168. Hen Party!

So the second reason for coming dahn Sarf was to go to the wedding of one of I's school friends.  H is a lovely, lovely girl, leeetle bit misunderstood, bless her.  I suspect she was a bit of a pain in the ass at school, what with the smoking (tobacco PLUS), fighting, swearing, lack of respect, BUT she'd had a seriously hard time at home and was effectively homeless at 15.  So.  Quite a hard paper round.  She'd only ever been polite and respectful to me, so I was a fan.

Wedding Saturday.  Hen Party Thursday. 

We got dolled up and as I's new place was only a 10 minute walk from the town centre, walked in.  We met the girls and proceeded to go on a crawl through the pubs and clubs of Bury.  On a Thursday night.  Ooooweeee.  Nice bunch of girls.  We were all drinking and getting on well (me, 20 years older than any of the rest of them) when one of 'em got ill.  No surprise there, what with all the alcohol that was flowing.  But then H filled me in.  G has lupus and has been having chemo for 10 years.  She's 24.  The evening of the hen night, she was 1 week post chemo.  Tiny, pretty little thing.  Has a toddler daughter.  Partner left her 6 months ago. 

I held her hair while she threw up.  Stroked her head.  Life is shit.

167. Off again

Next morning I was up with the lark.  Packed, dressed, cup of tea and in the car.

The drive was OK.  Long but no 2 ways round it really. 

When I got to I's she and her dad were loading up his car.  She was in a bit of a strop which I decided to ignore (good god, is it just me that's sweetness and light?  I'm surrounded by grumpy buggers). 

Moving her wasn't actually as hard as I'd expected.  Moving her in was a bit harder.  She'd moved up from a room to a (small) house.  Only furniture was a bed.  WHERE to put everything?

166. Ships that pass etc

I landed back in Newcastle about 4.30pm.  R informed me we were going out at 8.30 so I did a 2 hour turn around with very little fuss.  Dinner, shower, make up, hair (OK, so theres not a lot but...) and we were off out.  OK evening.  I didn't get hammered, I'd got a 260 mile drive the next day. 

By bedtime he was in a filthy mood, all because I was texting on my phone.  OK, so I'm a textaholic but so what?  It just so happened however, that I was joining in a group support session of one of the NEBB members who had just discovered a lump in one of her very newly reconstructed boobs.  While this sort of thing IS very regular, it never fails to be a 'heart sink' moment.  'Our' group, as opposed to the older group that has factioned off, has only been in effect a year or so, so to date, we haven't lost any group members, although 2 of approximately 12 do have recurrence of their cancer. 

Poor old E is ridiculously young to have gone through what she has and it really really isn't fair that she's scared all over again.  So, sorry to dent R's feelings and all, but I wasn't going to be put off sending her a message. 

When I'd finished, I gave him a cuddle, but he gave me the cold shoulder so I reverted to my book.  C'est la vie. 

165. Over and over and over and over

Home from Norwich, London and Chatham.  I was in need of a serious break.  I departed from chez R and had a blissful couple of nights at my flat, alone.  I had another trip coming and needed a little solitude.

Wednesday, S2 and I were off to Harrogate.  Nice place.  Lots of older people.  Betty's Tea Room.  Ripley Castle.  NOT Harewood House, which was ridiculously expensive to visit.  Couldn't do the Turkish Baths as I had an unhealed wound.  Bugger!

164. Soho or bust

Saturday morning, unaccountably, we were both up with the lark.  Packed and breakfasted, we followed satnav out of Watford in the direction of Chatham.  I'd looked on the map and assumed we'd go round the M25 anti clockwise.  Imagine my horror dear reader, when I realised we were being directed OVER THE DARTFORD BRIDGE!!!!!  Greater only than my fear of flying, is my fear of heights.  And with the demon bloody driver behind the wheel.  My palms started to sweat and the soles of my feet to tingle.  Oh god, oh god, oh god.  I'd survived chemo only to be ricocheted over the edge of a seriously f**king high and terrifying bridge by a grumpy old man worn down by my nagging.  I stopped sulking and started being nice.  Just in case. 

