up next week’s mastectomy.

"Truitje Kopen" will never be the same again among our idioms. 

Exam stress is nothing compared with this. Top Shopping has definitely gained in status and significance.

And we didn't have to wait long to wear the new tops. Clearly, my mother approved. Less than two weeks after the mastectomy, I packed a new suitcase, this time with a rosy outfit.

My sister and I, following my mother's coffin out of her room