This morning, got up sluggishly, because I was stressed last night and took a tranquiliser, so therefore wasn’t functioning well. I don’t like taking them but when I’m worrying about the cancer I can’t sleep. If I’m at R’s, he is very restless at night now; linked or not I don’t know, but it makes my sleep even worse.
ANYWAY, couldn’t shower because of the dressing so again, washed. Facing the mirror, felt the lump. Now two again. &*9)+*????? This morning, I chose to see this as good. If it's fluid/blood, it will change and alter. By this evening however, I’m faltering again. I just wish it would go away. I’m at the point now, that if they tell me it’s a haematoma/seroma, I’d really like it drained. Not that what I want will make any difference. Treatment is set despite the patient’s wishes.
This evening my mum also phoned. I saw two missed calls on the phone so called her back. I have to be honest, I dread it. The tone of her voice, her lack of tact about how she asks me and doesn’t work her way up to it. The cancer is top of my list, but what I REALLY need from others is some normality. R is really good at this, and surprisingly, at the moment, so is I. They both just carry on, focusing on the now of daily life, which is a real relief. When I talk to my mum, I feel forced to support HER and to reassure HER. Really, really not fair. I’m certain I’m not a selfish person usually. I have no problem putting my own stuff aside to support others or empathising with how they feel. I can imagine how my poor mother feels; having a child with cancer must be awful. I don’t even want to THINK about I getting it. But right now, its me that has it and me that has to be brave. I’m waking up at night, scared I’m going to die; scared I’ll have to have a mastectomy. I really don’t think its unreasonable to expect my mother to try to be supportive of me right now. This makes me really fear another aspect of my mortality. If the fear of dying from cancer isn’t enough (the pain and suffering makes me sweat with fear) but I’ve also got to consider how I will help others with how they feel about it. I don’t resent having to do it for I. She’s my child and I expect to have to do it for her.
This really is just a wholly shitty situation. All I really want is to teach and live a modest life. WHY is this so much to ask?
Results day tomorrow. Is there any fucking wonder I’m going nuts?
Monday, 30 August 2010
31. Two become one...
Woke up yesterday morning, obsessively as always, felt the lump. No longer two. Now definitely one. What????
30. I am my breasts...
After two months waiting, Homebase are finally delivering my wardrobe. I was at R’s last night, so I had to get up early because for some unknown but very stupid reason, I’d arranged for delivery between 7.30am and lunchtime. WTF? We were up late the night before, sex is as good as ever I’m pleased to report, so dragging myself out of bed at 7am was not fun.
The wardrobe was delivered at 7.45. I went straight back to bed, not waking up again until 11ish. I couldn’t have a shower, because the dressing this time isn’t waterproof, so had to wash instead. Déjà vu. While washing, I watched my boob. It still looked a bit lumpy to the right of the scar. Unable to help myself, I felt it. Not quite as sore, I was able to prod and feel. Yep, still two lumps to the right. The tissue to the left, while firm, was not lumpy to the same degree. While feeling the lumps on the left, I felt something between the two of them move very slightly. Is this a good or a bad thing? Who the hell knows? Feeling fractionally more philosophical, I put my bra on again. While the bra is on, it’s very difficult to tell if the lump is there or not, so in a way, it prevents my obsessional prodding during the day. The new bra is such a hassle to get on and off, being so closely fitting, it prevents the OCD that I’m developing about my left breast. Perhaps that should have been the name of this bloody blog. Never mind male objectification defining me by my breasts, bloody cancer is definitely doing that. If my boobs are well, so am I.
The wardrobe was delivered at 7.45. I went straight back to bed, not waking up again until 11ish. I couldn’t have a shower, because the dressing this time isn’t waterproof, so had to wash instead. Déjà vu. While washing, I watched my boob. It still looked a bit lumpy to the right of the scar. Unable to help myself, I felt it. Not quite as sore, I was able to prod and feel. Yep, still two lumps to the right. The tissue to the left, while firm, was not lumpy to the same degree. While feeling the lumps on the left, I felt something between the two of them move very slightly. Is this a good or a bad thing? Who the hell knows? Feeling fractionally more philosophical, I put my bra on again. While the bra is on, it’s very difficult to tell if the lump is there or not, so in a way, it prevents my obsessional prodding during the day. The new bra is such a hassle to get on and off, being so closely fitting, it prevents the OCD that I’m developing about my left breast. Perhaps that should have been the name of this bloody blog. Never mind male objectification defining me by my breasts, bloody cancer is definitely doing that. If my boobs are well, so am I.
29. First sighting...
Had the wound dressed for the third time. Very nice practise nurse. Different one to last time. The wound is very clean and sealed. So good in fact that she took the steri strips (no stitches at all) off. It didn’t hurt at all although a couple pulled areas of the scab off causing a very small amount of localised bleeding.
I asked her again about the lumpiness. She also said fluid, but I wasn’t convinced. She was really nice but I got the impression she was trying to reassure me.
The worst bit about all of this is that I feel so much like I’m on my own. I could be developing / finding another lump and no one really seems to listen. I KNOW I’m neurotic about this but WHAT IF?
Later on today I went to get another bra. The one I had for hospital is OK, sensible, practical but I feel like I’m wearing my granny’s underwear. The assistant in Bravissimo was really young but very helpful. She suggested I try lots of stuff on to see what worked. I wanted a bra that supported the operated side, to support it, to reduce the chances of fluid building up. The assistant stayed in the room while I was changing. Given that so far only the nurses have seen my boob, not even R, I had a pang of self consciousness and didn’t know if I could but then thought, I’ve had bloody breast cancer, NO ONE wants it or chooses it and I really have nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. So I whipped off the bra and tried loads on. She made suggestions and we had a chat. Turned out she’d just qualified as a teacher but hadn’t managed to find a job yet. I finally settled on a bra that was rigidly supportive but not too tight on the smaller side and still just about manageable on the larger side.
The operated side has reduced by 3 cup sizes. Amazing, considering when my bra is on the difference doesn’t show. No wonder Mr H. (consultant) suggested a reduction. NOOOOO. I’ll have an implant instead AND a lift on the unaltered side. I like my big boobs and if I can come out of this with nicer boobs than before, so much the better!
I asked her again about the lumpiness. She also said fluid, but I wasn’t convinced. She was really nice but I got the impression she was trying to reassure me.
The worst bit about all of this is that I feel so much like I’m on my own. I could be developing / finding another lump and no one really seems to listen. I KNOW I’m neurotic about this but WHAT IF?
Later on today I went to get another bra. The one I had for hospital is OK, sensible, practical but I feel like I’m wearing my granny’s underwear. The assistant in Bravissimo was really young but very helpful. She suggested I try lots of stuff on to see what worked. I wanted a bra that supported the operated side, to support it, to reduce the chances of fluid building up. The assistant stayed in the room while I was changing. Given that so far only the nurses have seen my boob, not even R, I had a pang of self consciousness and didn’t know if I could but then thought, I’ve had bloody breast cancer, NO ONE wants it or chooses it and I really have nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. So I whipped off the bra and tried loads on. She made suggestions and we had a chat. Turned out she’d just qualified as a teacher but hadn’t managed to find a job yet. I finally settled on a bra that was rigidly supportive but not too tight on the smaller side and still just about manageable on the larger side.
The operated side has reduced by 3 cup sizes. Amazing, considering when my bra is on the difference doesn’t show. No wonder Mr H. (consultant) suggested a reduction. NOOOOO. I’ll have an implant instead AND a lift on the unaltered side. I like my big boobs and if I can come out of this with nicer boobs than before, so much the better!
28. Reassurance?
Since Tuesday and finding the lump, I’ve continually tried to reassure myself. My boob was making a weird watery noise that R described as a hot water bottle noise. The practise nurse agreed with the breast care nurse that it could be fluid. She also thought it might be milk ducts. Certainly, the lump is a different shape to the other one. Elongated. AND the area to the right of the lump is enlarged and lumpy too. But for goodness sake. I had surgery to remove the lump (or lumps if there was more than one).
S said that it could be a thing called a seroma. I read up on it online and a seroma is an accumulation of fluid that isn’t an infection and isn’t a haematoma. It SHOULD reabsorb on its own but sometimes they don’t and then they have to be drained. S had to have his seroma drained when he had his ops. I also looked on the RVI website and 1 in 3 patients having breast surgery develops a seroma. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, let this be all that is wrong. One thing that did occur to me, is that NO ONE at any point has warned me about this.
I know a lot of the news so far has been good, but honestly, at the moment I really feel like I could end it all myself. It just seems to be shock and stress, after shock and stress. If this is what life is going to be like now, I really don’t want much more of it.
S said that it could be a thing called a seroma. I read up on it online and a seroma is an accumulation of fluid that isn’t an infection and isn’t a haematoma. It SHOULD reabsorb on its own but sometimes they don’t and then they have to be drained. S had to have his seroma drained when he had his ops. I also looked on the RVI website and 1 in 3 patients having breast surgery develops a seroma. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, let this be all that is wrong. One thing that did occur to me, is that NO ONE at any point has warned me about this.
I know a lot of the news so far has been good, but honestly, at the moment I really feel like I could end it all myself. It just seems to be shock and stress, after shock and stress. If this is what life is going to be like now, I really don’t want much more of it.
27. One step forwards, several back
Tuesday. 5 days post op. GCSE results day.
I’m still at home so I got up early, to get in to school for 9am. This day has been my target and what I’ve looked forward to, throughout all of the nightmare. I had my first shower. BLISS! While I was drying my hair I left my bra off, which meant I looked at my boob. Which led to feeling it. And time stopped. Another lump.
No thoughts other than terror.
I tried to go to school but while I was driving I started crying. Not only was I not up to going to school but I couldn’t drive. I was going past R’s so instead I turned the car around and went to his. Entry one, two months ago, repeated. Tears. Terror.
I sent S a message explaining I couldn’t come in. Not a problem obviously, but then she started sending me messages telling me how some of my kids had done. Not a total distraction but a bit. And then she phoned, giving me lots more info. The more I knew, the more I wanted to be there to see them. So R drove me in. It wasn’t the joyous day it should have been and it really should have been because nearly all of my pupils had done really well. This FUCKING cancer. But at least I went and at least I saw them.
Later on, I phoned the breast care nurse line. Three times with no reply. I was becoming hysterical so I phoned the consultants secretary. She said she’d speak to him and get back to me. Eventually the breast care nurse phoned back. She tried to reassure me but it didn’t help really. She said I could be examined when I went for my follow up appointment next Tuesday (WAITING another week again. Am I waiting to die really?!) but that I’d have no more scans or mammograms. I feel like I’m dying again.
I’m still at home so I got up early, to get in to school for 9am. This day has been my target and what I’ve looked forward to, throughout all of the nightmare. I had my first shower. BLISS! While I was drying my hair I left my bra off, which meant I looked at my boob. Which led to feeling it. And time stopped. Another lump.
No thoughts other than terror.
I tried to go to school but while I was driving I started crying. Not only was I not up to going to school but I couldn’t drive. I was going past R’s so instead I turned the car around and went to his. Entry one, two months ago, repeated. Tears. Terror.
I sent S a message explaining I couldn’t come in. Not a problem obviously, but then she started sending me messages telling me how some of my kids had done. Not a total distraction but a bit. And then she phoned, giving me lots more info. The more I knew, the more I wanted to be there to see them. So R drove me in. It wasn’t the joyous day it should have been and it really should have been because nearly all of my pupils had done really well. This FUCKING cancer. But at least I went and at least I saw them.
Later on, I phoned the breast care nurse line. Three times with no reply. I was becoming hysterical so I phoned the consultants secretary. She said she’d speak to him and get back to me. Eventually the breast care nurse phoned back. She tried to reassure me but it didn’t help really. She said I could be examined when I went for my follow up appointment next Tuesday (WAITING another week again. Am I waiting to die really?!) but that I’d have no more scans or mammograms. I feel like I’m dying again.