I was unwillingly familiar with the bloody bridge.  Years before, when I'd been doing my post grad degree, I'd driven over it on my way to the Uni of Sussex once a week.  The night before I would either have nightmares, if I was lucky enough to sleep, or fail to sleep at all.  As we got closer, I told myself that I'd faced death and won, done chemo despite my sheer terror of it and that I could DO this without being pathetic.  I was wrong.  I WASN'T however a total gibbering idiot.  I was scared but not totally terrified.  Which frankly, was quite an improvement!

********************************************************************************************************

It was FABULOUS to see Steve.  He's such a little love despite being 6' 6" tall.  In some ways we're totally different (my rabidly left wing politics opposed to his consumer society middle of the road stance) and in some others very similar (he appreciates the uniqueness of Princess just as much as I do AND is a total sex addict although I'm merely aspiring).  He settled us down, R from the traffic and me from the bridge with a cup of tea that he ordered his partner, G to make. 

Then it was off to the station and back into London; or rather, Soho.  We trawled the gay bars getting tipsy.  The more I drank, the happier I got.  We had a nice meal, yet more junk food (I could feel my waist expanding even more) and then headed into yet more gay pubs.  I was having a lovely time.  R wasn't quite as enamoured, at least not until he spotted a fellow Geordie in a black and white football shirt.  He was in like a shot.  The 2 of them got on famously chatting and gradually got elbowed further and further away from me, S and G. 

Eventually, the poor football fan twigged that R wasn't a poof out for a quick knee trembler and made his escape while R was in the loo, just checking with S where the other gay venues in Soho were.  R returned from the loo very disappointed to find that his pal had gone, blinking in confusion when S enlightened him.  I don't think we're in Kansas anymore Toto!

163. I predict a riot

Perfect timing.  We had arrived in London immediately following the riots.  HOWEVER, our hotel was quite a way out of London.  Quite a way out of Watford as well.  In the middle of bloody nowhere, to be exact.  Fortunately, I'd done my research and there was an underground 4 miles away with a big car park.  So daily, we drove to the underground and parked and trained it. 

Science museum, V&A, Hyde Park, Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square, Covent Garden etc, etc, etc.  R went on a trip down memory lane on Kensington High Street.  I wanted to go to the Kings Road for my nostalgic trip but by the time we'd tramped around Kensington my hip hurt and my feet ached and I just couldn't be bothered.  We had every intention of staying in London for either a meal or a show but neither of us really had the stamina. 

I'd started to notice that the wound underneath my boob hadn't healed properly.  Although I wasn't worried, I did plan to get S to check it when we diverted our journey home his way.  Chatham, here we come!

162. Watford or bust

We waved my family off with me in a right strop (surely not, I hear my readers cry!).  I'd arranged to drop a futon my mum had been saving for my daughter off at my ex-husband's as we passed his on the way to London.  R, however, was in a very uncompliant frame of mind, so after a couple of half hearted attempts to fit it in his PEOPLE CARRIER, I told him not to bother.

I was in a filthy mood with him until he started struggling with the traffic as we approached London.  Obviously, letting me, a WOMAN, drive would have been unthinkable so we both suffered as he sweated and swore, went the wrong way and eventually (thank you god) drew up in front of our hotel.  I felt as if I'd gone a couple of rounds with Tyson by the time I staggered out of the car. 

Our room was obviously a budget room which was initially disappointing.  But it was clean, had a tea tray and a TV.  Good enough.  The heroic driver decided he needed a nap to recover from his battle while I retreated to the safety of the bathroom. 

After 2 1/2 hours I was bored so banged around the room a bit, eventually resorting to turning on the TV to wake him up.  Despite the very inauspicious start, after we'd got dolled up, we went into Watford and found a lush Italian restaurant.  A good evening was had, despite everything. 

161. Road Trip

The drive to Norwich was long.  It always is.  It's not just the distance, it's the route.  All goes well, down the A1, until Lincolnshire.  Then you're talking one lane road; tractors, lorries, caravans and mopeds.  It really is hellish.  I don't drive it, myself.  If I'm headed to Norwich, I train it.  If I'm off to Bury I'll drive.  MUCH easier route.  There was no avoiding the drive this time, however, given that 2 of us were going. 

