I have been watching a lot of Grey’s Anatomy recently. I discovered it was on Amazon Prime and I started watching it from the beginning. Some people say it’s depressing but in those early days, the dialogue was quick witted, sharp, moving and funny, while the storylines pushed the boundaries of medicine and beyond. You’d think given the amount of time I’ve spent in a hospital over the last three years, and given the fact that my own hospital gives me palpitations every time I visit, that I’d want nothing to do with a medical drama. Sometimes I don’t. But as with most things I find comfort in the familiar and the old storylines and well-worn characters offer me some kind of safe space. A space in which I can exist without my mind for a while. It’s chewing gum for the brain with a heart.
Obviously watching Greys, you see a lot of surgical scenes. You see amputated limbs and gore and loss and the medical terminology washes over you like a second language you’re almost fluent in. You hear talk of scalpels and defibrillators and “apis” and sutures. Sutures. That’s the one I have become fixated on of late.
When I had the tiny cyst removed from my left breast when I was 19, I remember asking them how many stitches they had used. There were eight of them, I think. I’d never had so much as a cut really, before then. Nothing more than a papercut. So I was fascinated by the idea that these little stitches had been put in my body to tie up the loose ends of my skin and help them knit back together. Now, obviously, I have had my fair share of sutures. I have been cut open and sewn back up eight times in the last three years. I have had little stitches over little holes and lots of bigger stitches over bigger holes. I have had the soluble type and the ones my surgeon has had to pull out and discard. I no longer know how many stitches they have put into me. I stopped asking that question once cancer was part of the equation.
But these sutures have helped my scars heal cleanly and tidily. The scar across my breast is hair thin at points – an absolute credit to the man behind the cutting and the teams behind the stitching. My chest is a battleground and the sutures were key in helping to rebuild the damage that cancer had left behind.
But there are a lot of other places I could do with some sutures. Some little stitches to help do-up the other scars that cancer has left behind. And the wounds that I leave behind on myself as a result of harsh words or criticisms or unreasonable expectations that I apply to my life. The places where I feel I am ripped open again and again – where the fear slips in and the heartache begins or where the old wounds are failing to scab over, but continue to come unstuck. There are so many parts of life that can be fixed with carefully applied medicine – sutures, or chemotherapy or radiotherapy or a hysterectomy or an appendectomy or a dose of antibiotics – but there are so many parts of life where you can’t apply a sterile dressing and walk away. Where the sutures will not hold. Where a surgery cannot remove the thing that is trying to kill you.
So what can we turn to when medicine isn’t enough? Today, I baked bread. I left the house. I had a shower and tried to wash all the negativity and bad feeling and tears and emptiness away. I tried to find my own sutures for the cuts and scrapes that life throws at us. It’s funny because the emotional turmoil of cancer doesn’t go away, long after the tumour has gone. If you’re lucky enough for the tumour to go. The emotional turmoil of cancer lingers longer than most people realise. Than I realise myself a lot of days. Sometimes I feel like I am moving forwards, sometimes I feel like I am no further ahead than I was the day my treatment finished. I am still in need of sutures, because the emotional and mental wounds that cancer left behind keep on reopening. They reopen with every surgery, every hospital appointment, every lump or bump or cough or ache. Every dose of bad news. Every loss.
The wounds are healing but they never get the chance to recover completely. Because life and death and everything in between happens and we are expected to buck up and carry on and keep getting up and keep going and be the best that we can be in this world so that our lives are not wasted. So that this chance we are given, this one life we have, can be the absolute best we can possibly make it.
No amount of sutures can heal the cuts that run much deeper than the skin and the tissue and go beyond the body. But we do the best we can.
We will get up every day and keep doing the best we can and hope that it is enough.
We do the best we can and hope that it is enough, because as of yet, there is no cure for heartbreak.