26. One week post-op
Well. It’s been a bit of a week since my op. SO much has happened that I can’t really believe so little time has passed.
On the very plus side, I is much more sorted out and happier. I can see now that she was just really scared and stressed. Bless her. I’m speaking to her most days (at her insistence). She is SO much better I feel quite guilty about how awful she must have been feeling. Her Facebook messages have been very random but still all related to me and the cancer, so it’s obviously been foremost in her mind. I’ve had a bit of a baking binge on lately so sent her some cheese straws. Her next request is Yorkshire puddings. In the post; they’d be like rocks!
R had a bit of a blip, not sure what was going on, and he’s so reticent about what he’s thinking and feeling that I’m still not really sure. Anyway, he was so weird that I went home for 4 days. No real big deal, although it was quite hard being on my own so soon after an op. I felt quite surreal really. I was initially very nervous of my boob but there was no real reason. I had no problems with it. No real soreness. I was wearing my big supportive bra, bought specially for after the op. Fine in the house but outside it made me feel alternately like someone’s granny or like an invalid.
So. No real pain. Fear of the unknown for a wound really, never having had one before. The wound was dressed by the nurse on Saturday. I had no intention of looking at it because I’m ridiculously squeamish at the best of times and this was hardly that. Still. I did. And it was OK. A bit of a shock, but no where near as bad as it could have been. And given that this was only 2 days post op, not bad at all really. The shape of my boob has actually been improved by the op. It has been pulled up a bit so is far less saggy than the right side. My nipple is facing forwards for the first time in 20 years. Yes, the bruising is bad, and the blue die is unsightly, but they’re temporary. There IS a flat area where the tumour was removed. But looking at it, from the front AND sideways, it is obvious to even the uninformed that this would be really easily corrected by a small implant. Hey! Good news! Of course, they’re no longer a matching pair, but now I’m not scared of surgery anymore, having them balanced out is something I think I’ll go for.
IF. Big if. IF I don’t need a mastectomy. But how cool is that? That my biggest fear now has to be that of having my boob removed? Because it looks as if the lymph nodes ARE clear, so if they are, it probably won’t have spread elsewhere into a secondary cancer.
On the very plus side, I is much more sorted out and happier. I can see now that she was just really scared and stressed. Bless her. I’m speaking to her most days (at her insistence). She is SO much better I feel quite guilty about how awful she must have been feeling. Her Facebook messages have been very random but still all related to me and the cancer, so it’s obviously been foremost in her mind. I’ve had a bit of a baking binge on lately so sent her some cheese straws. Her next request is Yorkshire puddings. In the post; they’d be like rocks!
R had a bit of a blip, not sure what was going on, and he’s so reticent about what he’s thinking and feeling that I’m still not really sure. Anyway, he was so weird that I went home for 4 days. No real big deal, although it was quite hard being on my own so soon after an op. I felt quite surreal really. I was initially very nervous of my boob but there was no real reason. I had no problems with it. No real soreness. I was wearing my big supportive bra, bought specially for after the op. Fine in the house but outside it made me feel alternately like someone’s granny or like an invalid.
So. No real pain. Fear of the unknown for a wound really, never having had one before. The wound was dressed by the nurse on Saturday. I had no intention of looking at it because I’m ridiculously squeamish at the best of times and this was hardly that. Still. I did. And it was OK. A bit of a shock, but no where near as bad as it could have been. And given that this was only 2 days post op, not bad at all really. The shape of my boob has actually been improved by the op. It has been pulled up a bit so is far less saggy than the right side. My nipple is facing forwards for the first time in 20 years. Yes, the bruising is bad, and the blue die is unsightly, but they’re temporary. There IS a flat area where the tumour was removed. But looking at it, from the front AND sideways, it is obvious to even the uninformed that this would be really easily corrected by a small implant. Hey! Good news! Of course, they’re no longer a matching pair, but now I’m not scared of surgery anymore, having them balanced out is something I think I’ll go for.
IF. Big if. IF I don’t need a mastectomy. But how cool is that? That my biggest fear now has to be that of having my boob removed? Because it looks as if the lymph nodes ARE clear, so if they are, it probably won’t have spread elsewhere into a secondary cancer.
Friday, 20 August 2010
25. Home
Leaving was good. Getting home was better. Looking at my boob isn't nice. It's shrunken, flat at the top, lumpy and black and blue. But the nipple is still sensitive, so, success!
The very, very best bit though, is knowing that despite being sore and ugly that the lump that I have HATED over the last month is gone. My sore, ugly, relatively little (only in comparison to the other one admittedly) boob is something I can love. Because for the last month its been the enemy and it isn't anymore. :-)
The very, very best bit though, is knowing that despite being sore and ugly that the lump that I have HATED over the last month is gone. My sore, ugly, relatively little (only in comparison to the other one admittedly) boob is something I can love. Because for the last month its been the enemy and it isn't anymore. :-)
24. Operation
Well. A memorable day.
I had to be there at 7.30am. We were there with very little time to spare, found the ward. We sat and waited to be called. I looked at the women around me. Mostly older. As they got called through, I heard that most of them were day cases. I BURNED with jealousy. Why me?
We were shown into a ward which had recliners in it. It looked like the Nuffield's chemo room. Not a proper ward, which, strangely, was unsettling. It didn't look like a proper hospital room.
Most of the other patients (inmates?) were chatty. I couldn't join in. I know I'm antisocial but I couldn't make an effort under these circumstances. One woman was there for her sixth operation, which she also called her last chance. I really, really didn't want to hear it.
First the surgeon came round. I'd never met him before but by this point I was too far gone to register any feeling about this one way or the other. Next the anaesthetist came and I remembered to ask for a premed.
Blood was taken, with no problem, thank goodness, then the bit I'd been scared about all week, having the radioactive dye injected into the lump. It was fine. A really fine needle. I was back on the ward by 9.30. At 10.00 I sent R off to get a drink and have something to eat. The nurse had said I'd be fourth on the list so I assumed I'd have hours to wait. 10.10 she was back, doing my paperwork because number three had gone in. I asked for my premed, which she brought about 30 mins later. I was starting to panic that it wouldn't have time to work before I went to theatre.
She put me on a trolley, in case I fell asleep. I was far too wired for that! R came back and I listened to music. Time ticked on. I dozed (OK, I was wrong) off and on. At 1.10, only 10 mins later than the original estimate, they came for me.
The trolley was wheeled down the corridors, and it WAS just like it appears on the TV. I still wasn't freaking out and hoped I'd be able to keep it up until I'd been given the anaesthetic. Into the anaesthetic room, which wasn't patient friendly and non threatening like the Nuffield one. After an initial glance around, I determined not to look and instead focused on my pulse rate (which has gone up since I stopped going to the gym). The anaesthetist came, I asked for a local injection where the canula was going, he reluctantly agreed and didn't give the local time to work but the canula didn't hurt too much anyway.
And... one minute I was there and the next I was coming out of a dream in the recovery room. As easily as that. Not terrifying. One minute I was there. There next I was gone. Simple as.
As I came round, my boob hurt, so they put more morphine in the canula. It still hurt, but the nurse said they'd give me codeine on the ward. I felt amazingly fine. Awake. Alert.
It was about 5 when I was wheeled back to the ward. I still felt OK. I sat up, still feeling good. I considered painting my toe nails (note to K!) but couldn't reach my bag. I needed the loo but they wouldn't let me get out of bed to go, so (same as after I'd given birth) I determined to wait. No bedpans!
At 6, R arrived and I got a cup of tea. Which was amazingly delicious. Which then came back up. After 30 mins I felt better and he went and got me an iced lolly (hangover cure!) which was lovely. Which came back up. After that I slept. I vaguely remember telling him to leave at 7.30 because he was sitting there while I slept and he'd had as long a day as I had.
I woke up at 9, puzzled that it was still light, at 12.30am. At some point I'd phoned my daughter. Later in the night, someone fell on me. Not much later the ward woke up again. Breakfast came and went, but I felt ill so continued sleeping. The consultant came round and prescribed more anti sickness med. He also said that the lymph nodes looked clear, that the lump had been bigger than they thought (it HAD grown) but that he thought he'd got it all. Fabulous news! After he'd gone the nurse and I decided that extra anti sickness med would probably not make any difference.
Finally, at 11 I woke up properly, with a headache that felt like a migraine was coming. The nurse gave me IV paracetamol and I took some codeine which seemed to help a bit. Gradually, gradually, over the next hour and a half I felt better. Until finally, I felt like me again. BUT euphoric! The news was as good as it could be at that point.
I had to be there at 7.30am. We were there with very little time to spare, found the ward. We sat and waited to be called. I looked at the women around me. Mostly older. As they got called through, I heard that most of them were day cases. I BURNED with jealousy. Why me?
We were shown into a ward which had recliners in it. It looked like the Nuffield's chemo room. Not a proper ward, which, strangely, was unsettling. It didn't look like a proper hospital room.
Most of the other patients (inmates?) were chatty. I couldn't join in. I know I'm antisocial but I couldn't make an effort under these circumstances. One woman was there for her sixth operation, which she also called her last chance. I really, really didn't want to hear it.
First the surgeon came round. I'd never met him before but by this point I was too far gone to register any feeling about this one way or the other. Next the anaesthetist came and I remembered to ask for a premed.
Blood was taken, with no problem, thank goodness, then the bit I'd been scared about all week, having the radioactive dye injected into the lump. It was fine. A really fine needle. I was back on the ward by 9.30. At 10.00 I sent R off to get a drink and have something to eat. The nurse had said I'd be fourth on the list so I assumed I'd have hours to wait. 10.10 she was back, doing my paperwork because number three had gone in. I asked for my premed, which she brought about 30 mins later. I was starting to panic that it wouldn't have time to work before I went to theatre.
She put me on a trolley, in case I fell asleep. I was far too wired for that! R came back and I listened to music. Time ticked on. I dozed (OK, I was wrong) off and on. At 1.10, only 10 mins later than the original estimate, they came for me.
The trolley was wheeled down the corridors, and it WAS just like it appears on the TV. I still wasn't freaking out and hoped I'd be able to keep it up until I'd been given the anaesthetic. Into the anaesthetic room, which wasn't patient friendly and non threatening like the Nuffield one. After an initial glance around, I determined not to look and instead focused on my pulse rate (which has gone up since I stopped going to the gym). The anaesthetist came, I asked for a local injection where the canula was going, he reluctantly agreed and didn't give the local time to work but the canula didn't hurt too much anyway.
And... one minute I was there and the next I was coming out of a dream in the recovery room. As easily as that. Not terrifying. One minute I was there. There next I was gone. Simple as.
As I came round, my boob hurt, so they put more morphine in the canula. It still hurt, but the nurse said they'd give me codeine on the ward. I felt amazingly fine. Awake. Alert.
It was about 5 when I was wheeled back to the ward. I still felt OK. I sat up, still feeling good. I considered painting my toe nails (note to K!) but couldn't reach my bag. I needed the loo but they wouldn't let me get out of bed to go, so (same as after I'd given birth) I determined to wait. No bedpans!
At 6, R arrived and I got a cup of tea. Which was amazingly delicious. Which then came back up. After 30 mins I felt better and he went and got me an iced lolly (hangover cure!) which was lovely. Which came back up. After that I slept. I vaguely remember telling him to leave at 7.30 because he was sitting there while I slept and he'd had as long a day as I had.
I woke up at 9, puzzled that it was still light, at 12.30am. At some point I'd phoned my daughter. Later in the night, someone fell on me. Not much later the ward woke up again. Breakfast came and went, but I felt ill so continued sleeping. The consultant came round and prescribed more anti sickness med. He also said that the lymph nodes looked clear, that the lump had been bigger than they thought (it HAD grown) but that he thought he'd got it all. Fabulous news! After he'd gone the nurse and I decided that extra anti sickness med would probably not make any difference.
