Tag: hosptial

Three Little Words

December 24th

“Are you looking forward to Christmas then,” the receptionist asks me.

AM I LOOKING FORWARD TO CHRISTMAS? Is she for fucking real? I’m standing at the reception desk of the breast clinic on Christmas Eve. Oddly, I’d not really had much head space to even think about the joys of Christmas with the biggest lump known to man festering away inside my boob.

“No,” I replied in an incredulous tone. I’ve always been truthful but when you’re faced with the scary prospect of the dreaded C you somehow seem to care even less about what you say or how you deliver it.

He says, “You have a lump” whilst drawing on my boob with a black pen!! “No shit,” I say, “that’s why I’m here.”

The waiting area was overcrowded, to say the least, and we had struggled to find somewhere to sit. Men and women of all ages, faces with all different states of expression; all of them probably really looking forward to Christmas too!!!!

Forms completed, questions including family deaths from cancer…happy days. We wait. Reading the posters on the wall about hair loss, numbers to ring with questions. Christ. “Am I looking forward to Christmas?”

The nurse calls us through and we meet Mr. A the consultant. Nice enough chap but he seems to have a penchant for stating the obvious. After my inspection, he says, “You have a lump” whilst drawing on my boob with a black pen!! “No shit,” I say, “that’s why I’m here.” He must have had to go through this process with people who have a lump and have been referred to the hospital time after time after time, you’d have thought he might be able to muster up something a little more considered.

Sorry, I’m ranting, aren’t I? Let me introduce myself, my name’s Vicki. I’ve been on the planet for 46 years and I run a successful business. I’ve been a single parent of two fabulous boys for 14 years (paid for everything, parented them single-handedly), I have a fantastic and hectic social life, have been blessed in many, many ways AND I can front out virtually any situation. I am a battler. But it’s funny how a process like this can tip me to uncontrollable eye leakage and because I don’t cry very often when I start it’s almost impossible for me to stop.

The Lump

I found the lump about 2 weeks ago I don’t think I’ve EVER checked my breasts and I lay in bed one night, no doubt prompted subconsciously by something I’d seen or heard, I decided to have a feel. My left one had this huge lump thing which wasn’t mirrored on the other breast. I booked in at the doctors and she confirmed I did indeed have a lump and that she’d refer me to the hospital. I asked her what she thought it was, she was understandably vague but said it could be one of a number of things not necessarily the big C. I have to be honest, I wasn’t really too concerned. I’d decided I had a cysts – nice bit of self-diagnosis.

I was completely unaware my body could perform such things.

So the mammogram, ultrasound and biopsy process starts as do my tears, it’s so bad the nurse performing the mammogram asks me four times if I want to stop. NO, I just want it done, I want to be told I’ve got a cyst and I want to go home and look forward to Christmas. It’s for this reason I’d asked my friend Catherine to come with me, not because I thought I had cancer but because I knew I’d be on meltdown due to the procedures. After being handled like a milking cow (not her fault, she was very lovely) and having my boobs stretched beyond all expected capacity between two bits of toughened plastic (I was completely unaware my body could perform such things) we get moved to a separate room to wait the 45 minutes for the ultrasound. Just as well, I don’t think I’d have been able to see through the tiny slits in my face to find our way back to the main waiting area. As we sit and I calm down, we continue with the conversation of “There’s nothing wrong with me, I’ll be fine, there’s no way I’ve got it, it’ll just be a cyst or a blocked duct, god there’s a million things it could be, just because it’s a lump it does NOT mean I’ve got the C word.”

So I lay sniffling and breathing my garlic breath all over John the technician.

We get called through for part two – the ultrasound, and I ask that Cath sits behind a curtain. We’ve been friends since we meet in 1990 in the south of France and there lies another story but forgive me I really don’t want her seeing me with my whammers out getting prodded and poked. The ultrasound is no different to that uber-happy experience when they show your baby moving and wriggling, except this one isn’t quite so happy. I’m still crying; pathetic I know but the floodgates have been removed and so I lay sniffling and breathing my garlic breath all over John the technician. It was seriously strong. Cath had already commented when she arrived at my house how bad it was and she suffers from polyps in her nose that mean she can’t smell anything, so it must have been bad.

