SEPT 17 — Something you need to let go of as a cancer patient, I’ve found, is the notion of dignity.

You will not have the energy to maintain decorum or be hung up on being “decent”.

I keep my eyes closed during radiotherapy so I don’t have to think about being topless during treatment, and being positioned like I’m a floppy marionette. 

Whomp. Someone lifts my hips and shifts them to the right. 

Whack. My arm slaps against the arm rest as it gets moved into whatever placement the staffer deems ideal. 

Last week one of the radiotherapy staffers said my radiation site was cantik (nice-looking) and I was briefly confused.

What she meant was that the site of my treatment looked mostly fine; apparently other people often had it worse.

I’d seen the photos.

Peeling, reddened skin, scabs, obvious burns and breasts that looked deformed from being cooked with radiation.

In my case, my irradiated bust is a few shades more tan with, weirdly, freckles, which is apparently common and should fade in time.

What’s less pleasant is the occasional pain that comes without warning.

In my case it feels like I’m being stabbed from the inside.

The sharp, shooting pains aren’t constant, at least.

After the weekend’s break from radiation it no longer feels as though my boob is trying to kill me.

However I am again turning into stone, which is aggravating.

It’s probably because I’ve been too tired from the hour-long commute to and from treatment to bounce on my faithful mini-trampoline.

While I am tempted to just Grab to-and-fro I think it’s important I take the chance to move as much as I can tolerate. 

Studies show that exercise could help prevent recurrence so it’s in my best interests to keep working on my fitness as much as I do not like working out.

My blood sugar levels have also spiked so I am officially prediabetic and I now have hypertension on top of high cholesterol.

I have to accept that sugary drinks, diet sodas included, are off the menu at least until my blood sugar levels have improved. 

In my next life I’d rather be a tamagotchi — my tamagotchi is easy to feed, I just load it up till its hunger bar is satiated.

Unlike me, my tamagotchi doesn’t need to think about FODMAPs, glycemic indexes or protein content.

It cried when I tried to replace its bicycle with a car; I guess we are digital soulmates in that respect.

To kill multiple health-related birds with one stone I am now setting my sights on training for a 5K, even though it’s really well-documented how much I hate running.

Yet I still had a running “idol” in Grete Waitz who tragically died of cancer in her 50s.

New research suggests that ultra running and marathons could be linked to early colorectal cancer so at least I now have an excuse to keep my running to 5,000 metres and maybe if cancer hasn’t killed me yet I’ll try a 10k when I turn 50.

As I’m writing this, I learned a few hours ago that Robert Redford had died.

He was a founder of Sundance and I was in the first Malaysian film to be submitted to that film festival so I suppose we share that tiny, tenuous connection.

They don’t quite make movie stars like Redford these days; his age of cinema has passed and a new generation of storytellers have emerged.

Time marches ever on and I am reminded again that life is such a fragile, fleeting thing.

Redford’s watch has ended and mine, it seems, stretches ever on, storied as ever.

Farewell to one of the greats, may those who come after him ever strive to create their own lasting legacies.