Finally, at 11 I woke up properly, with a headache that felt like a migraine was coming. The nurse gave me IV paracetamol and I took some codeine which seemed to help a bit. Gradually, gradually, over the next hour and a half I felt better. Until finally, I felt like me again. BUT euphoric! The news was as good as it could be at that point.
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
23. The big day
Flippant title. And actually I'm fairly calm. Only because I'm not thinking about it. Once I do, I'll be terrified.
Please don't let it be any bigger. And please don't let it have spread.
What they are going to do today:
1) Inject dye into the lump to check where it may have spread to
2) Take the lump (lumps?) out
3) Take some lymph glands to test
4) Take all the lymph glands on my left side if there is any trace of cancer in them.
Right. Time to go. Deep breath.
Please don't let it be any bigger. And please don't let it have spread.
What they are going to do today:
1) Inject dye into the lump to check where it may have spread to
2) Take the lump (lumps?) out
3) Take some lymph glands to test
4) Take all the lymph glands on my left side if there is any trace of cancer in them.
Right. Time to go. Deep breath.
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
22. Imagining things?
I've found another lump. Attached to the first lump. At least I think I have. I'm too scared to feel again. IF there is another lump, it has grown in the time I've been waiting, helplessly, impotently, for my NHS operation. It's almost 2 months since I found the lump in the first place. Common sense tells me that this is FAR too long to wait, despite the reassurances of the nurse and the consultant ('it's probably been there a year'). Of course, I've thought I've found a 2nd lump before AND I know my boobs change, depending on the time of the month (I think I'm premenstral at the moment, I've lost track). And of course my op. is now just over a day away. So I'm stressed to fuck and scared.
But now I'm fucking angry. The NHS/state is able to take risks with my life. It's ridiculous. I'm 45. I'm too young to be facing death like this. Two months is a ridiculous amount of time to have to live with it. Not that it will be over after the op. I'll still have to wait to see if it has spread and IF it has, I'll then have to wait again to have a mastectomy. Pretty inhumane. I think I'm going to have to talk to the doctor about some valium because I feel pretty close to the edge now...
I'm getting to the point where I'm trying to mentally prepare myself for the news that I'll also need a mastectomy because I'm becoming certain that that will be the case. I'm starting to have a nasty feeling that I may be told that despite treatment, it may end up being terminal.
I really can't believe that 2 months ago, the only thing I had to worry about was writing a scheme of work for school, sorting coursework and booking a holiday. This is someone else's life and it is shit.
Oh yeah. Pre-assessment yesterday. It was OK. I started off terrified but it wasn't too bad. Lots of waiting around. Tests. Examinations. My veins disappeared, so taking blood was a problem. Ace. I've always had really prominent veins. Great time to get shy, right before chemo starts and frys them completely.
But now I'm fucking angry. The NHS/state is able to take risks with my life. It's ridiculous. I'm 45. I'm too young to be facing death like this. Two months is a ridiculous amount of time to have to live with it. Not that it will be over after the op. I'll still have to wait to see if it has spread and IF it has, I'll then have to wait again to have a mastectomy. Pretty inhumane. I think I'm going to have to talk to the doctor about some valium because I feel pretty close to the edge now...
I'm getting to the point where I'm trying to mentally prepare myself for the news that I'll also need a mastectomy because I'm becoming certain that that will be the case. I'm starting to have a nasty feeling that I may be told that despite treatment, it may end up being terminal.
I really can't believe that 2 months ago, the only thing I had to worry about was writing a scheme of work for school, sorting coursework and booking a holiday. This is someone else's life and it is shit.
Oh yeah. Pre-assessment yesterday. It was OK. I started off terrified but it wasn't too bad. Lots of waiting around. Tests. Examinations. My veins disappeared, so taking blood was a problem. Ace. I've always had really prominent veins. Great time to get shy, right before chemo starts and frys them completely.
Sunday, 15 August 2010
21. Low level anxiety
3 days...
The absolute worst thing about this (well, probably not really but...) is the looming sense of disaster or threat in the background of EVERYTHING I do. Movies; fear. Cooking; fear. Reading; deferred fear that slams back when I come to, every few moments.
I can rationalise the threat. Most women survive, actually the worst that I really should be worried about is a mastectomy, not much longer to wait. I can even rationalise dying; we all do it in the end, no worry about pensions (and this actually WOULD be a plus - bloody polititicians in a supposed welfare state have a lot to answer for when the option of dying from cancer HELPS remove the pension worry), I've actually got some money to leave I, as well as finding her a replacement parent that she loves and would probably be better for her than I am. But at the root of everything I can condition myself into is fear. It's shit. It is tainting everything I do.
The absolute worst thing about this (well, probably not really but...) is the looming sense of disaster or threat in the background of EVERYTHING I do. Movies; fear. Cooking; fear. Reading; deferred fear that slams back when I come to, every few moments.
I can rationalise the threat. Most women survive, actually the worst that I really should be worried about is a mastectomy, not much longer to wait. I can even rationalise dying; we all do it in the end, no worry about pensions (and this actually WOULD be a plus - bloody polititicians in a supposed welfare state have a lot to answer for when the option of dying from cancer HELPS remove the pension worry), I've actually got some money to leave I, as well as finding her a replacement parent that she loves and would probably be better for her than I am. But at the root of everything I can condition myself into is fear. It's shit. It is tainting everything I do.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
20. Tentative tendrils of reconcilliation?
In the post today, a book of receipes for chemo patients from I. I was very touched. Looked very sensible; addressed practical issues such as the desire for hot or cold foods, texture and smell. I already know smell is an issue when feeling ill because my sense of smell is hugely hightened when I'm about to get a migraine.
I made some biscuits and posted them to her. She has always had a thing about me cooking for her. I hope they help. I also posted S a tube of anti-wrinkle cream. It's getting a bit late (Hi S!) to repair the damage there but one can but try! (you know you love me really XXX)
I made some biscuits and posted them to her. She has always had a thing about me cooking for her. I hope they help. I also posted S a tube of anti-wrinkle cream. It's getting a bit late (Hi S!) to repair the damage there but one can but try! (you know you love me really XXX)
19. Looming
7 days and counting.
When I think about the actual hospital admission, I get scared. I'm NOT scared of having the lumpectomy. I HATE the lump being there. I feel sorry for my poor boob but while the lumps there, I don't want to touch my breast, to see it; I try to forget it's there. It's slightly bigger than the healthy one and this pisses me off too.
What is weird is that despite having cancer, having my relationship with my daughter wrecked (hopefully only temporarily) and losing the structure, identity and sense of purpose that goes with my work, not to mention the fear of a mastectomy (and ultimately, despite trying to ignore it, of dying) I STILL keep having moments of sheer happiness. I have NO idea why. Maybe I appreciate life a bit more now.
Yesterday, we went on a boat on the Tyne. At one point it was really sunny; hot on my skin. It was blissful. Later, I was reading on the bed and the sun came through the window, creating that intense orange light that you usually only get abroad (magnified by the glass of course) and I absolutely revelled in it.
I think the really scary bit is going to be the 12 days between the lumpectomy and hearing whether or not I need a mastectomy. I really should be dealing with this possibilty now because otherwise it will hit me like a ton of bricks and I won't have long to process it.
When I think about the actual hospital admission, I get scared. I'm NOT scared of having the lumpectomy. I HATE the lump being there. I feel sorry for my poor boob but while the lumps there, I don't want to touch my breast, to see it; I try to forget it's there. It's slightly bigger than the healthy one and this pisses me off too.
What is weird is that despite having cancer, having my relationship with my daughter wrecked (hopefully only temporarily) and losing the structure, identity and sense of purpose that goes with my work, not to mention the fear of a mastectomy (and ultimately, despite trying to ignore it, of dying) I STILL keep having moments of sheer happiness. I have NO idea why. Maybe I appreciate life a bit more now.
Yesterday, we went on a boat on the Tyne. At one point it was really sunny; hot on my skin. It was blissful. Later, I was reading on the bed and the sun came through the window, creating that intense orange light that you usually only get abroad (magnified by the glass of course) and I absolutely revelled in it.
I think the really scary bit is going to be the 12 days between the lumpectomy and hearing whether or not I need a mastectomy. I really should be dealing with this possibilty now because otherwise it will hit me like a ton of bricks and I won't have long to process it.
Monday, 9 August 2010
18. Hmmmm
Message from I in the night. Good friends of ours from Spain are in East Anglia visiting. Given that I’m supposed to be going back to see family and I before I have surgery (next week then), the timing is good. EXCEPT since the Facebook comment I haven’t been communicating with I. I decide that it will be good to put this aside though and text her back. I tell her that she and R have to be on their best behaviour because I can’t take the stress of them bickering. She kicks off again.
Her main issue is that I’m putting R before her. I’ve made clear its not just her, that he will have to keep his mouth shut too but she doesn’t hear me. I know I’ve made big mistakes with her in the past, but I would have thought that she could see that what I’m facing is a pretty big deal and drop it. Obviously this isn’t the case.
Two or three messages later I decide that not only am I not going home to visit, that I will, at least temporarily have to break off contact with her. I CAN’T have my state of mind so off kilter before bloody life changing surgery.
The main thing I’m thinking/feeling is that I’m surprised that she is unable to support me when I really need her to. I really thought she was a better person than this. Putting aside the hurt, its making me reassess her as a person. She obviously isn’t who I thought she was.
Hmm. Food for thought.
I didn’t tell R about any of this, because he was angry enough about the Facebook comment. He could obviously tell that I was upset anyway though, because he gave me a huge hug. I had a good cry and then felt better. I can’t believe it really. I feel as if I’ve judged everybody wrong, the heroes aren’t the people I thought they were and love and respect seem to be everywhere, apart from the places I assumed they were.
Her main issue is that I’m putting R before her. I’ve made clear its not just her, that he will have to keep his mouth shut too but she doesn’t hear me. I know I’ve made big mistakes with her in the past, but I would have thought that she could see that what I’m facing is a pretty big deal and drop it. Obviously this isn’t the case.
Two or three messages later I decide that not only am I not going home to visit, that I will, at least temporarily have to break off contact with her. I CAN’T have my state of mind so off kilter before bloody life changing surgery.
The main thing I’m thinking/feeling is that I’m surprised that she is unable to support me when I really need her to. I really thought she was a better person than this. Putting aside the hurt, its making me reassess her as a person. She obviously isn’t who I thought she was.
Hmm. Food for thought.
I didn’t tell R about any of this, because he was angry enough about the Facebook comment. He could obviously tell that I was upset anyway though, because he gave me a huge hug. I had a good cry and then felt better. I can’t believe it really. I feel as if I’ve judged everybody wrong, the heroes aren’t the people I thought they were and love and respect seem to be everywhere, apart from the places I assumed they were.
17. Love and happiness
Wedding to go to today. Dress hanging up. Nice, MAY be a bit old for me, but covers the fat bits, not so low cut I’ll never wear it again if/when I’m breastless and goes in at my thinnest, or should I say least fat, bit. It was nice, getting ready with no rush. For once, a good hair day. I thought I looked OK once dressed.
Got to Morpeth OK. Found the church but nowhere to park. After driving around, we found somewhere miles away. Not a big problem apart from sore feet from the heels by the time we’d walked there.
Nice little church. Pretty. Not overly ornate. The service was lovely too. It was predictable that I’d cry. I’m usually pretty jaded about marriage, but H is very sensible and seems to have made a mature choice. I’d give the pair of them better odds than most people I’ve seen get wed over the last few years. It WAS very sweet, the groom crying as he caught sight of his bride. Started me off anyway.
It was a nice service. Not too formal, little human blips that made it more of a personal event than a formal performance. Unfortunately, it started to rain as they were trying to take photographs. I was determined I wasn’t getting my hair wet walking back to the car.