John does both boobs but understandably spends most of the time gliding the equipment over the bit that’s been used as a colouring-in pad by the consultant. As he moves it to my armpit – I know. I just know. I know what he’s doing there, we all do… the dreaded fucking lymph nodes. Two small words that none of us ever heard of before and lived in complete ignorance of their existence until the C-word.

Ignorance in my world is NOT bliss.

The biopsy, well, it wasn’t nice but to be perfectly honest it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I’d expected it to be. John was really considerate and explained what was going to happen. He numbed the area and then let me hear the noise the instrument would make, I guess so as not to scare me. It sounded a bit like a quiet gun. I didn’t look. I think sometimes when you can’t see what’s happening it’s easier to cope with and bizarrely hurts less. The most uncomfortable part for me was having to keep my poorly arm stretched above my head. It’s not built for these kinds of manoeuvres since it tried to vacate my body some years hence in a motorcycle accident. That REALLY hurt. John explained that he was going to leave a coil in the lump, something to do with measuring the size of it… bit lost on me, to be honest; I was a little distracted.

I’m not built for waiting. I’m one of these that just need to know. Ignorance in my world is NOT bliss – so I asked him if it was a cyst.

‘It’s definitely not a cyst,’ he said. Hmmmmm, fuck.

“And it is definitely not benign.”

DOUBLE FUCK.

“But there’s some good news. It doesn’t appear to be in your lymph nodes.”

It’s incredible how your once quick brain malfunctions and grinds to a halt. It flatlines and turns to spaghetti.

My brain exploded. FUCK – what do I tell my kids, I haven’t got time for this shit; I’ve too much to pack in before I die (I’m not overly dramatic but trust me this does push you the edge of reasonable thinking). It’s taken me ages to grow my hair. I don’t want to lose my eyebrows. God how do I tell people?

I realise I’ve said most of this out loud as John responds with a, “Well, we need to send the biopsy off first and find out what type you have and what we need to do to is identify which treatment you will need to shrink it.”

SHIT, I’ve got it. Those three little words: I’VE GOT CANCER. The Big C. How bloody annoying AND to cap it all, I’m still bloody crying. I honestly can’t believe it. I’m fit, well, healthy, got a superb life and now I’ve got this to contend with. I simply don’t have the time. How inconvenient, and just before Christmas too; speaking of which – NO, I’M NOT LOOKING FORWARD TO CHRISTMAS!

Hideous Decisions

Monday 4th January

Oh my God – back to work today. It’s been superb, I can’t tell you what a fab day I’ve had. Everything was normal, no one knows, I trained the team and they had a superb afternoon… just fab. I spoke to my business coach and explained why I had to change our appointment from Thursday morning. He doesn’t count by the way, regarding who I’m going to tell, but I needed to tell him because what we do together is effected by my health and the decisions I make about the business are arguably crucial right now.

We did the pleasantries.

“Stuart, sorry to be a pain but can we change the appointment on Thursday I’m sorry to be difficult but I’ve got a hospital appointment that I must attend.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Vicki. Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Erm… well, I’ve got a bit of breast cancer, so yes I think you could say it’s serious but I won’t know till Thursday what I need to deal with. But I’m sure it’ll be fine – well, it has to be I’ve way too much to fit in.”

SILENCE then, “Oh no that’s awful, you sound like you’ve got a cough too.”

“Yes, well, let’s hope it’s not bloody lung cancer too, hey?!”

“Did you have a good Christmas?” he asked.

“Well, not really, no. I found out on Christmas Eve so possibly not the best present I’ve ever had.”

I had a thought today that it’s only three more sleeps until my boob knows its fate. Odd really that it’s something you count down to. It’s usually for something exciting like a holiday or a special event, a birthday perhaps or a wedding. My thoughts are odd. I feel very much in control though and like there’s nothing wrong with me. When I found myself in the waiting room at the court today for one of my staff (yes, I saved her from a fate worse than death…prison) watching, not from choice, the BBC news, I saw something called Victoria something or other. She’s having chemo and is taking a day to day video of her hair loss journey. If I’m dead honest, I’m not really sure how I feel about it. I get it. I get the idea but shit it’s SO depressing!!! Why would anyone want to watch something so desperately sad and morose? Jesus, I’ll be avoiding that like the plague.

It’s true that sometimes you don’t realise what you’ve got till it’s gone.

