I did my ACL, for the seventh time. It was so stupid, I was coaching my 17’s netball team - showing them a tricky, three-point, second phase manoeuvre and just turned the wrong way and snap. I heard that all too familiar ping. I was super dirty with myself and sulked all the way to my GP. I knew the routine. She would no doubt renew my referral to my surgeon (who has surely funded a holiday house from my knee infused patronage) and the long rehab process would begin, yet again.
Except it didn’t quite go as expected. I got my referral straight to the surgeon, but I also left my GP’s office with a hole in my head. While examining my knee she noticed a small, dry, red sport on the top of my forehead. It was the size of a pea and my beautician had also noticed it. It had been annoying me. but I hadn’t thought anything of it (except to put extra moisturiser on it). She didn’t like the look of it, got it biopsied and next thing I know I am having intensive chemotherapy topical therapy on my face. The chemotherapy cream is applied twice a day and exposes the skin cancers. When you look at these photos, you should know that three weeks ago only one, yes ONE red, dry mark was visible, and it was tiny and very pale. The cream draws out the cancerous sports and if they are surface level kills them off. What is left will be cut out. I had no idea they were all there and if I hadn’t hurt my knee, it would have been some time until I had them checked out. THAT is pretty frightening. Doing my ACL (again!) turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
Mind you, this treatment is brutal. It’s on my face and on my forearms. I have about 32 spots that I had no idea were cancerous. After 23 days of treatment (five days to go) they are red, inflamed, burning and crumbling. They look disgusting, but they feel even worse. Imagine you are being scraped with a hot poker from inside your face. That’s a little bit what it feels like. It gets worse each day (probably because it is building as it works). I’m ashamed to say after being out in the soothing cool air on Friday with my daughter’s netball training, I got home and crumbled into tears with my husband. It’s the last week and as a pharmacist he is able to reassure me that it’s working and explain what its doing. That helps but the pain is intense, the chemo has a gastro effect on me (even though not a great amount finds it’s way into the blood stream) and sleep is tough with the simultaneous facial burning and Melbourne cold.
I don’t even recognise myself in the mirror and my ever-direct tween daughter is telling me I look like the wicked witch of the west. I see the look on people’s faces, and I try to quickly put them at ease. My older daughter had her 30th birthday party last night and no matter what I look like, I wasn’t missing it. I have an excellent prognosis. I will look like a speckled leper for a while, but everything has been caught in time and aside from some scarring I will be fine. So many aren’t that lucky, and I know that tomorrow isn’t promised to any of us, so my gratitude is genuine.
I also had a bloody good time getting these skin cancers. I grew up in beautiful Sydney town, am a beach, sun and pool lover. I love being outdoors whenever I can, and while I’m pale and naturally a redhead (well strawberry blonde), I always wore sunscreen. Being so active means that exposure is almost impossible to avoid. I never used solariums, but I chased the heat and the sun. Surfing and kayaking are passions. Any water course is like a magnet to me, and I am most at home in the vicinity of the ocean. So, it makes sense that I am here in my early 50s, but I probably should have been more on top of monitoring it. I am super thankful for my ever-vigilant GP and while the treatment is brutal – it is clearly effective.
I thought I would hibernate for the month of the treatment (I really, really look like shit, as you can see from the photos) – it’s almost at the point where kids will start pointing at me like I’m the elephant woman. I do explain what’s happening when I see concern (like my beautiful PT/Pilates instructor) who was clearly wondering why I was triple cleansing my reformer bed (I don’t want anyone else to come in contact with the cream as it is cancer curing but also cancerous). Or when I’m filming a podcast and my audience are so worried by my paleness and eyes that I get numerous calls and messages. I explain it then. I can’t hide away from life though, because I am doing this to live it. I don’t like looking like this, but I would dislike missing out more.
My daughter has some media for netball coming up and I have asked my husband to be in the pictures with her. It’s not about vanity (I’ve actually found through this process than I’m a lot less vain than I thought I was) it’s so the focus doesn’t fall on me. He is pretending it’s a chore, but I think he is secretly delighted. It’s nice for the dads to get a bit more recognition with their daughters.
Even with all of that and my genuine gratitude, I still feel the pain inside when I get those withering looks. When people recoil. As women, so much of our identity is in what we look like. It shouldn’t be, but it’s a measure as old as time. We’re trying hard collectively to make the superficial less of a focus. To tell girls they are strong and that their bodies are built to let them do what they want, instead of focusing on their beauty focusing on their resilience and strengths and hard work. I do believe that, and I love my body for what it can do and how it has put up with my abuse over the years and is still strong and has carried me through this amazing life. Yet I still look in the mirror and feel pain in the pit of my stomach. I see a face that doesn’t resemble me. A face that looks scarred and beaten and sick – which is not the reality.
The reality is I’ve realised what I look like has much less importance to me, than who I am and my ability to participate in life. I’ve also found that what is on the surface isn’t a reflection of what’s underneath. It’s just frosting (unpleasant frosting at the moment) but it has little relevance to who I actually am.
I have also learnt that when I tell this story, people get their little dry spots checked. Dozens of girlfriends have told me over the weeks of treatment that I’ve given them a kick to go and get their spots checked. That makes me feel even more grateful. Snapping my ACL (again!) definitely had a silver lining!