In between the wedding and the evening reception, R had a house warming to go to. It was OK. Couple of aging hippies with a prefab in the middle of nowhere. I had no option, other than to get pissed on Pims. It made it bearable, getting stuck with the raddled something addict of an ex teacher Scouser who pontificated about teaching, despite obviously no longer working.
The evening reception was good. Table of work friends and acquaintances. I was desperate to sober up because even before I got there, I could feel a headache starting. S was there with her enormous, healthy pregnancy. H was bouncing around, indefatigable. J turned up with her new husband and gorgeous baby too. It should have been really nice but frankly, being with them just reminded me that my normal life, of work, socialising, kids and PURPOSE was, if not gone, at the very least on hold for the next six months or so.
The one thing that this bloody cancer has done is put my priorities into order. Before I found the lump I was prevaricating about going abroad with the VSO. As soon as I found out I’d got cancer, the things that I worried about were my daughter, R and the kids at school. Given that I’ve been in tears about I and my year 11 kids almost daily, I’m not really that bothered that I can’t go off to Africa/India/South America anymore.
Got to Morpeth OK. Found the church but nowhere to park. After driving around, we found somewhere miles away. Not a big problem apart from sore feet from the heels by the time we’d walked there.
Nice little church. Pretty. Not overly ornate. The service was lovely too. It was predictable that I’d cry. I’m usually pretty jaded about marriage, but H is very sensible and seems to have made a mature choice. I’d give the pair of them better odds than most people I’ve seen get wed over the last few years. It WAS very sweet, the groom crying as he caught sight of his bride. Started me off anyway.
It was a nice service. Not too formal, little human blips that made it more of a personal event than a formal performance. Unfortunately, it started to rain as they were trying to take photographs. I was determined I wasn’t getting my hair wet walking back to the car.
In between the wedding and the evening reception, R had a house warming to go to. It was OK. Couple of aging hippies with a prefab in the middle of nowhere. I had no option, other than to get pissed on Pims. It made it bearable, getting stuck with the raddled something addict of an ex teacher Scouser who pontificated about teaching, despite obviously no longer working.
The evening reception was good. Table of work friends and acquaintances. I was desperate to sober up because even before I got there, I could feel a headache starting. S was there with her enormous, healthy pregnancy. H was bouncing around, indefatigable. J turned up with her new husband and gorgeous baby too. It should have been really nice but frankly, being with them just reminded me that my normal life, of work, socialising, kids and PURPOSE was, if not gone, at the very least on hold for the next six months or so.
The one thing that this bloody cancer has done is put my priorities into order. Before I found the lump I was prevaricating about going abroad with the VSO. As soon as I found out I’d got cancer, the things that I worried about were my daughter, R and the kids at school. Given that I’ve been in tears about I and my year 11 kids almost daily, I’m not really that bothered that I can’t go off to Africa/India/South America anymore.
16. The ties that bind
I’ve been worried about I ever since we got back from holiday. She didn’t really try to discuss the cancer with me and I tried not to worry her. It concerns me that she’s so far away and that she may have no one to talk to about things.
So. I’ve been texting her. Tried to phone her yesterday but she said she was napping. Up to her if she doesn’t want to talk I guess. I thought it was best to stay in touch though, just in case.
Called S (aka the surrogate) to get his opinion, which was to call. Had a really nice chat. Who’dve thought, he’d turn out to be such as great friend? He made me laugh so hard I started to wet myself. Good friend indeed, Tena Lady notwithstanding.
So again, I phoned. 40 mins of stressy nagging. She thinks I’m downplaying the cancer, which I suppose I am. Not that I’ve withheld any details. I’ve just tried to spare her my 4am fears. I think though, this has sent her in the opposite direction. She’s been searching online and seems to have picked up random incorrect information. Such as I can’t have sex while having chemo and radio therapy. Which MAY be a problem for women having treatment for cancer somewhere in the lower abdomen, but which the sites say isn’t an issue for women with breast cancer. She also thinks I’m being stupid, not asking the doctor the right questions. Maybe. But I’ve asked MY questions.
ANYWAY, I’d had enough of our high stress conversation so called time on it. 2 minutes later (I found it 30 mins later) on Facebook, a long rambling status update, which included a statement about her mother having cancer. Talk about a slap in the face. It’s MY cancer. Yes it affects her and yes I’m happy for her to talk to others about it but not a blanket announcement.
So what I need to do now I think is distance myself from her a little bit. It is REALLY FUCKING hard keeping myself bobbing along on the surface, making sure my mood doesn’t slip too low, without being dragged under the waves by others, even if the other is my child. Harsh maybe, but also a survival necessity I think.
UPDATE
Didn’t mention this to R because frankly I didn’t want to hear about it. Went into work this morning, had a fairly productive day AFTER I’d got IT to unblock my access, borrowed a key to get through doors I no longer have a key to (given it to the supply teacher), found a working printer and waded my way through the mess in my room.
On the way home I was actually feeling quite good. I stopped off, posted ALL the kids coursework back to them (£12 of postage!) AND returned some of the dresses I’d ordered from mail order (don’t know why people do it. So much hassle returning them).
I stopped and got a drink and drove home the rest of the way, loud music on, speeding (come on, I’ve got cancer, surely fate isn’t going to toss a car crash in too?) and feeling that lovely buoyant mood brought on by productiveness, independence and clement weather. R was in when I got back, which was nice UNTIL he mentioned the Facebook thing. And went on. And on. My mood was slipping; I could feel it leaving the room. So I did too. Anti-social? Yes. Do I care? Do I fuck. 30 minutes reading started it on the upward slope again, thank goodness. God, is it really too much to ask that people consider what they say, just temporarily?
So. I’ve been texting her. Tried to phone her yesterday but she said she was napping. Up to her if she doesn’t want to talk I guess. I thought it was best to stay in touch though, just in case.
Called S (aka the surrogate) to get his opinion, which was to call. Had a really nice chat. Who’dve thought, he’d turn out to be such as great friend? He made me laugh so hard I started to wet myself. Good friend indeed, Tena Lady notwithstanding.
So again, I phoned. 40 mins of stressy nagging. She thinks I’m downplaying the cancer, which I suppose I am. Not that I’ve withheld any details. I’ve just tried to spare her my 4am fears. I think though, this has sent her in the opposite direction. She’s been searching online and seems to have picked up random incorrect information. Such as I can’t have sex while having chemo and radio therapy. Which MAY be a problem for women having treatment for cancer somewhere in the lower abdomen, but which the sites say isn’t an issue for women with breast cancer. She also thinks I’m being stupid, not asking the doctor the right questions. Maybe. But I’ve asked MY questions.
ANYWAY, I’d had enough of our high stress conversation so called time on it. 2 minutes later (I found it 30 mins later) on Facebook, a long rambling status update, which included a statement about her mother having cancer. Talk about a slap in the face. It’s MY cancer. Yes it affects her and yes I’m happy for her to talk to others about it but not a blanket announcement.
So what I need to do now I think is distance myself from her a little bit. It is REALLY FUCKING hard keeping myself bobbing along on the surface, making sure my mood doesn’t slip too low, without being dragged under the waves by others, even if the other is my child. Harsh maybe, but also a survival necessity I think.
UPDATE
Didn’t mention this to R because frankly I didn’t want to hear about it. Went into work this morning, had a fairly productive day AFTER I’d got IT to unblock my access, borrowed a key to get through doors I no longer have a key to (given it to the supply teacher), found a working printer and waded my way through the mess in my room.
On the way home I was actually feeling quite good. I stopped off, posted ALL the kids coursework back to them (£12 of postage!) AND returned some of the dresses I’d ordered from mail order (don’t know why people do it. So much hassle returning them).
I stopped and got a drink and drove home the rest of the way, loud music on, speeding (come on, I’ve got cancer, surely fate isn’t going to toss a car crash in too?) and feeling that lovely buoyant mood brought on by productiveness, independence and clement weather. R was in when I got back, which was nice UNTIL he mentioned the Facebook thing. And went on. And on. My mood was slipping; I could feel it leaving the room. So I did too. Anti-social? Yes. Do I care? Do I fuck. 30 minutes reading started it on the upward slope again, thank goodness. God, is it really too much to ask that people consider what they say, just temporarily?
15. Material girl
Well. Shopping (yet again) yesterday. God knows why. I keep telling myself that I shouldn't be buying clothes. I'm at my top weight at the moment and plan to diet after the op (and am assuming, probably foolishly, that the chemo will make me lose weight. Please god let me vomit and lose my appetite. Am I mad?) AND even if I have a lumpectomy will still have a change in my shape.
This makes no difference. So I bought clothes in Monsoon and M&S. THEN a courier delivered the 8 dresses I ordered last week online. On top of the 3 that are waiting to go back to John Lewis.
This is very out of character. Normally I buy occasionally and only when I'm in need. I'm not sure if it’s a 'feast, for tomorrow we die...' attitude or just a distraction. The (new) top I went out in last night was so low cut it was showing off my (new) bra. I ask you. New bras. WHY????? That is the part of me that will without doubt be changing in one way or another.
Whatever. Maybe I should just be glad I'm OKish. If nothing else, I'm still VERY up for sex. As usual. Boringly so in fact. Premature menopause induced by chemo might be a welcome relief. What a stereotype. Randy middle aged woman.
This makes no difference. So I bought clothes in Monsoon and M&S. THEN a courier delivered the 8 dresses I ordered last week online. On top of the 3 that are waiting to go back to John Lewis.
This is very out of character. Normally I buy occasionally and only when I'm in need. I'm not sure if it’s a 'feast, for tomorrow we die...' attitude or just a distraction. The (new) top I went out in last night was so low cut it was showing off my (new) bra. I ask you. New bras. WHY????? That is the part of me that will without doubt be changing in one way or another.
Whatever. Maybe I should just be glad I'm OKish. If nothing else, I'm still VERY up for sex. As usual. Boringly so in fact. Premature menopause induced by chemo might be a welcome relief. What a stereotype. Randy middle aged woman.
14. Family ties
The minute she got off the train, I wanted to tell her. I wanted it out of the way and to be able to move on from it. I was terrified that she’d be hysterical, given that she was a nervous wreck for two days when we had to have the cat put down.
S met us at a pub nearby and took us back to his. He made tea and prodded me to go in to the lounge to tell her. She half guessed when I told her not to panic and was very strange. No hysterics, no out of control reaction. S was there and backed up what I was saying about it being curable and she seemed to accept it.
The next morning, my mum called. Since I’d told I, I decided, on the spot I should tell my mum and did. I knew what her reaction would be and sure enough… I told her to calm down and that I’d be fine. I told her I needed to stay calm so everyone else had to. Which to her credit she did. I really wish it hadn’t been necessary though.
From that point on it was weird with I. We all knew. It came up every now and then. But the atmosphere was REALLY strange, you could have cut it with a knife. This continued all week. It was hard work. I felt I had to be upbeat and cheerful because I didn’t want her to worry, but this made ME feel worse. A good cry every now and then eases the tension and seems to keep me on an even keel.
Our hotel was a B&B. The room was OK, but not the luxury we’d paid for. The atmosphere continued while we were out. Normally, I’d sweat and worry about it, but frankly, cancer has made me selfish. I just wanted it to stop and I wasn’t overly prepared to try to fix things. The evening got slightly better as we got drunker, she seemed to cheer up, in a manic sort of way, once she got chatting to someone.
The one really positive thing that came out of the week away was that S is obviously more than up to the job of guardian. He looked out for her, insisted we went bra shopping, didn’t complain AT ALL about the wait (an hour and a half) while she was fitted and tried on 12 bras. In all ways, he acted like a model father, with a camp twist. When she and I argued, which we did by the last day, he sheltered under the newspaper, only putting his nose out when she’d gone out for a cigarette to say ‘WHAT was that?’ Frankly, I think he’s probably better at the job than I am.