Tuesday 5th January

The 5th of January has just been a fucking battle from beginning to end. I have had to contend with a whole host of garbage at work from staff claiming: “Oh, I didn’t think.” “Oh, I hadn’t thought that might happen.” Hideous decisions made without any common sense whatsoever. Really, very frustrating. Our old manager had left in November to pursue a different career – I think we need her back. Since she’s gone it’s been a complete disaster and more than I can contend with. It’s true that sometimes you don’t realise what you’ve got till it’s gone. I need to arrange to see her I think.

I’m almost lost for words. There’s nothing right now that will help me to get over just how fucking cross I am.

Today also included a stupid cyclist who seemed to think undertaking and overtaking in the dark with poor lights and lots of traffic was fine. I wonder if I’ll see him without limbs next week at the hospital? Then to cap it all, I came home to a letter from the hospital telling me my appointment has been put back to Friday. Yup, logically I know it’s only a day but the focus on this one date THE 7th January has been immense. I’d cancelled all my appointments from Thursday to the fucking Friday. I’m almost lost for words. There’s nothing right now that will help me to get over just how fucking cross I am. They have NO IDEA how this makes people feel. If it’s spread I swear I’m going to lose it with someone there.

The good news today? Oh, there isn’t any – so in addition to being awake most of the night on Wednesday deciding I’m terminally ill and have weeks to live, I manage to get through a manic busy day at work, missing a number of calls from a ‘no caller ID’, I never answer these I don’t have a landline at home because I want the option to screen my calls. Anyway, I get into work on Thursday – with a feeling it must be the hospital – no message left, I might add, but no one would ring 8 times if it wasn’t urgent. So I called the specialists PA who said it was probably just to check that I’d got the letter about the change to Friday – thank God.

Two more missed calls Thursday morning. I finally get to answer the phone and I‘m informed by someone ‘from appointments’ that they were putting my appointment back to next Wednesday. I nearly self-combusted.

“NO, YOU’RE NOT!” I said. “I’m not having this, it’s been put back once already and I’ve had to change three clients’ appointments – which means I lose business, now I’ve had to change them AGAIN because it moved to Friday now you’re telling me I’ll have to change all the Wednesday appointments too – I can’t run my life like this. NO, I’m coming in tomorrow.” I was livid.

I fully appreciate I’d been very direct and rather cross, but FFS can you get where I’m coming from. She was quite curt and somewhat rude, to be honest.

“Woman to woman, I can understand why you’re upset.” This did not make my blood boil AT ALL. “You can come in but we don’t have your results back yet, so there wouldn’t be much point.” Why she didn’t she just say this at the beginning of the conversation? This teeny tiny bit of very important information makes all the difference. Unbelievable. So I have to wait another week until the 13th? Brilliant!!!

It’s D-Day, or Rather C-Day

This never-ending nightmare comes with a whole host of illogical thoughts usually delivered in the middle of the night when everything becomes worse than it already is. Erm… is that actually possible??? So I woke one night in a panic about the fact that I’d lost about half a stone within the last month or so. Now I had eaten less and walked more BUT tonight I had this goddam awful panic that I was ACTUALLY dying, terminally ill. Oh, and I defy ANY of you going through the same thing to not have these irrational thoughts. Trust me, I’m THE most positive person you will ever meet but boy this is a challenge.

So I figured the best solution was for me to eat more do less and see if I put on any weight. Well, for the very first time IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, I was delighted to have put on 3lb in about 4 days. I honestly can’t even begin to tell you happy this made me, it also made me laugh so loud, like most women putting on weight is NOT what I want, but for once I was thrilled. Funny how something that once would have made me gutted actually made me happy. This, in my logic, means I must be ok, well, not dying, back on the positive track we go.

I love work so the meeting kept my brain on charge and I didn’t have the time to dwell on what might be.

The weekend was great and odd all at the same time. I drove up to Catherine’s – it hadn’t dawned on me just how much the experience would have affected her. Her husband was lovely but just a bit different towards me and the same again on Saturday night when I went to collect Clips for an evening out: her husband looked like a rabbit caught in headlights. People just don’t know what to say to you – I asked him how he was, he said “Yeah thanks, Vicki. I’m fine thanks,” and looked absolutely petrified about asking me how I was. I completely understand but it’s also hard to be on the receiving end of people behaving differently towards you. It’s confirmed to me that I’ve made absolutely the right decision about not telling the world about it.

