ON FIGHTING BACK FROM DEVASTATING DIAGNOSIS
ANTONIA McTERNAN
this, just think about any time you have heard someone mention the word. It is usually in a hushed tone, almost a whisper.
No other word conjures up such emotion. The fear of loss of hair, the fear of death.
Losing my thick, chocolate coloured locks was beyond my control.
Avoiding the devastation and heartache of watching my hair fall out one strand at a time, I made the gut-wrenching choice to shave my head and take control before chemotherapy got the chance.
Being the eldest of three sisters, I laughed: “At least you’ve got the son you’ve always wanted now, Dad.”
But behind the jokes my new life was not only physically painful but also mentally painful.
Watching my friends style their hair and listening to their lengthy chats about the latest must-have hairdos was much harder than I expected.
I suppose they were just continuing life as normal for my sake but how could I possibly pretend that fighting cancer was a normal part of being a teenager?
For hours, I would stare in a mirror only to see someone else’s reflection. Someone bald and feeble stared back.
It’s needless to say that I had to be a lion in my family: strong, mature and the leader of the pride. My only choice was to be brave for them.
Twelve months later, people often ask what the toughest part of my journey has been.
Without hesitation, I would say it’s what I witness each day in the The Children’s Cancer Ward.
Seeing the babies and young children battling this aggressive disease and the helpless look on their parents’ faces is something that will live with me forever.
Nonetheless, there’s a true sense of hope and optimism within the community of the ward.
Instantly, my family and I made strong bonds with other patients and their families. One patient in particular was a real comfort. Her name is Erin.
Born just six weeks apart, Erin and I were the same age when we were diagnosed with leukaemia.
Not many teenage friendships are held together by the great level of trust and support that ours has.
I hope that anyone who ever has to face the desolation of a cancer diagnosis will have a friend like Erin with them throughout their journey.
Now, one year on and after 10 months of intense chemotherapy, the reality bubble has only just burst and I accept that I actually had cancer.
Erin, along with all the other superheroes of my ward, was the driving force behind my next step.
Recently, I have raised more than £13,000 and completed a seven-part blog.
Fundraising and raising awareness have not only made my diagnosis easier to comprehend, they’ve given me the urge to show gratitude by giving back to those who have supported me.
The best way I can describe my journey with leukaemia is by comparing it with climbing a mountain.
Before you begin, you must accept that it’ll be long and challenging – and you must be determined that you’ll make it to the top.
As I continue to endure the dire treatment, I live by the prominent quote “patience is bitter but its fruit is sweet”, because the pathway to success is near.
By April next year, I will have taken my final steps up the summit, I will be at the peak of my mountain and most importantly, I will be in control.