The journey back to London was OK. We were all tired. Saying goodbye to S was hard. I made him leave quickly, giving me no chance to get sentimental. Saying goodbye to I was worse, but I thought I’d be seeing her within a week, so didn’t make a fuss.
The first class carriage between London and Newcastle was nice. I had a whole table to myself and managed to do ALL my coursework marking, which was exceptionally satisfying. Just a brief visit into school (or so I thought) and I’d be done.
S met us at a pub nearby and took us back to his. He made tea and prodded me to go in to the lounge to tell her. She half guessed when I told her not to panic and was very strange. No hysterics, no out of control reaction. S was there and backed up what I was saying about it being curable and she seemed to accept it.
The next morning, my mum called. Since I’d told I, I decided, on the spot I should tell my mum and did. I knew what her reaction would be and sure enough… I told her to calm down and that I’d be fine. I told her I needed to stay calm so everyone else had to. Which to her credit she did. I really wish it hadn’t been necessary though.
From that point on it was weird with I. We all knew. It came up every now and then. But the atmosphere was REALLY strange, you could have cut it with a knife. This continued all week. It was hard work. I felt I had to be upbeat and cheerful because I didn’t want her to worry, but this made ME feel worse. A good cry every now and then eases the tension and seems to keep me on an even keel.
Our hotel was a B&B. The room was OK, but not the luxury we’d paid for. The atmosphere continued while we were out. Normally, I’d sweat and worry about it, but frankly, cancer has made me selfish. I just wanted it to stop and I wasn’t overly prepared to try to fix things. The evening got slightly better as we got drunker, she seemed to cheer up, in a manic sort of way, once she got chatting to someone.
The one really positive thing that came out of the week away was that S is obviously more than up to the job of guardian. He looked out for her, insisted we went bra shopping, didn’t complain AT ALL about the wait (an hour and a half) while she was fitted and tried on 12 bras. In all ways, he acted like a model father, with a camp twist. When she and I argued, which we did by the last day, he sheltered under the newspaper, only putting his nose out when she’d gone out for a cigarette to say ‘WHAT was that?’ Frankly, I think he’s probably better at the job than I am.
The journey back to London was OK. We were all tired. Saying goodbye to S was hard. I made him leave quickly, giving me no chance to get sentimental. Saying goodbye to I was worse, but I thought I’d be seeing her within a week, so didn’t make a fuss.
The first class carriage between London and Newcastle was nice. I had a whole table to myself and managed to do ALL my coursework marking, which was exceptionally satisfying. Just a brief visit into school (or so I thought) and I’d be done.
13. I'm here
Third hospital appointment. This time I’m seen on time. I’m also feeling a lot more cheerful. The consultant, poor lad, looks really happy and relieved. I tell him my choice. He’s happy with it. Since I’m looking and feeling better, he examines me again. My boobs are unlumpy since I’m post period and he assesses the lump at 2cm (he’d listed it as 3cm the week before). I know this can vary, but I decide to take this as good news.
I ask him the question about scarring and he looks slightly affronted and implies that it shouldn’t be necessary, given his surgical skills. This makes me smirk slightly. Bless him. An ego, so young! I also notice at this point that he’s very good looking. I notice that my noticing is a very good sign. I’m improving! He goes through the consent form with me. Fortunately, most of it is familiar from my time working at the Nuffield, so no more shocks there either.
Despite his ego about his stitching, I ask the nurse the same question after he’s gone and she assures me I can have anything I like corrected later.
Once we’re finished at the hospital, it’s a straight journey to the station. I’m off for a week in Brighton with I and S. Before the holiday starts however, my daughter and I are going to S’s for 2 days. I’m giving her my news there. It’s a dead weight.
I ask him the question about scarring and he looks slightly affronted and implies that it shouldn’t be necessary, given his surgical skills. This makes me smirk slightly. Bless him. An ego, so young! I also notice at this point that he’s very good looking. I notice that my noticing is a very good sign. I’m improving! He goes through the consent form with me. Fortunately, most of it is familiar from my time working at the Nuffield, so no more shocks there either.
Despite his ego about his stitching, I ask the nurse the same question after he’s gone and she assures me I can have anything I like corrected later.
Once we’re finished at the hospital, it’s a straight journey to the station. I’m off for a week in Brighton with I and S. Before the holiday starts however, my daughter and I are going to S’s for 2 days. I’m giving her my news there. It’s a dead weight.
12. On the up
Over the weekend I spend some time thinking. Trying to decide what I want to have done. REALLY I want to be brave enough to have a mastectomy. I want to not have to worry about cancer, at least, not in my left breast, again. Eventually, when R goes out with his mates and the house is empty, I decide to open the pack of information I was given at the first appointment.
The pack details a website called BresDex. I log on and start reading the information. It’s too much. I make a cup of tea and come back. The site has video clips on it. I watch the clip about chemo. Tired. Exhaustion. Sickness. Hair falling out in clumps. Great, bloody marvellous.
Next I watch the clip about radio therapy. Scary shit. Thinning skin. Worst of all, with radio therapy, it isn’t possible to have reconstruction at the same time as the mastectomy. This makes the choice of mastectomy even worse. It would mean waiting a year for reconstruction.
I've previously looked on the net at pictures of women post lumpectomy. Even a squeamish individual like me can cope with them. The worst is hard, but just about manageable. The BresDex site has pictures of women post mastectomy. They make me physically recoil and weep. I can’t look and go to the lumpectomy pictures. All manageable. Lop sided boobs, scarred boobs, puckered skin. BUT this can be corrected (and I determine to confirm this when I see the consultant next week).
The site also has a consultant and various women talking about choices. They discuss things I’ve never considered, such as how unbalanced large breasted women will feel post mastectomy. Makes sense to me. My boobs are really heavy. The consultant also talks about success rates in a very convincing way.
Next I go to the questions. There are a whole series of questions, including things about self image, fear of anaesthetic, the importance of sex. One of my real issues is the sensitivity of my nipples. I KNOW living is way more important than sex, but I also know that I’m a really sexual person and don’t want to have numb boobs unless it’s a life or death equation. I answer all the questions and the overall result is just tipped into lumpectomy as a choice. Which makes sense to me.
The pack details a website called BresDex. I log on and start reading the information. It’s too much. I make a cup of tea and come back. The site has video clips on it. I watch the clip about chemo. Tired. Exhaustion. Sickness. Hair falling out in clumps. Great, bloody marvellous.
Next I watch the clip about radio therapy. Scary shit. Thinning skin. Worst of all, with radio therapy, it isn’t possible to have reconstruction at the same time as the mastectomy. This makes the choice of mastectomy even worse. It would mean waiting a year for reconstruction.
I've previously looked on the net at pictures of women post lumpectomy. Even a squeamish individual like me can cope with them. The worst is hard, but just about manageable. The BresDex site has pictures of women post mastectomy. They make me physically recoil and weep. I can’t look and go to the lumpectomy pictures. All manageable. Lop sided boobs, scarred boobs, puckered skin. BUT this can be corrected (and I determine to confirm this when I see the consultant next week).
The site also has a consultant and various women talking about choices. They discuss things I’ve never considered, such as how unbalanced large breasted women will feel post mastectomy. Makes sense to me. My boobs are really heavy. The consultant also talks about success rates in a very convincing way.
Next I go to the questions. There are a whole series of questions, including things about self image, fear of anaesthetic, the importance of sex. One of my real issues is the sensitivity of my nipples. I KNOW living is way more important than sex, but I also know that I’m a really sexual person and don’t want to have numb boobs unless it’s a life or death equation. I answer all the questions and the overall result is just tipped into lumpectomy as a choice. Which makes sense to me.
11. Beginning to tell
Wednesday, back at work. This time I’m not as brave about it, with the kids. I’d fully intended to cover all of my year 11 lessons, leaving the new year 9’s and 10’s to the supply teacher. It turns out though, that given the likelihood of my 6 month absence, that I’m not up to saying goodbye to them for so long. I want to, but every time I think about it, it makes me cry. I’m not overly bothered about leaving my colleagues (sorry folks!) despite their huge kindnesses and support at this time, I really don’t feel unduly worried about the younger kids either, but when I think of someone else taking over my lovely year 11’s, I’m a mess.
After the third bout of tears, I decide that I’m really not up to it. The supply says she doesn’t mind having them (DVD) so I leave her to it. I feel as if I’m skiving, letting them down, being selfish. But I really don’t want to cry in front of them because they’ll guess how serious things are.
Instead, I concentrate on getting stuff together for the supply. There’s loads to pass on to her, so this really does fill the rest of my week. Fortunately, because otherwise I’d have had far too much time to think.
After the third bout of tears, I decide that I’m really not up to it. The supply says she doesn’t mind having them (DVD) so I leave her to it. I feel as if I’m skiving, letting them down, being selfish. But I really don’t want to cry in front of them because they’ll guess how serious things are.
Instead, I concentrate on getting stuff together for the supply. There’s loads to pass on to her, so this really does fill the rest of my week. Fortunately, because otherwise I’d have had far too much time to think.
10. More shit
Tuesday. I began ringing the letting agents at 8.30, finally reaching someone an hour later. They met me at the office local to me, I raced home, let mum in, said goodbye to her, making sure her taxi was ordered, returned the keys to the agent and went back to R’s. We set off almost immediately for the hospital, the rush and panic of the morning adding loads to my stress levels.
We got there with 10 minutes to spare. Relief! Except now the worrying set in. Why, I have no idea. I know I’ve got cancer. I’ve got the date of my operation. The question is, really, what operation. S thinks mastectomy. Safer. Nothing can come back. But lumpectomy gets good results these days. I don’t know. I want safe. I want to know it can’t come back. But I can’t get my head around a mastectomy. No breast at all. Can I do it?
We wait, and wait, and wait. After 45 minutes I ask the receptionist. I’m next. After another 10 minutes a nurse comes out and apologises, explains they’re running late. Waiting is agony. It has been agony for an hour. I HATE being in this place.
Finally we’re called in. Except that now I actually don’t want to go in. Different consultant from last week. Much younger, very hesitant in his speech. He confirms the information from last week. I’m wearing make-up, wearing bright colours, trying to be positive. These things don’t act as a talisman against bad news though. The cancer is grade three. Grade four is inoperable, so three doesn’t sound great. Predictably at this point I cry. I ask why, if I’ve got a high grade of cancer, I’ve got to wait. I ask if I’m going to die. I know, even before I asked, he wouldn’t answer. I really, really, hate this place.
The consultant asks if I’m ready, at this point, to sign the consent forms. He’s already asked which way I’m leaning. Currently, I’m focusing on a mastectomy and I’ve told him this. I don’t notice at this point that the nurse is looking shocked (R tells me this later). She hesitantly chips in, suggests that I come back the week after when I’ve had a bit more time. Again, I don’t put 2 and 2 together but later I add his age, to her suggestion and realise that maybe he is not too much more experienced at this than I am.
At this stage, he tells me that in addition to radio therapy, that I’ll also need chemo. I’m not overly shocked at this. In the waiting room R had read an article inferring that most women with breast cancer have chemo. It registered even if at the time I’d assumed it didn’t apply to me. I ask how long. 3 or 4 months. I add the months to the 4 to 6 weeks of radio therapy. I’m starting to look at 6 months of treatment. Which is the period I am lucky enough to have available to me as sick pay from school. I ask if I can work during any of this treatment. Poor bloke, he tentatively and slowly shakes his head and tells me in all probability not.