It’s so hard for everyone because it’s like the worst news ever. Only Derek, Sally’s husband (who is VERY similar to me) knew what to say. “Vicki, Sals told me what’s happened I don’t want you to think that I don’t care but I also know you don’t really want to talk about it. Just know that I’m always here for you in you need anything.” What a sweetie. I really am very lucky.

It’s weird and lovely too. Because no one knows at work and the vast majority of people have no idea, I honestly feel like there’s nothing wrong with me and I’ve had a super few days feeling a bit like it’s not real, really. I’m sure that Wednesday will change all that when I get my results and the plan of attack!!

A doctor and two nurses (wearing black uniforms) were there. Not exactly boding well, is it?

So results day, January 13th is here. D-Day, or rather C-Day. So after much cajoling, I agreed to take Catherine with me for my 4 pm meeting; sorry, appointment. I had a 10 am in Manchester which was great because it kept me occupied and I love driving so it was a great way to while away the time. I love work so the meeting kept my brain on charge and I didn’t have the time to dwell on what might be.

So we got to the hospital for about 3.40, purchased one of their extortionate and pretty shit coffees before we walked round to the temple of doom. We got ushered into one of the “crying” rooms and sat around a knee-high round table with four chairs and a box of tissues. A doctor and two nurses (wearing black uniforms) were there. Not exactly boding well, is it?

“Vicki, we have some news for you, sadly you do have cancer…” Before he could continue, I interrupted.

“Okay, can I stop you there? So is it fixable?”

“Oh yes, of course it is.” It was his incredulous tone that sealed it for me.

“Brilliant. Right, okay, that’s great, carry on, what do we have to do?” I settled back in my chair and all I could think about what that I was going to survive. Fucking yippee. I think the word is euphoric – that’s how I felt.

“You have grade two invasive ducal carcinoma and…”

I honestly can’t tell you the rest of the conversation because in my head I’m doing cartwheels. YES, I’m going to survive… excellent! The rest of this horror story I can do, it’s just a process. So the plan; chemo first to help reduce the size of the cancer, then an operation to remove it, then radio. Yup, I can do this. It’s fine! Sure, it’s going to be horrific and I’ll be bald BUT I’m not going to die. HURRAH!!

They wanted me to have the operation on the 22nd but I’ve got a dinner to go to that I’ve really looked forward to. Cath nearly had kittens.

I’m not sure my reaction was what they’d expected. In fact, I know it wasn’t but the bit they all failed to realise was that I already knew, and I’d spent two weeks papping myself that I was going to die. So this is great news. It’s fixable, I get to spend the critical illness money I should be getting. Not quite the attitude, I know, but you’ve no idea how relieved I am.

So the first doctor leaves, he was very lovely, I think he was bad news cop to make way for good news cop. What a lovely gentleman, he came in and was really gentle with me, he explained the plan and what was going to happen in the next couple of weeks before chemo started. I told them I had private health cover. This is an absolute godsend for people like me who have a business. The flexibility it gives is awesome. It also means I can have chemo at home if I chose, appointment times to fit with me and choices… I like choices.

The consultant explained that the next few weeks would include a consultation with him, an appointment with the oncologist, an appointment with the breast clinic nurse, a CT scan, a bone scan and an operation to remove a lymph node just to make sure it’s not spread. Apparently, the ultrasound scan isn’t 100% accurate so the lymph operation enables them to be completely sure that it’s clear. It’s more about them knowing rather than anything else because the chemo will blast anything and everything. So a busy few weeks. They wanted me to have the operation on the 22nd but I’ve got a dinner to go to that I’ve really looked forward to. Cath nearly had kittens. Speed is of the essence to a certain extent but they’d just told me that from detection they have a 90-day window, apparently my cancer doesn’t grow very quickly, so I don’t think another couple of days will make a difference. What lovely people, what a lovely attitude. I asked lots of questions, I understand the process and feel okay about it. I have two issues which I’ll explain to you, but honestly, I’m good with this.

We left the hospital, me with my arm around a crying Catherine, telling her it’s going to be just fine.

