My slightly odd desire when facing (an imagined) death
sending myself insane with health scares
Dear reader
Over the past six weeks, I've been sending myself insane with cancer fears.
It's not the first time I've found lumps in my breast. It's the fourth time in three decades - I consider myself a bit of a veteran of the hospital breast clinic.
The lumps are always found to be benign. This is now the fourth time I have sent myself insane, thinking I might have cancer and might die.
I sighed when I found this one (I always check after a bath, especially as I'm now taking HRT).
What a pain in the arse. Go to the doctor, wait two weeks for the appointment, and go to the clinic for an exam, mammogram, ultrasound, and sometimes a biopsy. If a biopsy is involved, it's a few weeks to wait for the results—all the time, living on tenterhooks.
I realise how lucky I am to have free healthcare, and I don't take it for granted. But as a classic overthinker, I knew the whole process could spiral my nervous system out of control.
I didn't even ring the doctors immediately because I didn't have the emotional energy to deal with it. I put it in the back of my mind in a box, as I do with anything with a high emotional charge until I’m ready to face it.
When I eventually did go a couple of weeks later, the doctor said she wasn't concerned about the lump in my right breast, but she found one in my left armpit.
I felt sick to my stomach as I left the surgery.
I didn’t tell anyone because there was no point worrying those I love about it. And, if I wanted to get through the next few weeks with as little stress as possible, I had to try to prevent the doom thoughts from coming in, which included not talking about it.
However, there is an emotional component to chronic fatigue. If I bottle things up, I'm in danger of relapsing. This is tricky because I often don't know how I feel.
Eventually, I told two of my closest friends, my sister and my mum. At first, I minimised it, saying it'd be okay, it’d be fine—not allowing a conversation to ensue.
Then, mindful that I wasn’t being honest with myself, I texted my friends and asked if it would be okay to share how I really felt with them.
When I’m sharing highly charged emotional information or something which could potentially be considered trauma, I check in with people first to see if they have the capacity to hear it. This is something I’ve learned to do over the last few years. As my sensitivities heightened with age and I heard upsetting information without a warning, it sent my nervous system off kilter. So now, I ask people to prepare me first, and I offer the same courtesy to others. I find it works really well.
My friend’s messages returned saying: Absolutely, and I am always here for you.
So I walked down to the allotment with a notebook to ponder how I felt so I could tell them, but I got involved in weeding and planting and forgot all about it.
Then, on the way home, I realised I didn't need to investigate my feelings—besides the fact I was terrified—just reaching out and asking for help, followed by an offer of love and support, was enough to make me feel connected and supported.
In these situations - catastrophising - I always think: Fuck, what's my daughter gonna do without me?
Then, about how devastated my family will be and then sometime after, my thoughts leap to: I don't want to die yet.
I've had a brilliant life and am so grateful, but I'd feel short-changed if it ended here.
What do I want to do if I do if I only have a short time left? I thought.
I needed to go stand-up paddle boarding.
This was the first thing that entered my mind.
This is slightly odd because I'm not a strong swimmer, hate the cold, and fear dark water. Yet it's true that a couple of years ago, on the canal in York during the pandemic, I went paddle boarding for the first time.
I'd had the opportunity to go twice before, both in my role as a travel writer, once in the Caribbean and once in Anglesey. I'd refused because I was still building my confidence in being human back then, and the thought petrified me.
Some years later, my friend Katy invited me, and even though it was October and freezing, I surprised myself by saying yes.
And I absolutely loved it.
I didn't dare stand up, mind; I spent three hours with my bum firmly planted on the board. I felt sorry for the instructor because she thought it was her responsibility to ensure I did and that she'd failed in her role.
She didn't know I'd already decided I wouldn't stand up - I wasn't drowning in icy, treacle-coloured canal water - I sat smugly on my board as my fellow participants, one by one, keeled off and splashed into the murky depths.
A golden sycamore leaf carpet rested on the canal’s surface, and my board glided through, making an untreadable path. Weeping willow branches bowed from the banks to meet the water. There was total silence apart from the water lapping as we used our paddles to go faster or steer around a barge.
A wondrous, powerful, meditative calm came over me as I paddled, combined with a special exhilaration I’ve only found when exerting my body outdoors. Yet different from the runner’s high or the bursting heart after a strenuous hike.
It was unforgettable.
The sun wasn’t shining that day, but it seemed like it was. It was one of those times when life was grand, and nothing could spoil it.
But I'd never gone again. I'd made some murmurings about buying a board, and friends said they wanted to try it with me. But none of it happened.
Anyway, the nearest lake that offers SUP is half an hour away, but it was booked weeks in advance. So, I haven't been there yet, but I'm going next Saturday.
I can't wait. I've decided to stand up because I want my own board. So, I need to throw myself in, get over it, and build my confidence.
So, as my life flashed before my eyes, I didn't have any profound regrets about not publishing a book yet, or wish I didn't have CFS, or wish I had more money in my ISA.
I simply felt the call to adventure… on the water... somewhere local.
I suppose I wanted to feel truly alive.
I don't have cancer. Nothing of concern, they said.
I cried in relief as they told me.
My appointment at the clinic went well. As I stood naked from the waist up in the mammogram room, the red-haired nurse told me she had Crohn's disease and couldn't handle eating a roast. I felt strangely sad for her about being unable to enjoy a traditional dinner on a Sunday.
A hair was attached to the machine.
Is that yours? she asked.
Probably, they get everywhere. I replied.
I dropped one of my hairs in my husband's dinner last night - she said, cackling.
I know I've said it before, but I love nurses.
I hope you have a cackling week,
Love Hannah xoxo
Hi Hannah... I remember your trip to Anglesey when I worked for Zest Life as Yoga teacher, hostess and space-holder. I ran over 60 retreats for Laura and in all of those, you stand out as someone I connected with and have been stalking you ever since!! I don't work for Zesty any more but run my own retreats which is so much more satisfying... less wild swimming etc more stopping and resting and turning inwards for answers to life's great mysteries!! I also love writing so am loving your Substack content.. sending love from Wales xxx
Hannah,
I am so relieved to hear the good news at the end of your piece ! I can relate as well, having had several biopsies. It does jar us into a state of reflection, I agree. Thank you for sharing from your heart. I so look forward to Sunday mornings to hear from you.
Standup paddle boarding sounds like fun. I’ve been wanting to return to canoeing since it’s been ages. I live right on the Potomac river in Washington DC, so it’s certainly available to me. I just need to make a plan. You have inspired me! Have a lovely week :-) XOXO