After the consultant leaves, the nurse, Lesley, calms me down a bit. She tells me not to focus on the grade of cancer, that its treatable. Despite my job, I haven’t been responding to this word, but I’m gradually coming to realise that in medical parlance, treatable can at times mean cure. I decide I like Lesley. I’m not entirely sure I believe it can be cured, but later on, I add her reassurance to the success stories I’m gathering with everyone I talk to about it. The sheer numbers of women that survive breast cancer can’t be wrong. Innumerable women I hear about from friends that have survived, opposed to the three that I know of that have died. HOPE.
R and I leave. We talk in the car about the implications of chemo. He says matter of factly that I’ll have to stay at his so he can look after me while I’m having chemo. Poor bloke. He signed up for a younger woman, an independent one at that, a bit of a loner, with an obsession with her job, meaning lots of hours spent working; not for a full on relationship as a nurse with a cancer sufferer. Despite this however, he rises to the occasion, repeatedly, matter of factly, without complaint. I catch myself looking at him at times, reassessing and evaluating. He’s told me before I’ve got him wrong. It’s starting to occur to me that I really have.
Incredibly, despite the shitty session at the hospital, I feel really good. Rather than going home, R suggests we go for a coffee. I tell him he can buy me lunch. Lucky man.
We got there with 10 minutes to spare. Relief! Except now the worrying set in. Why, I have no idea. I know I’ve got cancer. I’ve got the date of my operation. The question is, really, what operation. S thinks mastectomy. Safer. Nothing can come back. But lumpectomy gets good results these days. I don’t know. I want safe. I want to know it can’t come back. But I can’t get my head around a mastectomy. No breast at all. Can I do it?
We wait, and wait, and wait. After 45 minutes I ask the receptionist. I’m next. After another 10 minutes a nurse comes out and apologises, explains they’re running late. Waiting is agony. It has been agony for an hour. I HATE being in this place.
Finally we’re called in. Except that now I actually don’t want to go in. Different consultant from last week. Much younger, very hesitant in his speech. He confirms the information from last week. I’m wearing make-up, wearing bright colours, trying to be positive. These things don’t act as a talisman against bad news though. The cancer is grade three. Grade four is inoperable, so three doesn’t sound great. Predictably at this point I cry. I ask why, if I’ve got a high grade of cancer, I’ve got to wait. I ask if I’m going to die. I know, even before I asked, he wouldn’t answer. I really, really, hate this place.
The consultant asks if I’m ready, at this point, to sign the consent forms. He’s already asked which way I’m leaning. Currently, I’m focusing on a mastectomy and I’ve told him this. I don’t notice at this point that the nurse is looking shocked (R tells me this later). She hesitantly chips in, suggests that I come back the week after when I’ve had a bit more time. Again, I don’t put 2 and 2 together but later I add his age, to her suggestion and realise that maybe he is not too much more experienced at this than I am.
At this stage, he tells me that in addition to radio therapy, that I’ll also need chemo. I’m not overly shocked at this. In the waiting room R had read an article inferring that most women with breast cancer have chemo. It registered even if at the time I’d assumed it didn’t apply to me. I ask how long. 3 or 4 months. I add the months to the 4 to 6 weeks of radio therapy. I’m starting to look at 6 months of treatment. Which is the period I am lucky enough to have available to me as sick pay from school. I ask if I can work during any of this treatment. Poor bloke, he tentatively and slowly shakes his head and tells me in all probability not.
After the consultant leaves, the nurse, Lesley, calms me down a bit. She tells me not to focus on the grade of cancer, that its treatable. Despite my job, I haven’t been responding to this word, but I’m gradually coming to realise that in medical parlance, treatable can at times mean cure. I decide I like Lesley. I’m not entirely sure I believe it can be cured, but later on, I add her reassurance to the success stories I’m gathering with everyone I talk to about it. The sheer numbers of women that survive breast cancer can’t be wrong. Innumerable women I hear about from friends that have survived, opposed to the three that I know of that have died. HOPE.
R and I leave. We talk in the car about the implications of chemo. He says matter of factly that I’ll have to stay at his so he can look after me while I’m having chemo. Poor bloke. He signed up for a younger woman, an independent one at that, a bit of a loner, with an obsession with her job, meaning lots of hours spent working; not for a full on relationship as a nurse with a cancer sufferer. Despite this however, he rises to the occasion, repeatedly, matter of factly, without complaint. I catch myself looking at him at times, reassessing and evaluating. He’s told me before I’ve got him wrong. It’s starting to occur to me that I really have.
Incredibly, despite the shitty session at the hospital, I feel really good. Rather than going home, R suggests we go for a coffee. I tell him he can buy me lunch. Lucky man.
9. Round two
Monday morning. I’d been at home over the weekend because my mum had come to stay. I’d said nothing to her which had been a huge strain but I know my family. As soon as my sister-in-law knew, it would be spread all over and I wanted my daughter to hear it from me, face to face, not on the family grapevine.
Getting up for work was a relief therefore. Going into school was strange. I deliberately went in late because I wasn’t up to facing everyone at the whole staff Monday morning briefing. It was nice to be back in my room. The whole English department had moved upstairs into different rooms a couple of weeks before. My room was the first to be painted because I had the least stuff to move AND had sucked up to the site manager. I’d JUST put up a display before the cancer hurricane hit and so it was beginning to look nice.
I was really nervous about seeing the kids. This was slightly lessened by the knowledge that I only had my year 11 groups – my favourites. By rights, last week of term should have been DVD’s all the way. BUT given that I thought I’d be off a month, returning late in October, I thought I should give them the rest of the background to the novel we were studying; Frankenstein. It was lovely to see them and they made me howl with laughter at their silly faith in the rumour that I’d had a heart attack (nothing as minor as cancer!). My favourite bad girl even gave me a hug, which was lovely and made me feel really appreciated. I'd like to just make a slight effort to dispel some of the myths surrounding 'terrible' teens. In my experience, teenagers are lovely. If you like them and treat them with respect, you'll get it back in return. So when one (gobby but nice) girl, asked what was wrong with me, she was drowned out by others admonishing her, telling her it was rude and none of her business. Ahhh!
I hadn’t really intended to tell the kids what was going on, but so many asked questions that I decided to tell them an edited version, which was that I had to have an operation, which was being delayed by the NHS, which meant I wouldn’t be back in September. I gave this as the reason why in the last week of term it was really important that we slogged on with work. They moaned but gave in fairly readily.
We whizzed through the PowerPoint of information I’d prepared. It was HUGE relief to be back doing my absolute favourite thing again, which was to be talking about something that I adore in front of a class of intelligent and appreciative kids that I love and that I know really like me, as well as enjoying my lessons. Despite the hard slog of teaching (70 hour weeks, blah, blah, blah) it really is the face to face interaction with the kids that makes it all worth it.
I did the same thing twice Monday, followed by a lesson talking about a poem (Hitcher, by Simon Armitage) that it turned out I’d covered before. Fortunately, I’d taken a totally different angle on it, linking it to music tracks and talking philosophically about life and what they could expect from it and what maybe, just maybe they could aspire to. Yet another lovely lesson with wonderful pupils.
The good day I’d had at work translated well into the last evening with my mum. We went with R to his favourite Italian restaurant for dinner, which went down a storm with her. However, returning home, I discovered that my house keys were locked in the house. I’d only got one set and had forgotten I’d given them to mum. There was nothing for it but to return to R’s for the night and to get in touch with the agent in the morning. This of course was added to the stress of having my second appointment at the hospital.
Getting up for work was a relief therefore. Going into school was strange. I deliberately went in late because I wasn’t up to facing everyone at the whole staff Monday morning briefing. It was nice to be back in my room. The whole English department had moved upstairs into different rooms a couple of weeks before. My room was the first to be painted because I had the least stuff to move AND had sucked up to the site manager. I’d JUST put up a display before the cancer hurricane hit and so it was beginning to look nice.
I was really nervous about seeing the kids. This was slightly lessened by the knowledge that I only had my year 11 groups – my favourites. By rights, last week of term should have been DVD’s all the way. BUT given that I thought I’d be off a month, returning late in October, I thought I should give them the rest of the background to the novel we were studying; Frankenstein. It was lovely to see them and they made me howl with laughter at their silly faith in the rumour that I’d had a heart attack (nothing as minor as cancer!). My favourite bad girl even gave me a hug, which was lovely and made me feel really appreciated. I'd like to just make a slight effort to dispel some of the myths surrounding 'terrible' teens. In my experience, teenagers are lovely. If you like them and treat them with respect, you'll get it back in return. So when one (gobby but nice) girl, asked what was wrong with me, she was drowned out by others admonishing her, telling her it was rude and none of her business. Ahhh!
I hadn’t really intended to tell the kids what was going on, but so many asked questions that I decided to tell them an edited version, which was that I had to have an operation, which was being delayed by the NHS, which meant I wouldn’t be back in September. I gave this as the reason why in the last week of term it was really important that we slogged on with work. They moaned but gave in fairly readily.
We whizzed through the PowerPoint of information I’d prepared. It was HUGE relief to be back doing my absolute favourite thing again, which was to be talking about something that I adore in front of a class of intelligent and appreciative kids that I love and that I know really like me, as well as enjoying my lessons. Despite the hard slog of teaching (70 hour weeks, blah, blah, blah) it really is the face to face interaction with the kids that makes it all worth it.
I did the same thing twice Monday, followed by a lesson talking about a poem (Hitcher, by Simon Armitage) that it turned out I’d covered before. Fortunately, I’d taken a totally different angle on it, linking it to music tracks and talking philosophically about life and what they could expect from it and what maybe, just maybe they could aspire to. Yet another lovely lesson with wonderful pupils.
The good day I’d had at work translated well into the last evening with my mum. We went with R to his favourite Italian restaurant for dinner, which went down a storm with her. However, returning home, I discovered that my house keys were locked in the house. I’d only got one set and had forgotten I’d given them to mum. There was nothing for it but to return to R’s for the night and to get in touch with the agent in the morning. This of course was added to the stress of having my second appointment at the hospital.
8. Practicalities and sensibilities
The week I was diagnosed I decided I would go back into work on Friday. By Thursday night it was becoming very apparent that I was in no fit state to do this. I was still very weepy and the thought of being in control of 30 kids was WAY beyond my capability. I felt really guilty about it, but at least recognised my limitations.
By Saturday, I started to come to a little. I’d had a LONG chat with S and had worked out practicalities about my daughter. She was my main concern, in the same way she had been 20 years before when I’d found a lump (blocked sweat gland) in my armpit, near my breast. Obviously, as a 25 year old, my concerns for her were different. While she works and lives independently, she is on an exceptionally low income (which I subsidise) and while living with two lovely gay blokes, she has an insecure tenancy because the boys are behind with the mortgage and are frequently worried about losing the house.
So my concerns were practical, in relation to her financial security AND emotional. She’s very shaky, emotionally, suffering huge mood swings and being quite immature. She didn’t want to leave home and is still resentful about my leaving East Anglia, despite having had the option of coming with me.
Not being too close to her dad, I was worried that she’d have no one to turn to in the event of my death, which was becoming a possibility. Thank god for S. There really wasn’t anyone else that came to mind, to support her in my absence. She loves him as much as I do and he actually sees past her stroppy, messy angry immaturity and likes and appreciates her. It may have been unfair, asking him to step in upon my demise, but he said he would, instantly, without thinking. She would go to live with him because he couldn’t deal with being responsible for her while she was living so far away. He also said G, his partner, loved her as much as he did.
Even thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes. He hasn’t changed his opinion or faltered at all in his commitment. Again, I’m at a loss for words. Her own dad didn’t ever give her that sort of love or concern and I’m so grateful S is there.
By Saturday, I started to come to a little. I’d had a LONG chat with S and had worked out practicalities about my daughter. She was my main concern, in the same way she had been 20 years before when I’d found a lump (blocked sweat gland) in my armpit, near my breast. Obviously, as a 25 year old, my concerns for her were different. While she works and lives independently, she is on an exceptionally low income (which I subsidise) and while living with two lovely gay blokes, she has an insecure tenancy because the boys are behind with the mortgage and are frequently worried about losing the house.