The four people in the room are staring at me, watching my every reaction but I’m honestly fine. I guess they’re expecting me to cry and wail and breakdown, but I’m just not built that way for audiences. I need to be super controlled and practical to get through. I get to live, that’s the best news I could have heard, nothing else is important. The consultant is surprised I think by my reaction. Cath’s eyes are a tad red although she’s doing her best not to cry, she knows that I need her to be strong. Anyway, the consultant leaves and the breast cancer nurses stay and talks through the detail. She was nice. She said that she’d written down everything she wanted to cover with me, but that it was all a bit pointless now. I’m guessing she was going to go for the positive angle and to ‘make me feel better.’

We left the hospital, me with my arm around a crying Catherine, telling her it’s going to be just fine and after parting with yet another bloody £2.60, drove home to tell the boys.

“Okay. So there’s good news and not so good news.”

They stare at me as I say those familiar three little words. “I’ve got cancer BUT it’s treatable so it doesn’t really matter.”

Cath is struggling I think with this, and I appreciate it’s not exactly the best delivery but you have to remember my kids have known me all their life and the way I tackle things and handle situations maybe a little unique, but it’s honest. And I’m genuinely thrilled I’m not going to die – the rest of it right now is nothing more than a battle I will win.

I did later speak to both the boys individually to reassure them, but honestly, I just don’t see what the big deal is. I explained to them if I’d said I’ve got mutating cells and I need some treatment to fix it no one would bat an eyelid – but because we say CANCER and CHEMO – everyone just shits themselves. Hey, I won’t die (well, I will at some point but not from this) and I’m back on track to making it to my 92nd birthday.

Here are my two issues with this: hair loss and the fact that now I’m going to have to tell people because unless they’re blind they will notice my lack of hair. Hair loss. Who wants to be bald?

Hmm, this is going to be a tough one.

Oncology, Private Healthcare & Free Tits

Monday 18th January

Today is January 18th and I’ve met my oncologist, and like the other consultant, she is just lovely. Very considered. I’m having to learn lots of new words, but frankly, some of the information is just too much to remember. I got packed off with books and books from the original ‘you’ve got cancer’ meeting a couple of weeks ago, which I’ve no intention of reading – how very dull. The plan: we start the chemo on Thursday 5th February. That’s all I need to know.

Private healthcare – what an absolute godsend. Not only do I get seen quicker and the process expedited but I also have the HUGE bonus of chemo at home. Okay, it wasn’t exactly what I had on my Christmas list BUT it’s made my day. I’ll be allocated a nurse and a plan. Phoning up to speak to the insurance company was actually far less horrific than I expected it to be.

I genuinely thought you had a policy, you get the dreaded lurgy, and you get paid out.

I’m still struggling to say the words, it’s becoming more real every time, but the lady I spoke to was fabulous very considerate and kind. Which is more than can be said for the delight I spoke to about my Critical Illness cover. I’d taken the policy out about 10 years ago when I used to smoke. I stopped 6 years ago but this didn’t stop her from very coldly asking me how many fags I used to smoke. I explained that I honestly couldn’t recall; when you stop you tend not to focus on the quantity of nicotine you inhaled daily. It upset me, actually. It was like she was trying to imply I’d created this cancer myself.

Furthermore, the policy I’d taken out was a smokers’ policy so I honestly couldn’t see the relevance of this. I explained this to her in my usual gentle manner, whilst she held onto her throat. We seemed to understand each other from that point on. She explained that the claim would have to go to the underwriters for a decision. Now, this did surprise me. I genuinely thought you had a policy, you get the dreaded lurgy, and you get paid out. Anyway, least of my worries right now, I’ll let fate determine the right outcome for me.

I might have mentioned that being in control is important to me so I decided the clever thing to do to help me through this journey was to keep a kind of diary of how I felt each day after each ‘spa treatment’ as I’ve renamed them – kinda of makes them more palatable, I think. I figured I needed something that I could refer to that I could see if there was a pattern. So I brought a whiteboard home from work, one of the girls from work had very kindly put some black tape on it so I could mark off the days of the week. What I did was date it and fill in relevant events from the first week of February through to the end of March. Then each day I could add a smiley face or a sad face and score my days. Whilst this sound REALLY childish, I cannot tell you what a great idea it was. It helped me to see patterns of good days and bad which then enabled me to plan more effectively.

 

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My mood board

I’m delighted to say that my operation date was brought forward to accommodate the dinner I was looking forward to on the 22nd.

 

Wednesday 20th January

What a result! FREE TITS!!!

