How do I feel 904 days after my midlife eye cancer diagnosis?

Here I talk about my unexpected feelings two and a half years after I was diagnosed with ocular melanoma, forcing me to have my left eye removed, suddenly. Namely, the unanticipated adrenalin void left behind that’s hard to fill. 

A cancer diagnosis is horrifying. That’s not breaking news. But how it’s inextricably changed my emotions and feelings is entirely unexpected and quite mixed up.

Cancer forces you to exist on heightened sensations. Augmented anxiety speckled with inordinate amounts of love. Frenzied fear and a cascade of ‘what ifs?’. So much noise, while time seemingly stands still. 

Messages, flowers, food, hugs, reluctance, gratitude, panic, terror, kindness.

Living on the edge

For a while, you live on the edge of what’s mentally – and physically – manageable. Everything at full throttle. The bad, and there’s a lot of bad. But also, the good. The urgency feels energising. The sense that you’re fighting for your life gives you a sense of purpose. You are, essentially, on a mission to survive. And there’s nothing that carries greater gravitas than that.

You are on a mission to survive. And there’s nothing that carries greater gravitas than that.

When the dust settles – perhaps after surgery or treatment – something strange and unexpected happens. Well, it did to me, anyway. And this, I’d never heard of or anticipated, after months longing for the humdrum of normal life.

What’s left is a sense of flatness; difficulty finding joy.  Is it sadness? Or depression? It could be. That would certainly make sense. Grief for my carefree life pre-ocular melanoma diagnosis? Perhaps. I do yearn for those days. But I think it’s more than this. And that’s let me to another theory altogether.

Feeling truly seen

I am no psychologist, but I’ve thought about this a lot. I wouldn’t wish my cancer diagnosis and surgery on anyone. But it did push me to feel in a way I hadn’t before- with profundity, clarity and discernment. The love that envelopes you from all angles is also quite addictive. You feel truly seen. And you know who has your back. And who you’d do anything for, if push came to shove. 

Then there’s the adrenalin of life-or-death medical scans and appointments. 

“You have a large tumour in your eye. We have to remove in as soon as possible. As in, the eye. It may have spread to your liver. Or may do in the future. It’s a very aggressive type of cancer. How many children have you got?”

Conversations like this – so dark and deep – make it hard to go back to small talk or shallow relationships. And this concept or rather, seismic shift, I’d never heard of or anticipated, after months longing for the humdrum of normal life, before that fateful jog.

I went from out running one grey day, to weird vision, to rare eye cancer diagnosis (ocular melanoma) …to having my left eye removed within just three weeks. (I’ve written for The Times about this aspect of my story). I then had to find out whether the cancer had spread. Hideous scans, appointments, discussions. All terrifying and of grave importance; ultimately to discover whether I was going to see my daughters grow up. Or whether I was going to die early – and perhaps, quite swiftly.

Ultimately to discover whether I was going to see my daughters grow up. Or whether I was going to die early – and perhaps, quite swiftly.

All the while, in the early shock and awe phase, I was staggering round our neighbourhood river towpaths with just one eye, while I tried to heal physically enough to be able to have a prosthetic. Those walks, however, were also my mental lifeline. Pounding the pavements to stamp out the noise. Chatting to friends to keep the horror and dread from bubbling away in my brain.

Flatness pervades

Two and a half years on, a sort of flatness pervades. I don’t think it’s depression. It’s a dull state of post-cancer monocular monotony. After living in a constant start of alert – fuelled by adrenaline, cortisol and compassion – I feel disorientated and a little bored, if I’m honest. This, despite training for Mount Kilimanjaro, running a business and writing a book. 

After living in a constant start of alert – fuelled by adrenaline, cortisol and compassion – I feel disorientated and a little bored, if I’m honest.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to relive the horrors of yesterday. And for those reading who have a cancer diagnosis, we can’t live freely; we’re never really off the hook. That’s the stuff of nightmares. But maybe some of this resonates? For now, I am learning to navigate this weird vacuum I find myself in – constantly grateful I am alive and kicking. But also, constantly contemplating how bloody complicated cancer is, beyond the disease itself.

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