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.