So January 20th started with a lovely trip to the city hospital to have some dye injected into my nipple. Yes, you read that right. I can’t even begin to describe what happened simply because I didn’t want to watch. The horror of seeing the needle stabbed into a very delicate part of my anatomy was not something I needed to experience. Today’s operation is to remove a lymph node so they can send it off to ensure the cancers not escaped, the dye is to highlight the lymph node for surgery. I arrive at the private hospital having had nothing to eat all day except water. The anaesthetist, the consultant, the food nurse, the ward nurse and the ‘I’m here to help you nurse’ all paid me a visit. The anaesthetist wasn’t thrilled that I’d been drinking water – in truth, I hadn’t read the letter properly – typical me, I’m afraid. It was a bit touch and go as to whether they would operate but I managed to convince them I’d be just fine. Which of course I was.

Back from surgery within a blink of an eye – actually closer to 2 hours, but it didn’t feel like that for me. The surgeon came in and explained again what they had done and why and that we should get the results within the next week or so and for me not to worry. He’s a real sweetie. He also told me that after the chemo I’d have an operation to remove whatever’s left of the cancer and he would rebuild my boob.

“Sorry? Are you telling me I’ll get new tits?’ I demanded.

“Erm… yes Vicki, I am,” he replied, somewhat bashfully.

“Oh my God, can I pick the size?”

“Erm… yes, you can.”

“And will you make them point in the right direction?” I’m nearly squealing by this point.

“Yes, I can.”

“You, Mr. G have just made my made my day. A boob job. Oh my God, how lucky am I?”

I genuinely couldn’t be happier. Big boobs like mine aren’t exactly the prettiest things you’ve ever seen, a bit like oversized saddle bags that quite frankly have never pointed in the right direction. In fact, I had investigated and paid a deposit to have an uplift about 6 years ago but bottled it, not because of the pain but I really didn’t fancy having more scars to add to my body. What a result! FREE TITS!!!

I wasn’t allowed to leave until I’d eaten, drunk and had a wee. If they’d have let me I’d have been gone within half an hour; I’d completed all the tasks. My recovery from anaesthetic is remarkable, always has been (my life on the orthopaedic ward back in 1990 after my motorbike accident enabled me to perfect this), but they needed me to stay a further hour just to be sure. I wasn’t sore at all and felt right as rain.

First Day of Chemo

Thursday 4th February

Thursday 4th February and it’s National Cancer Day. What a not so fabulous co-incidence and yet arguably a perfect date for a charity head shave and the arrival of Bob. This is the name I’ve given to my wig. I HATE the word wig it conjures up thoughts of being bald to me so I figured Bob is just a cute way to refer to it. However, the joys of a head shave couldn’t start before I’d had yet another visit to the hospital. Today was to check if I had a heart, something to do with the second bout of chemo drugs and they need to make sure that everything functions properly. The scan was pretty insignificant but what as lovely was that my private nurse, Janice, who had been assigned to me for the chemo process tracked me down at the hospital and delivered to me the batch load of drugs that I needed to start before the chemo. Steroids are taken for the first couple of days and I was given a collection of meds that are supposed to help with side effects of the chemo. She advised me to speak to the doctors about getting some sleeping tablets. It’s getting more real by the minute.

I laughed through the whole thing. So that was that – hair gone. I’ve got a buzz cut.

After that, I took the train to Cambridge to go back to Scruffs to see Garry who I’ve now renamed ‘Two R’s’. He has to be the most incredible man. I’m not the best with people being too nice to me. It upsets me. I’m built for fun, laughter and piss-taking that’s how I cope and he got the balance just right with me. He mirrors his clients beautifully. You know what? It wasn’t so bad – I laughed through the whole thing. So that was that – hair gone. I’ve got a buzz cut. Painless, unemotional and it actually looks ok.

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Bob arrived and I can honestly tell you I love it. It feels unusual but then again I’ve never had to wear a wig except for fancy dress parties and it will take some getting used to but as I left the saloon to meet the couple who run ‘Something to Look Forward to,’ I had Bob on and it just felt really ‘normal’. I’m not sure what I was expecting but I certainly didn’t get any weird looks at all. Funny, what we envisage will happen and the reality is so different. We had dinner, with lots of wine back on the train and was tucked up into bed for 1.30. I’m buzzing, the steroids have kicked in and have given me so much more energy so took a sleeping tablet when I got home and woke at 7.30 am.