So my concerns were practical, in relation to her financial security AND emotional. She’s very shaky, emotionally, suffering huge mood swings and being quite immature. She didn’t want to leave home and is still resentful about my leaving East Anglia, despite having had the option of coming with me.
Not being too close to her dad, I was worried that she’d have no one to turn to in the event of my death, which was becoming a possibility. Thank god for S. There really wasn’t anyone else that came to mind, to support her in my absence. She loves him as much as I do and he actually sees past her stroppy, messy angry immaturity and likes and appreciates her. It may have been unfair, asking him to step in upon my demise, but he said he would, instantly, without thinking. She would go to live with him because he couldn’t deal with being responsible for her while she was living so far away. He also said G, his partner, loved her as much as he did.
Even thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes. He hasn’t changed his opinion or faltered at all in his commitment. Again, I’m at a loss for words. Her own dad didn’t ever give her that sort of love or concern and I’m so grateful S is there.
7. Reflecting...
Cancer. The word itself is terribly emotive. It has connotations of death or illness that linger, like a faintly detectable smell, on anyone that either has had cancer, or has lost a close relative from it. We know it tends to run in families and I think this is what had lured me into what turned out to be a false sense of security. Despite having a grandfather and a father who smoked, two female relatives who were, shall we say larger women (personally I prefer the word FAT but am aware of yet more connotations around it), I have no knowledge of any family history of cancer. Diabetes, varicose veins (‘legs – they run in our family’ Granny Clara), late onset asthma in my mother, leg ulcers, but no cancer.
So. I was expecting some of the above. I already have varicose veins. They don’t bother me. Other people seem more bothered by them than I am. I’ve seen both grannies and my mum with them. They’re almost inevitable and I’m not vain (boom boom!). I have always been slightly concerned and careful about knocking my veins, given that varicose veins can turn into leg ulcers.
I was also expecting some sort of heart disease, brought on by being fat. And before anyone decides to preach (no names will be mentioned, but you know who you are), I have spent my whole life trying to correct this. I’ve lost most of the overweight several times. If I’m not dieting, I’m about to go on one. I generally don’t eat crap, unlike a lot of skinny people I know. But I’m fat. I don’t like it, don’t accept it and probably never will. I try most of the time to prevent it or at least to stop it getting worse, unlike a lot of people who take other equally dangerous risks with their health (smoking, drugs, drink for example). I worry about the health effects AND how it looks. That isn’t to say I dislike my appearance. I’ve got an optimum weight, which I’m happy with, although I’m over it at the moment. MY choice of optimum weight is not in line with the medical profession’s preference, but it does leave me with a BMI of approximately 29/30 which is over what is advised but below where I tend to hover naturally.
I think therefore, I was fairly realistic about health problems I was likely to develop. No cancer gene, predisposed to minor health problems, with a couple of probably more serious ones that would be self induced.
********************************************************************************************************
Since I’ve been diagnosed with cancer, I’ve noticed other attitudes about the disease/condition/whatever it is surfacing in my mind. The breast with cancer in it, is, in my mind, tainted. I hide it in my bra, feel the lump occasionally (Is it bigger? Is there more than one now? Are there changes?), look at it in the mirror but certainly I feel that my left breast is almost contagious. Which is why, during sex, I’m shocked when R does anything with it. My attitude is obviously not universal.
I’ve also started to discover that I view cancer as dirty. So similarly to my poor boob, I am also tainted, dirty, very slightly less than clean on the inside. Where the hell this attitude comes from I have NO bloody idea. The knowledge I’ve gained from the doctor about the way the lymph glands work has reinforced this attitude. I can almost FEEL the dirtiness from the lump spreading itself around my body. Or at least I can at 4am when I wake up with night terrors. Which is when I’m at my most panicky.
In the week after my biopsy, I developed pains in my breast and armpit which also ran down my left arm. The pain of the actual biopsy had gone after a couple of days so I became convinced this was the cancer growing and spreading. When I went to the hospital next, I asked both the consultant and the nurse about this. Neither of them knew what could be causing it. Neither of them offered any suggestions or examined me again. This was really unhelpful and did nothing to put my fears at rest.
So. I was expecting some of the above. I already have varicose veins. They don’t bother me. Other people seem more bothered by them than I am. I’ve seen both grannies and my mum with them. They’re almost inevitable and I’m not vain (boom boom!). I have always been slightly concerned and careful about knocking my veins, given that varicose veins can turn into leg ulcers.
I was also expecting some sort of heart disease, brought on by being fat. And before anyone decides to preach (no names will be mentioned, but you know who you are), I have spent my whole life trying to correct this. I’ve lost most of the overweight several times. If I’m not dieting, I’m about to go on one. I generally don’t eat crap, unlike a lot of skinny people I know. But I’m fat. I don’t like it, don’t accept it and probably never will. I try most of the time to prevent it or at least to stop it getting worse, unlike a lot of people who take other equally dangerous risks with their health (smoking, drugs, drink for example). I worry about the health effects AND how it looks. That isn’t to say I dislike my appearance. I’ve got an optimum weight, which I’m happy with, although I’m over it at the moment. MY choice of optimum weight is not in line with the medical profession’s preference, but it does leave me with a BMI of approximately 29/30 which is over what is advised but below where I tend to hover naturally.
I think therefore, I was fairly realistic about health problems I was likely to develop. No cancer gene, predisposed to minor health problems, with a couple of probably more serious ones that would be self induced.
********************************************************************************************************
Since I’ve been diagnosed with cancer, I’ve noticed other attitudes about the disease/condition/whatever it is surfacing in my mind. The breast with cancer in it, is, in my mind, tainted. I hide it in my bra, feel the lump occasionally (Is it bigger? Is there more than one now? Are there changes?), look at it in the mirror but certainly I feel that my left breast is almost contagious. Which is why, during sex, I’m shocked when R does anything with it. My attitude is obviously not universal.
I’ve also started to discover that I view cancer as dirty. So similarly to my poor boob, I am also tainted, dirty, very slightly less than clean on the inside. Where the hell this attitude comes from I have NO bloody idea. The knowledge I’ve gained from the doctor about the way the lymph glands work has reinforced this attitude. I can almost FEEL the dirtiness from the lump spreading itself around my body. Or at least I can at 4am when I wake up with night terrors. Which is when I’m at my most panicky.
In the week after my biopsy, I developed pains in my breast and armpit which also ran down my left arm. The pain of the actual biopsy had gone after a couple of days so I became convinced this was the cancer growing and spreading. When I went to the hospital next, I asked both the consultant and the nurse about this. Neither of them knew what could be causing it. Neither of them offered any suggestions or examined me again. This was really unhelpful and did nothing to put my fears at rest.
6. Return to reality?
Had a lovely email from the Rev Les from work today. She contacted me to let me know that one of her parishioners had breast cancer and subsequently had a mastectomy. I think her words were 'she gets her tits out regularly'. I've emailed her and linked her on Facebook.
Later...
K contacted me offering to meet up and also telling me about a meeting that’s happening at the local hospital for post mastectomy patients. She thinks this is probably not really suitable for me but is coming to see me on Monday. Which will be great but is making me really nervous. This is all far too official. It's as if someone has taken me and parachuted me into a parallel universe. All the good bits of my life have been taken away and I've been given shit instead. Everywhere I look there are notifications about breast cancer. It really pisses me off. I wasn't interested in them before and don't really want to be interested now. I've got my bag of chosen charities and am really resentful that 1) Real life is forcing me to review my choices 2) I apparently can't afford the 'luxury' of focusing on those 'less fortunate than myself' anymore 3) I'm being confronted with my own mortality by bloody women running down the road in their pink bras.
OK. I KNOW I'm being a petulant, selfish bitch. No one else needs to point this out to me, thanks.
Later...
K contacted me offering to meet up and also telling me about a meeting that’s happening at the local hospital for post mastectomy patients. She thinks this is probably not really suitable for me but is coming to see me on Monday. Which will be great but is making me really nervous. This is all far too official. It's as if someone has taken me and parachuted me into a parallel universe. All the good bits of my life have been taken away and I've been given shit instead. Everywhere I look there are notifications about breast cancer. It really pisses me off. I wasn't interested in them before and don't really want to be interested now. I've got my bag of chosen charities and am really resentful that 1) Real life is forcing me to review my choices 2) I apparently can't afford the 'luxury' of focusing on those 'less fortunate than myself' anymore 3) I'm being confronted with my own mortality by bloody women running down the road in their pink bras.
OK. I KNOW I'm being a petulant, selfish bitch. No one else needs to point this out to me, thanks.
5. Pulling down the shutters
The day after, it was R’s son’s graduation. I was meant to go out to dinner with his family, I even got dressed, deliberately not looking at my boob while I was showering. I put make up on, my red shoes, pearls (pretending to be demure – doesn’t fool anyone other than me). The whole time I felt unreal. I could feel my neck was stiff and popped painkillers, raiding his stash of codeine, but I should have known.
Eventually I gave in and went to bed. He came back, seemed to be pissed off with me for not making an effort (I felt guilty at the time WTF) but it was inevitable. After he’d gone, I got up again and went home. I didn’t want to deal with his mood and my own bed felt good.
It lasted until lunchtime the next day. Unbelievably, when the migraine started to recede, I could appreciate it. It had COMPLETELY taken my mind off the cancer for almost 24 hours.
Eventually I gave in and went to bed. He came back, seemed to be pissed off with me for not making an effort (I felt guilty at the time WTF) but it was inevitable. After he’d gone, I got up again and went home. I didn’t want to deal with his mood and my own bed felt good.
It lasted until lunchtime the next day. Unbelievably, when the migraine started to recede, I could appreciate it. It had COMPLETELY taken my mind off the cancer for almost 24 hours.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
4. Hell and back
The weekend came and went in a blur. No idea now what we did. Where we went.
Hospital today. I'm pleased and terrified simultaneously. Pleased because now I'll know. I'm hoping to hell it’s a cyst although am also very scared of having it drained. I HATE needles. The sight of them makes me nauseous.
R went out in the morning to run some errands. I sat and waited for him to come home. He wasn't back by 1.15, my appointment was at 2.30. Part of me determined to go to the hospital on my own. Common sense prevailed however and I sent him a text telling him I was leaving at 1.30. 1.25 he dashed through the door. He implied I was stressing too much (WTF?????) and leaving too early. Whatever. MY call what time we leave - no discussion.
The drive to the hospital was unreal, as was trying to find our way through the maze of corridors. R chattered on about the hospital but for once I didn’t feel guilty for ignoring him. We waited for what seemed like ages but was really only minutes. Once called in to see the consultant the fatalistic formality of it all hit me again. Silent and unresponsive on the outside, inside I was filled was horror; a feeling that was starting to become only too familiar. I was sent off for a mammogram and the possibility of needle biopsies.
The mammogram wasn’t as bad as I was expecting. Mum, friends had all warned me it was painful. It wasn’t. A little uncomfortable but very OK. I was sent back out to the waiting room to sit with all the other braless, pink shirted women. My composure was starting to go and I couldn’t concentrate on the magazines. Thank god I’d taken my book with me. I read quite a lot but had to reread and reread because nothing was going in.
FINALLY, I was called in. The ultrasound room was a blast from the past. It reminded me very much of the much happier circumstances I was in the last time I’d had a scan, when I was pregnant. But the radiographer and nurses were lovely so I tried to relax. The scan started off OK. Things went downhill very quickly though. I could tell from the change in the radiographer’s body language and focus that my worst fears were realised. I tried my hardest to stay calm and say nothing so she could finish but when she asked me to roll over though, to scan my armpit, I couldn’t manage it anymore and started to cry. Even with my level of ignorance, I knew she was scanning the lymph nodes and that she wouldn’t have done that if the lump was just a cyst.
