If you’re the one walking into Room 10 right now, this is for you too.
Well. Didn’t that one grab you by the throat and make your eyes pop open? Room 10 should definitely come with a warning, right?
Before you panic too much, grab a cuppa and take a seat. Breathe. Then breathe again.
I’m going to share a few things that might help you find your way through what’s coming. I fully appreciate you don’t want to hear any of that right now. In fact, you’re probably already plotting an escape route.
That’s okay. Come back when you’re ready. I’ll still be here, probably with a caramel latte.
Oh, you’re ready?
Let’s go …
Room 10 is going to become your second home. You’ll become so familiar with it that you’ll know each paint fleck on the skirting board. You’ll be on first-name terms with every member of staff, even the volunteers who bring you a sandwich. Yes, as well as pumping you with chemo, they’ll also pump you with food. Bonus.
But this room is also going to mess with your head because the time spent in it won’t be anywhere near as bad as what follows later. It’s a room that administers some of the most potent drugs on the planet and then doesn’t stick around to see what happens afterwards.
It’s like ‘knock-knock door’, only a little crueller, because the hardest part happens later. At 2.30 in the morning. At home. When one eye won’t open and a cup of tea tastes worse than the bottom of your trainer.
You are going to scream, cry and rant your way through all of this, sometimes all three at once. Sometimes you’ll wonder what the fuss was about; other times, you’ll fall apart because you are bloody terrified.
Both things can be true at the same time.
I’m not here to tell you how to think or how to be. I’m here to tell you you’ve got this.
Even when you think you haven’t. That’s actually when you’ve got it the most.