My name is Nicole Cooper. I am a 38 year old wife, mummy, daughter, sister, living in Melbourne, Australia.
On 16 March 2017, I received the news. The cancer news. The news that changed everything, and changed nothing at all.
This blog is about sharing my experience. There is a pretty important story to be told, and I will be telling it. It is a story about self. About the stuff that makes you. About the beauty of clarity. About the enormous potency of love.
Thank you for visiting and giving me some of your time.
* * *It is my absolute honour to be speaking here tonight – thank you to the MPCCC for thi
Over the course of my almost two years of cancer fighting, I have had countless beautiful people offer their support. Emotional, social, physical, spiritual – whatever my need, it has always been more than met. This commitment to me has meant everything to me. Healed me. Empowered me.
Many people have also offered financial support to Tim and I. So many people. Cancer fighting is expensive. This support was enormously helpful to us in our early months as we navigated payment for every screen
This was one of the most rewarding things I have ever done.
I knew it almost immediately.
I knew it before I had really taken stock of it all. Before I was sitting on my couch in Melbourne, eagle-eyed for the first promo on TV. Before the flurry of messages that confirmed that other people had seen the promo, too. And certainly, before watching the end result.
I knew it weeks earlier, as I waited to
It is fading all the time. The fear, the fragility. The pain and loss. It has been days, and then it has been weeks, since I was enveloped by the emotion and paralysed by the fear. And for some moments I really truly completely forget. I am peaceful. Laughing with friends. Gazing at the bare branches of a tree. I am calm and consciously grateful. I exercise. I bask in the love of my son and my man. I work and then work some more. I read. I have ideas and ambition. I am absorbed. I make dinner and peel a banana and hold a cup of tea with two hands, fingers intertwined.
It was a casual Wednesday night and I was casually flipping through the pages of my health history. I must have been searching for a notebook or putting away another Lego instruction manual or something equally as harmless to cause me to open the living room cupboard and rummage through. My fingers brushed past it first – the fluorescent pink plastic folder that my meticulously detailed 2017 diagnosis called home – and all at once I was transfixed. I shuffled some papers to the side and revealed it, sitting on the shelf all suggestive-like; I was two gins in, so shrugg
I share my cancer life. Everything that is blunt and real about my health crisis is out there for public consumption. It has been from the start.
It was a decision that seemed obvious to me when I was diagnosed with bowel cancer in 2017. How many brand-new mums encounter a stage four cancer diagnosis? How many 32-year-olds are given 18 months to live? The tragically lonely certainty of my predicament, not to mention the heart-breaking reality that it was not in fact a rare occurrence at all; it felt like it all need