She finished scanning and it was at that point that I asked a question. I don’t remember what I asked and I don’t remember the answer. The answer was clear though. Cancer.
There is nothing good to draw from that diagnosis and I find it hard to recall those few minutes, or at least the emotional side, because I think that was probably the worst experience of my whole life. Despite being an English teacher I don’t have the words to express those feelings beyond a few key words (KS3 anyone?). Black, dark, alone.
Anyway. The rest of the experience wasn’t as bad as it could have been thanks to the lovely nurses that were there. My hysterics, incoherent rambling about having to tell my daughter, about her having no one other than me, were summed up very quietly by one of them telling me I would be taking the next few weeks one step at a time, that my daughter would cope and that for a while at least, I’d have to put myself first.
The same nurse held my hand while I was injected with a local anaesthetic (almost painless) and all the way through the various needle samples that were taken. One of them sounded like a staple gun and had a bit of a physical recoil when it went in, but I can’t really say it hurt, even with my phobia.
Again, I don’t remember getting dressed or what I said to R. I do remember being desperate for a cup of tea (is there ANYTHING tea doesn’t help?). I remember a period where I felt the way I felt in the ultrasound room. We left the Breast Clinic and I drunk half of my tea. The thought of drinking the 2nd half made me feel sick.
I also remember being talked to by the consultant. Although at the time the news didn’t feel good, in retrospect I know that there WAS some good outcome. I was offered a choice of lumpectomy but told I could have a mastectomy. I was also told I needed radio therapy. The nurse tried to talk to me after the consultant left, but in all honesty, not a lot went in. I don’t remember going home. I don’t remember the evening. Probably just as well.
Hospital today. I'm pleased and terrified simultaneously. Pleased because now I'll know. I'm hoping to hell it’s a cyst although am also very scared of having it drained. I HATE needles. The sight of them makes me nauseous.
R went out in the morning to run some errands. I sat and waited for him to come home. He wasn't back by 1.15, my appointment was at 2.30. Part of me determined to go to the hospital on my own. Common sense prevailed however and I sent him a text telling him I was leaving at 1.30. 1.25 he dashed through the door. He implied I was stressing too much (WTF?????) and leaving too early. Whatever. MY call what time we leave - no discussion.
The drive to the hospital was unreal, as was trying to find our way through the maze of corridors. R chattered on about the hospital but for once I didn’t feel guilty for ignoring him. We waited for what seemed like ages but was really only minutes. Once called in to see the consultant the fatalistic formality of it all hit me again. Silent and unresponsive on the outside, inside I was filled was horror; a feeling that was starting to become only too familiar. I was sent off for a mammogram and the possibility of needle biopsies.
The mammogram wasn’t as bad as I was expecting. Mum, friends had all warned me it was painful. It wasn’t. A little uncomfortable but very OK. I was sent back out to the waiting room to sit with all the other braless, pink shirted women. My composure was starting to go and I couldn’t concentrate on the magazines. Thank god I’d taken my book with me. I read quite a lot but had to reread and reread because nothing was going in.
FINALLY, I was called in. The ultrasound room was a blast from the past. It reminded me very much of the much happier circumstances I was in the last time I’d had a scan, when I was pregnant. But the radiographer and nurses were lovely so I tried to relax. The scan started off OK. Things went downhill very quickly though. I could tell from the change in the radiographer’s body language and focus that my worst fears were realised. I tried my hardest to stay calm and say nothing so she could finish but when she asked me to roll over though, to scan my armpit, I couldn’t manage it anymore and started to cry. Even with my level of ignorance, I knew she was scanning the lymph nodes and that she wouldn’t have done that if the lump was just a cyst.
She finished scanning and it was at that point that I asked a question. I don’t remember what I asked and I don’t remember the answer. The answer was clear though. Cancer.
There is nothing good to draw from that diagnosis and I find it hard to recall those few minutes, or at least the emotional side, because I think that was probably the worst experience of my whole life. Despite being an English teacher I don’t have the words to express those feelings beyond a few key words (KS3 anyone?). Black, dark, alone.
Anyway. The rest of the experience wasn’t as bad as it could have been thanks to the lovely nurses that were there. My hysterics, incoherent rambling about having to tell my daughter, about her having no one other than me, were summed up very quietly by one of them telling me I would be taking the next few weeks one step at a time, that my daughter would cope and that for a while at least, I’d have to put myself first.
The same nurse held my hand while I was injected with a local anaesthetic (almost painless) and all the way through the various needle samples that were taken. One of them sounded like a staple gun and had a bit of a physical recoil when it went in, but I can’t really say it hurt, even with my phobia.
Again, I don’t remember getting dressed or what I said to R. I do remember being desperate for a cup of tea (is there ANYTHING tea doesn’t help?). I remember a period where I felt the way I felt in the ultrasound room. We left the Breast Clinic and I drunk half of my tea. The thought of drinking the 2nd half made me feel sick.
I also remember being talked to by the consultant. Although at the time the news didn’t feel good, in retrospect I know that there WAS some good outcome. I was offered a choice of lumpectomy but told I could have a mastectomy. I was also told I needed radio therapy. The nurse tried to talk to me after the consultant left, but in all honesty, not a lot went in. I don’t remember going home. I don’t remember the evening. Probably just as well.
3. Life, but not as I know it
I had the rest of the week off work. I felt in turn desperate to go back but also totally incapable of coping with the kids, let along facing any possibility of imparting ANYTHING in the way of knowledge.
I stayed in touch with work, T, my Head of Department (HOD) was fantastic. Reassuring and totally accepting of whatever I wanted to do. I WANTED to be at work. I KNEW I couldn't cope with it though.
I stayed in touch with work, T, my Head of Department (HOD) was fantastic. Reassuring and totally accepting of whatever I wanted to do. I WANTED to be at work. I KNEW I couldn't cope with it though.
Monday, 2 August 2010
2: Entering the NHS
So. Monday morning. Despite the horror of the night before, I didn't want to get up. Avoidance I'm sure. R got up before me but I was prompted out of bed by texts from people from work, who I decided to be honest with. No point lying and IF this was a false alarm, I didn't want them to think I'd been skiving.
I'd moved a month and a half previously so didn't have a GP locally. Fortunately, there was an NHS walk in centre across the road, which we went to. I was seen very quickly and for probably the first time ever, wasn't embarrassed to undress in front of a medical professional. The nurse practitioner was nice, but horrified me by calling the lump massive. Numbly, I dressed while she started making phone calls. When I emerged from behind the curtain, she suggested I go and get my partner. This was becoming scarier by the minute. She made her calls, explained that I had to be referred by a GP and then discussed with R where I should register.
As we left, I went to the loo and cried. I'd tried to convince myself there was nothing really wrong, but things were becoming formal. Again, numb, we drove to his GP's. The receptionist made me an appointment for 4 that afternoon. 6 hours to kill.
The GP was a formal, grey haired, older woman. Careful with her words, she reassured me that 9 out of 10 lumps were cysts. She instructed me to give a form to the receptionist to use to register me for an appointment at the breast clinic. This seemed to take forever to do. Finally, I was given an appointment in 8 days. Given that the time frame required by NHS standards was 2 weeks, I tried, and failed, to feel grateful.
I'd moved a month and a half previously so didn't have a GP locally. Fortunately, there was an NHS walk in centre across the road, which we went to. I was seen very quickly and for probably the first time ever, wasn't embarrassed to undress in front of a medical professional. The nurse practitioner was nice, but horrified me by calling the lump massive. Numbly, I dressed while she started making phone calls. When I emerged from behind the curtain, she suggested I go and get my partner. This was becoming scarier by the minute. She made her calls, explained that I had to be referred by a GP and then discussed with R where I should register.
As we left, I went to the loo and cried. I'd tried to convince myself there was nothing really wrong, but things were becoming formal. Again, numb, we drove to his GP's. The receptionist made me an appointment for 4 that afternoon. 6 hours to kill.
The GP was a formal, grey haired, older woman. Careful with her words, she reassured me that 9 out of 10 lumps were cysts. She instructed me to give a form to the receptionist to use to register me for an appointment at the breast clinic. This seemed to take forever to do. Finally, I was given an appointment in 8 days. Given that the time frame required by NHS standards was 2 weeks, I tried, and failed, to feel grateful.
1: Cancer? Me? NO!
It'd been a good weekend. The summer holidays were only 2 weeks away and, boy, did I need them! I'd only been at the school a year and as every teacher knows, the first year in a job is hell. New exam board and teaching specifications; not to mention different kids, staff, rules, routines. It had been hell (sorry to those that are now friends and colleagues, but...) BUT the hols were nearly here. Stress levels had dropped and there was light at the end of the tunnel.
So. The weekend. It'd been good. Out Saturday night with the bloke, watching the freak show that is the Bigg Market, or Sodom and Gomorrah as I call it. (To the uninitiated, aka Southerners, Geordie women are a revelation. Out in the dead of winter practically naked.) Come Sunday, I'd cooked lunch and then had retreated to the peace of my new flat on my own. Stuff was still unpacked but it was empty and peaceful. I'd done a little preparation for school (far from my usual full days work on Sunday) and was having an early night with a good book. PJ's on, cup of tea.
Idly, totally unaware of what I was doing, I pulled at my bra, and touched a lump. It registered. I took my eyes off my book and looked down. Just my 45 year old womans boobs, helped by the bra. This time I poked. Yep. A lump. At this point a nameless sort of shocked horror began to set in. I poked and felt my breast. They've always been lumpy. One GP referred to the excess of breast tissue in them as 'a bag of marbles.' That was a good description. Except now one of the marbles was at least half an inch big. The rest of the boob felt normal, although by now, my definition of normal was changing.
I sat, probably for 10, 15 minutes in horror; crying, shaking, stunned. When I came to a little, I sent my boyfriend a text and watched the phone for a reply. Nothing. Gradually, I considered the train of events that would have to follow the next day and sent my boss a text. She was great, replying almost immediately. Eventually, R texted me back. Reassurance which made little difference.
I don't really remember how the rest of the evening passed. I phoned R at some point and he offered to come over when he left the pub. NORMALLY I don't like asking for help but this occasion seemed to warrant some support. A couple of hours later he arrived and calmed me down a little. Shockingly, I managed to sleep.
So. The weekend. It'd been good. Out Saturday night with the bloke, watching the freak show that is the Bigg Market, or Sodom and Gomorrah as I call it. (To the uninitiated, aka Southerners, Geordie women are a revelation. Out in the dead of winter practically naked.) Come Sunday, I'd cooked lunch and then had retreated to the peace of my new flat on my own. Stuff was still unpacked but it was empty and peaceful. I'd done a little preparation for school (far from my usual full days work on Sunday) and was having an early night with a good book. PJ's on, cup of tea.
Idly, totally unaware of what I was doing, I pulled at my bra, and touched a lump. It registered. I took my eyes off my book and looked down. Just my 45 year old womans boobs, helped by the bra. This time I poked. Yep. A lump. At this point a nameless sort of shocked horror began to set in. I poked and felt my breast. They've always been lumpy. One GP referred to the excess of breast tissue in them as 'a bag of marbles.' That was a good description. Except now one of the marbles was at least half an inch big. The rest of the boob felt normal, although by now, my definition of normal was changing.
I sat, probably for 10, 15 minutes in horror; crying, shaking, stunned. When I came to a little, I sent my boyfriend a text and watched the phone for a reply. Nothing. Gradually, I considered the train of events that would have to follow the next day and sent my boss a text. She was great, replying almost immediately. Eventually, R texted me back. Reassurance which made little difference.
I don't really remember how the rest of the evening passed. I phoned R at some point and he offered to come over when he left the pub. NORMALLY I don't like asking for help but this occasion seemed to warrant some support. A couple of hours later he arrived and calmed me down a little. Shockingly, I managed to sleep.
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