These days, most of us don’t keep diaries, but the photos on our smartphones are a sort of portal through which we can, with just a finger stroke, summon the days and months and years gone by. We can scroll back to holiday sunsets, good-hair-day selfies, random screenshots, memorable meals and family moments. Our personal visual archives are digital memory boxes communicating messages and insights from our past to our current selves. They can’t tell us the whole story, but they can tell us a lot.
I’ve been flicking through the photos I took this time last year. It’s a typically eclectic mix. There are endless wedding and bridesmaid dresses, images grabbed from websites. (I was planning a wedding in a short space of time and was desperate for Big Day Dress inspo.) There are selfies of me smiling while sitting in a big chair. (I was getting weekly chemotherapy in the Mater public hospital.) There are photos of my daughters and me on a night out at the theatre. (I wanted them to see it was possible to have fun even in challenging circumstances.)
In some of the photos I have long, brown hair in perfect condition. (I’d just spent a lot of money on a wig.) In other photos, I look like a middle-aged newborn baby. (I got my hair shaved off when it started falling out.) There is one photo of me, wig on, with some of my brothers and sisters at a restaurant that has since shut down. I’m grinning at the camera-wielding waiter but I had E.coli at the time because of my weakened immune system. That photo brings back the excruciating stomach pain I experienced as I tried to eat the side portion of vegetables I had ordered as a main course.
There is no photo of Kate Middleton, but the photos I took this time last year reminded me of her. Scrolling through them I was brought back to a moment, vulnerable, nauseous and in agony from the E.coli, watching a video she made sitting on a bench in her garden in front of a flower bed of daffodils.
Róisín Ingle: I was mortified by how much Kate Middleton’s message affected me
I got a D in pass maths in the Leaving Cert but I addressed the Society of Actuaries in Ireland dinner
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In the video, made one year ago this week, she revealed that doctors had found cancer in her body after abdominal surgery and that she was now receiving preventive chemotherapy. It was a surprise to me and to those close to me that I even watched her video. Part of my coping strategy back then was avoiding any mention of cancer, which was nearly impossible. It seemed to be everywhere. (It is everywhere.) Despite having cancer myself, I was actively avoiding cancer content. For some reason I forced myself to press play on her video, hoping I wouldn’t regret it.
I did not regret it. She talked about how she was coping, in mind, body and spirit. She spoke about the impact on her children. But it was her final, carefully chosen words, referencing all of us who were facing the disease, “in whatever form”, that really spoke to me. “Please do not lose faith or hope; you are not alone,” she said.
I cried then, in my bed, surrounded by used tissues and books I didn’t have the concentration to read. I let myself cry for ages. I cried for her, for her children, for myself and for all of us dealing with these life-changing challenges. Afterwards, I was slightly mortified by how much a two-minute video made by a princess – a princess! – had affected me. But I was also grateful. She had tapped into something that had been previously missing. A sense of solidarity that until then I hadn’t allowed myself to feel. I realised that despite all the support I had from family and friends, I was feeling alone in the experience.
I felt a little less alone after watching that video. So much so that I actually thought about writing Kate Middleton a letter. I didn’t in the end. Or maybe this is the letter.
A younger friend started treatment last week for her cancer. We’ve been talking and texting a lot. It has helped us both, I hope
I looked back at her video this week, noticing the flowers behind her, realising that she delivered that message around Daffodil Day last year. This is the biggest fundraising day for cancer societies and it’s happening on Friday all over this country. I avoided it completely last year, I realise now.
And I am still careful about the links I click on. Google is not my friend. But one year later, still on treatment (they tell me my cancer is not curable), I am not as afraid of cancer content.
Anyway, I cannot avoid it. A younger friend started treatment last week for her cancer. We’ve been talking and texting a lot. It has helped us both, I hope. A relative in the UK has been sharing updates of the innovative treatment she has been receiving in Germany, having been told by her doctors in the UK that they have no options left for her. A neighbour is recovering from a mastectomy and is now facing into the next stage of treatment. A dear friend is grieving her close friend who was also her guru, mentor and guide, who died from cancer recently.
I could, by now, write several columns about the things to say and not to say to those going through it. I could tell you the ways to help and the things that definitely do not help. But as Daffodil Day approaches, I think I will just echo this simple message from a princess: Please do not lose faith or hope. You are not alone.
Daffodil Day is on Friday, March 28th. For information visit The Irish Cancer Society at fundraise.cancer.ie
