A few weeks ago I was at a neighbour’s house around lunch time. She has three daughters under four, bless her (the English like to throw that expression around a lot so I figure I’ll start too). My other neighbour and her two daughters (close in age to my girls) were there too. It was the usual domestic scene for anyone with gaggles of young kids. Broccoli soup, half-eaten lollypop (dipped in the broccoli soup — what? That adds a great health benefit you know…), that sort of thing.

The topic of my blog came up and we chatted about what it has been like going through this experience. The mother of three said something about how tough I have been and then offered up that maybe I should be a motivational coach.

My other neighbour, who knows me better, and I immediately started sniggering. Chances are you do not want me for your motivational coach, unless you respond well to abuse being hurled at you and impatient eye-rolling and things of that nature.

Do not misunderstand me. It isn’t that I lack empathy. It’s just that I have my own way of getting through a hard time. Stroking just ain’t my thing. Neither is whining or feeling vulnerable for any length of time. Just to clarify: whining isn’t the same as bitching and bitching is acceptable, to some extent. I have definitely done my fair share. I guess the difference is the tone. Whining = I am victim/woe is me. Bitching = This sucks/I’m angry. I prefer the latter. Oh and venting is okay too, in case you were wondering. Just choose your audience carefully.

I kind of feel like I had my very own cancer boot camp this year. And I even got to shave my head, which was an added bonus.

At the outset, I thought long and hard about a mantra that would make me feel strong and get me through the roughest bits (the English are always talking about bits where we Americans would use parts but at the end of the day it all sounds rather pornographic to me) of this experience. Something to chant at the gym when I was struggling even at half the wattage I was able to do prior to chemo. Something to say to myself when I was feeling particularly drag-ass and queasy after a dose of that wretched doxorubicin-cyclophosphamide cocktail. Something that would cause me to force myself out of bed and get outdoors for a brisk walk when my energy levels had bottomed out.

Actually, that is total bullshit. I didn’t think long and hard about any mantra. Because before I even started, my mantra was something like “come on, you pussy.”

That’s what I said to myself at the gym (still do) when I was having a hard time. That’s what I said to myself when I felt like I was starting to whine. When the last thing I wanted to do was drag my atrophied ass out of bed and go for a walk on a grey day with the taste of metal in my mouth. There was even one day when my resolve faltered and I texted my friend to ask her if I should go for a walk or just stay in bed. The response came back quick: “move your ass.” I got right up and out the door. Because she was spot on.

“Come on, you pussy” just seems to work for me. I do have a feeling, however, that it wouldn’t go over in the chemo treatment suite. Can’t you just see me standing over some poor bastard who was retching saying “come on, you pussy. Get some dignity!” Nope. I didn’t think so.

Gee, that’s pretty harsh, you might think. Maybe. But let me dispel some myths about my philosophy.

First, this does not mean that I think anyone who doesn’t operate like me is a pussy. I really do not. I have met quite a few people in the past year who have had to deal with far worse — and I mean FAR worse — than the crap I have endured and I can safely say that not one of them is a pussy. Bravery comes in many forms. And there are many ways of dealing.

Second, it’s okay to cry. I believe that crying is necessary and can even be cleansing. I do it sometimes myself. And then I wipe the tears away and get on with it. Refusing to get out of bed and crying all day, however, is not an option. If you do that you are doing harm to yourself and others around you. I am sympathetic to people suffering from depression and know that for many they cannot help feeling this way. I have been damn lucky that I don’t have that tendency.

Third, despite my desire to be tough all the time there are inevitable moments of, to me, loathsome, weakness and vulnerability. I forgive myself for those moments. As much as it pains me to admit it, I can’t be a machine one hundred percent of the time, even though I feel that way most of the time.

Fourth, that I am tough does not mean that I am unemotional. Au contraire, I would describe myself as a pretty emotional person. I am also a sensitive person. But simultaneously very logical and rational. Somehow this combination seems to carry me through.

Sometimes I wonder whether I would have the same modus operandi if things had been harder than they have been. Do I have a breaking point? I cannot answer that question. I have no idea.

What is the point of all of this? You might ask.

Do you know the movie The Shawshank Redemption? It is a film about a man (Andy Dufresne) who is wrongly convicted of shooting his wife and her lover in a jealous rage. He ends up being incarcerated in Shawshank State Prison in Maine, which is a miserable fucking place. It is one of my all-time favourite movies. Good ole Stephen King can really spin a tale. There is a line from that movie that I think about a lot. It is spoken by Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins) to Red (Morgan Freeman) the day before the night Andy shocks the hell out of everyone at Shawshank by escaping and forever changing the course of his existence. He says it in response to Red telling him that Red doesn’t think he could make it on the outside because he has become institutionalised and wouldn’t know what to do. He tells him after Red pooh-poohs Andy’s dream of going to Mexico where he would open a small hotel and operate a fishing boat for his guests.

“I guess it comes down to a simple choice, really. Get busy living or get busy dying.”

Here’s the scene if you want to watch it — it takes about three minutes.

Not long after Andy’s escape, Red, to his surprise, is released on parole. He finds himself in the same room at a halfway house that his former inmate Brooks had inhabited after his release. And in the same miserable grocery bagging job. Brooks had lived most of his life in Shawshank and was released as an old man. After trying to make it on the outside for a short while he gave up and hanged himself from a rafter in that room. There is a torturous moment when Red stands on the chair and looks at the rafter where Brooks etched his name “Brooks was here.” And you think he is going to hang himself. But then he just adds “So was Red.” And buys a bus ticket, gets outta dodge and sets off to find Andy in Mexico.

He made the right choice.

It doesn’t matter if you have cancer. It doesn’t matter if you don’t. This isn’t about that. It’s just about living your life. You’ve got to make the choice and write your own story. Get busy living or get busy dying. Own it.

I remind myself of that any time I think I am being a pussy. I’ve made my choice. I’m busy living. It’s the way I always hope to be. No matter what.