Spa Treatment Friday 5th February

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Nothing new today. I just have a Cancer Nurse in my house administering me chemo. Who would have thought? My Facebook time hopped today to a few years ago when I’d taken the boys to Orlando for 10 days. How times can change.

I felt fine and full of energy, not how I expected to feel.

Nurse Janice arrives. She preps and then she starts with saline to flush the vein. Then I’m given an anti-sickness drug before finally the chemo. I was fine for about 15 minutes then I struggled to breathe. It felt like someone was standing on my chest and my face was on fire. It happened so quickly, I just didn’t have time to say anything. Fortunately, she noticed and stopped the drip. She told me it’s quite normal to have a reaction. I guess our bodies weren’t really built for all these chemicals. Puriton and an anti-cortoson were administered and we’re good to go again – she did check with Karen, my oncologist, though to just be sure. Karen wanted to talk to me and said that they had found something on my hip in the scans so I need to go back and get rescanned just to make sure that it’s nothing of concern; better safe than sorry.

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And that was that. Finished by 12.30 pm. I cooked lunch and did a load of jobs. I felt fine and full of energy, not how I expected to feel. Sally came over to meet Bob, the boys came home for school, I caught up on all my lovely messages, text and work emails and awaited the arrival of my friend for a lovely catch up, followed by a couple of glasses of wine in bed for about 10.30.

So the first spa treatment day was done and dusted. It wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I expected. You have such ideas in your head about chemotherapy and how your hair (or what’s left of it) will just immediately fall out and you’ll be instantly ill.

Saturday 6th February

Saturday; Oddly I’ve woken up after a good night sleep feeling fine. It’s weird because you really don’t know what to expect but so far so good. I’ve been warned that after the steroids stop I will feel a bit down so we shall see what Sunday and Monday brings. My plan is to have no plans, this way I won’t be disappointed, but I’ve got Catherine over shortly after I get stabbed with an immune system booster then we’re off for a dog walk. I’ve completed my whiteboard with a smile 😊

Sunday 7th February

On Sunday, I woke up feeling fine. Sent my family an update email. Only my sister-in-law replied – she had cancer last year and had a double mastectomy so I guess she has an understanding of where I’m at. It’s weird, it’s like waiting to be ill. Walked the dog for 4 miles. Cleared the kitchen for the decorator’s arrival tomorrow. Clips came with two bags: one full of yummy goodies like prosecco, crisps and chocolates and one packed with healthy options including green tea, ginger, and the most amazing toothpaste ever. It’s called Biotene and trust me is just great. Another friend Jo came with a chicken and leek pie and Cornish pasties and Alison made the boys a Sunday lunch which they collected. I had a bath and then felt VERY, VERY ill. I sat in bed about 7ish and snoozed on and off until 11.30 pm only to be wide awake again for an hour or so. I felt a bit nauseous, my bones ached as they’d said, predominantly my breast bone and my thighs. I felt like I had a huge weight in my stomach. Not sure a Cornish pasty and a piece of toast could really make me feel like that. It’s a weird type of ill, is all I can say.

I’m Grateful for My Eyelashes

Friday 18th March

I’m thankful every day I wake up with my eyelashes. I know that’s vain and arguably the least of my worries but it’s great that I can still put mascara on and I don’t look so hideous. I’ve now got spots on my head which is really attractive, as you can imagine, and I’m thrilled about. Although I’m Mrs Baldy, I have some very short spiky strands of hair which oddly ‘hurt’. It’s quite bizarre, and if I lay on my pillow in the wrong position it’s really sore. How odd is that? Normal apparently but really weird!!

I’m a million miles an hour usually and feel like a snail with a hangover.

It’s Friday and having felt back to me yesterday, I now find myself at the doctors as my backside is bleeding again. Yes, I know it’s gross and really you didn’t need to know, but this is all part and parcel of the joys of chemo, cancer and generally having a broken body! I’m also back at the hospital later on for an MRI scan. They still haven’t quite determined what the “hot spot” is on my pelvis. Naturally, I’m praying that it’s nothing.

