“Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go.
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living.
But the child who is born on the Sabbath day is bonny and blithe and good and gay.”
This childhood rhyme has echoed in my mind often over the past few years.
It all started in a restaurant. Great family friends had invited us to dinner and as I was leaning forward to hear above the racket of everyone loudly and happily talking at once, I felt a stabbing pain in my left breast. It was so strong that I instinctively clutched it and spent the rest of the evening pressing my fist into the spot, subtly trying to hold the sharp attacks at bay. I thought I’d just get through the evening and think about it when I got home.
When the pain didn’t go after three days I reluctantly took myself off to see a GP (I hate making a fuss). After examining me, she said: “Well, at least with breast pain you know it’s not cancer.” However, she sent me off to have a mammogram and ultrasound. I was extremely busy (as always) at the time, so I popped the forms into my in-tray and completely forgot about them for about a week.
The following week, I noticed the forms in my in-tray. I decided to have the tests for peace of mind, even though the pain had subsided. I took my seven-year-old daughter with me and we giggled and joked throughout the whole ordeal as if it was just routine stuff, like a dental check-up, with not a care in the world.
Two hours later, my world turned upside down. I received a call from the GP’s rooms asking me to come in straight away. I knew it couldn’t be good. The GP was distressed and very apologetic, but I wasn’t paying any attention to her anguish: all I heard was the word “biopsy” ringing in my head. I was in such a state of shock that I didn’t even ask any questions. I remember just sitting there, meekly agreeing to everything that was being arranged.
Unbelievably, on the 11th of August 2009 (my sister’s birthday), just eight days after my diagnosis, I was having surgery. I was terrified. I had the first of two lumpectomies and had four lymph nodes removed. The following week I had to endure a further op to remove the remaining nasty tissue. Looking back, I feel like it was totally surreal — how had I been so strong?
For nearly two weeks after that I had a drain hanging out of the wound that had to be emptied (and the contents measured!), a task my caring son took upon himself. We called the drain Dennis (trying to find the funny side of a very bizarre situation), and Dennis had to come with me to my biochemistry exam, covered up in a snazzy striped bag hanging off my shoulder. Exams? Damn sure! I was nearing the end of my homœopathy qualification and, come hell or high water, I was going to complete it.
Going into chemo nearly made me lose that resolve; the bleak, dark hole I sank into every three weeks was very hard to get out of and, as the treatment moved along, the hole got darker and deeper, grabbing at me on every level: physically, mentally and spiritually.
I howled, I cried and, some days when even that was too hard, I sat and stared at the wall.
But on the days I could shakily get up and actually string a sentence together, I’d stagger downstairs, my skin a horrid, pale, putty-grey colour, no hair left anywhere, and get back to my books. Studying became a way to escape what was happening. I could immerse myself in the wonders of homœopathy and its gentle ways of healing.
After the first six sessions of gruelling chemo I had to continue with another drug for a year and also go through the rigours of radiation therapy. On Mondays I would go to oncology, have the chemo, go for radiation treatment and then move on to my homœopathic lecture. I’d walk in, pale-faced and with a big bandage on one hand, look at my lecturer and say: “David, tonight I might not stay for the whole session.” He would always respond: “I don’t know why you are here at all, but go whenever you wish.” And, as always, I would stay to the end.
My knowledge of homœopathic remedies and the support I got from other alternative therapies such as acupuncture, yoga and meditation, I believe, got me through the worst times and helped me regain my strength for the next onslaught.
Looking back at it all now, there are times when I wonder how I managed to pull it all off, but with the love and support of family and friends, I completed my treatment and my qualification. I then went on to add a nutritional medicine diploma to the mix, as I was acutely aware of the importance of good nutrition in the fight back to good health.
Now, four years on and doing beautifully health-wise, I proudly have my own practice. In some crazy way I am grateful for the journey cancer took me on, as I believe I have come out the other side a changed person. I am far more compassionate and empathetic, I no longer sweat the small stuff, I take time out for me and I make sure I never go to bed without looking at all the things I am grateful for.
There are still times when the negative, black thoughts creep in and I feel crippled with fear, especially around the time of my annual check-ups. But I have learnt to look at them head-on and, instead of allowing them to leave me in a crumpled, soggy heap, I dig down to my inner knowing and tap into that powerful place that tells me all is OK.
I am a Thursday child and I had far to go. Of course, I still have much further to travel, but it’s a beautiful journey that I feel blessed to travel on.
Sara Heath is an Australian homœopath and nutritionist, as well as a wife, mother, friend and cancer survivor. Find out more at saraheath.com or on +61 419 201 006.
