Finding peace at 12,000 feet

So this happened.

I raised over £2200 for CLIC Sargent this weekend and it was incredible.

Anyone who has read my blogs knows that I struggle with my own health as well as this years hell with Ellis.

Living with a cancer diagnosis is something that will follow you around forever. From health declaration forms and travel insurance to the inability to give blood or donate stem cells.

It limits you in ways you would have never thought about pre diagnosis.

Things that matter now, never used to and vice versa.

When it’s over, you are entered into a weird club of survivors. People who have fought and won. Forever feeling scared, felling lucky and a lot of the time feeling guilty.

What did I do that made me beat it?

What made me the lucky one?

I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s incredible. To know the very same body that malfunctioned and grew cancer is the very same body that fought back and got rid of it.

But I always think of the people who are left behind. The ones still fighting. The ones who grew too tired.

Two very good friends children are still fighting their battle. How can I possibly be happy when I know that. Their battles are longer, there has been more scares, more hurdles. I’ve never met these people in person, but they have quickly become family.

When they both finish, we all finish.

No one gets left behind.

When we celebrated Ellis’ end of treatment bell ringing and being told he was in remission…. I didn’t cry. Of course I was so happy. I can’t even explain the feeling of relief and sheer elation. But I didn’t cry.

You see things on tv where families receive the news and it’s huge. They cry, they hug. There is snot by the bucket load and everyone is so overwhelmed.

That wasn’t us.

And why? Because it’s all still there. It’s all still raw. Knowing that there were children on the ward you were in, who shared the same bay as you…. who didn’t make it. They weren’t as lucky.

Like a soldier coming out of war, knowing victory has been made, but still struggling with the things they have seen, the things they have heard.

We didn’t skip over the finish line, we crawled. With battle scars, emotional wounds and baggage that will stay around forever.

But yesterday, I truly felt peace.

Peace for the first time in a very long time.

After the initial adrenaline rush, we drifted down to the ground at a pace that felt like we weren’t moving. I could see France, London… there was no limit.

It was breathtaking.

It was the clearest day, not a single breeze in sight either. Perfect for being pushed out of a plane!

That part was my favourite. It felt like I was up there hours, soaking up the views, relishing in the peace and quiet.

It was my moment.

My moment to draw a line under it all and to move on.

7 years of fear, hospitals, emotional rollercoasters, tears…. finished.

This has had a really weird effect on me today and possibly why I’ve not felt great all weekend.

I don’t feel anything. But for the first time in 7 years, it’s not because I’m numb. It’s because I have accepted it’s over.

It really is all over.

And it feels normal.


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