As I’ve mentioned I’d decided that for the second spa treatment I was going to see more people. I purposely avoided everyone the first time but it was so mind-numbingly boring that I think I need to get people round. Even if they just talk about themselves for a couple of hours the time will pass quicker AND I’ll have something to talk about… if I can remember any of it. It really is simply THE most boring experience I’ve ever endured. And the lack of energy has been weird for me. I’m a million miles an hour usually and feel like a snail with a hangover. My sense of humour and personality seem to vacate and I just flatline/exist for the time it takes the chemical warfare to get through my system. I can barely even muster up the energy to think about what I want to eat. But I know I must eat because it gives me energy. Which reminds me, I’ve done nothing but crave sugar which is bizarre because I don’t usually have a sweet tooth. I’m more of a savoury girl. I don’t think I’ve ever had so many chocolate bars, biscuits and cakes in my house EVER. Maybe it’s my body saying it needs more energy… well, that’s my excuse.

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Tuesday 22nd March

OK so we’re on day 5 post chemo, it’s March 22nd. I’m WAY too scared to tempt fate BUT I feel fine; bit sick, bit tired, the joys of a metallic mouth but I’m nowhere near as bad as I was the first or second time. I’m wondering if they’ve given me a bloody placebo… I doubt it, I’m not sure that would be something they’d do, but I do I feel fab. I’ve been up, showered, Bob on every day, I even walked the dog for half an hour today. But it’s with trepidation that I view this; I just don’t want to be disappointed or dead on my feet tomorrow.

This is definitely a life-changing experience and without doubt one that I very much needed.

I’ve had visitors galore, though. I know it sounds bad but I’ve booked them in for 2-hour slots. They arrive, I manage to make them tea or coffee, we chat, they leave and I don’t remember a thing they’ve said. I’m beginning to find this rather amusing – I’ve even told them all “I’ve no chance of remembering but please carry on regardless.” I find that I repeat myself constantly and am still forgetting words. Oh, the joy of chemo brain.

What is strange is that I don’t have any negative feelings at all at the moment. I feel like I’m clearing out some much overdue mental debris… but without actually doing anything. This is definitely a life-changing experience and without doubt one that I very much needed.

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This week has been something else. I’ve felt great. I spent Thursday at the seaside with a mate and it was fab. I’m convinced this cancer thing for me is about sorting things out, giving myself some headspace to work out what’s important and what’s not. I feel so calm. I feel so at peace with myself and I’m still grateful every day for my eyelashes. It’s such a weird thing to be grateful for but every morning I look in the mirror and say thank you.

Monday 28th March

Ten days post chemo and its March 28th, a perfect day to complete a 35-mile walk – arguably crazy but I’ve had the best chemo session ever. I’ve not felt particularly ill… nausea isn’t too bad. I’ve experienced the usual clogging up of my internals and I do feel more tired than I normally would do but honestly, it was a breeze in comparison to last time. It was a great day.

I literally had candlesticks at one point when I bent down to stretch my back out. 10/10 on the embarrassment scale.

Even though it chucked it down and we took a few wrong turns, we completed it within nine hours. It was a HUGE challenge with or without having chemo in your system but I did it. I did, however, seem to mislay my personality at about hour six and was virtually mute by the end.

My feet hurt, my brain had flatlined and all I could think about was BED. On the way round though, I can’t tell you how much I’d sniffed and how much my nose kept leaking… never experienced anything like that before. After I’d dribbled my way through 3 packets of tissues, I ended up having to ‘cuff’ it. Not a ladylike thing to do nor something I’ve ever done before but needs must at the end of the day. I literally had candlesticks at one point when I bent down to stretch my back out. 10/10 on the embarrassment scale. This has never happened to me before I just couldn’t quite work it out.

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The funniest moment though was in work on Wednesday. We’d started having a conversation about cancer and chemo, etc., and one of my team asked me whether I’d lost my ear hair because her grandad had. I did explain that females generally speaking don’t suffer from ear hairs. She then started talking about his nose and how that had gone too. I couldn’t stop laughing – not at her grandad but that’s clearly what had happened to me, wasn’t it? My nose hairs have vacated, hence the dribbly nose. The things they don’t tell you!!

Wednesday 30th March

It’s Wednesday 30 March. It’s the treatment halfway point and I’ve been for an ultrasound today after three sessions of chemo. I don’t really know what I expected. In fact, I just rocked up without really thinking about the appointment at all. I seriously cannot tell you just how I struggled to keep the tears back when they told me its shrunk by half. I’m literally delighted. I didn’t think it would be such great news. Halfway, half the size… thoroughly delighted. I feel like celebrating with a cup of tea.

How life has changed.

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