It wasn't too bad actually.  There was a good play on radio 4 (compromise between my preferred radio 1 and his preferred radio 5 live rant, sorry, talk radio).  I was also very preoccupied with some items I'd been watching on eBay.  I'd JUST discovered it was possible to shop via my phone so was watching like a hawk for just the precisely right moment to place my bids. 

Unfortunately, my preoccupation was interrupted at one point by R's MANIC attempt to pass a bloody arctic in his (it must be said) sluggish people carrier.  We ONLY just squeaked back in front of the lorry in time to avoid a head on collision.  It would have been easier not to bother really, given the grief he got for the rest of the journey. 

********************************************************************************************************

The actual visit wasn't too painful actually. My mum didn't appear keen on traipsing round with us, doing the tourist route. R was in a very peculier mood for the duration, however I was too preoccupied with the family lunacy to worry about him.  One nutter at a time thank you.

160. Summer Holiday

So.  The summer hols are here.  LAST year my school summer holiday was swallowed up by cancer, operations, stress, fear, worry.  THIS year I can't fly because I've just had an operation.  But by god, I'm having a holiday.

So EAGER was I for holiday action, I've over booked myself. 

1)  3 days in Norwich with R and the family.
2)  Trip to London with R.
3)  Drive from London to S's for a night there.
4)  2 days in Harrogate with another friend, S2.
5)  Drive from Newcastle to Bury to help offspring move.
6)  Wedding of school friend of offspring.

Sounded great in theory.  Too, too much in reality.

159. Reply

Thank you for contacting us.

As it would seem your cancer treatment is complete and you are in remission I do not think a PARP inhibitor trial is currently appropriate for you. They are still in investigation in more advanced forms of the disease before being considered for women without evidence of active cancer.

With best wishes,

A

Prepared and sent on behalf of

Consultant Oncologist/Director
Breakthrough Breast Cancer Research Unit
King's College London School of Medicine
Research Oncology
3rd Floor Bermondsey Wing
Guy's Hospital
London SE1 9RT


Hmmmm.  Pretty much what I'd been expecting really.  Although disappointed, his email gave me some hope.  The phrase 'before being considered for women without evidence of active cancer.'  Meaning, I assume, that eventually this treatment MAY be used as an ongoing treatment for TN patients post chemo and radio.  NOT that that helps me particularly but it may help my daughter. 

158. PARP inhibitors

I've known for a while that there is some sort of ongoing treatment available for triple negative cancer that is associated/linked with the BRCA gene.  I've heard it mentioned and seen it referred to online, but NO ONE I know with TN has had it as treatment.

So, late evening I'm online.  I pop onto the Breast Cancer Care Website because a NEBB member has said there is someone on there asking about Oncologists that deal with Triple Negative cancer in Newcastle.  While I'm on, I check the TN forum.  There is a thread talking about websites with info about TN.  I follow a link and before I know it, I'm reading a VERY dense scientific article about treatments; chemo, radio and biological.  Biological? 

Biological treatment is a reference to the mysterious PARP inhibitor treatment.  I read about 4 pages of the article.  It starts out referring to the bad press triple neg cancer gets.  Some of the article is new to me.  Apparently, the risk of recurrence with TN goes way down once the patient gets to 4 years.  After 8 years, the risk of recurrence is practically zero.  Ooooo, didn't know that!

I read on.  A bit more about PARP inhibitors.  I don't really understand so text S, asking him to talk to A, who is a chemo nurse.  PARP inhibitors somehow 'fix' dodgy DNA.  So, linked to the dodgy or faulty BRCA gene.  They sort of fix it. 

I post back on the BCC website, starting a new thread, asking if anyone's had this treatment.  No, BUT someone posts a link to an article about a trial.  At the bottom of the article is the email address of the secretary of the doc that is running the trial. 

10 minutes later, my email to the trial doc's secretary is sent.  And bounced back.  She's on maternity leave BUT gives 2 other email addresses.  Done.  Sent.  Just sit and wait time now.

Report url:
http://nosurrenderbreastcancerhelp.org/breastcancer101/TNBC/TNBC.html

PARP Inhibitor trials article url:
http://www.breakthroughresearch.org.uk/clinical_trials/parp_inhibitor_trial/index.html

Just read new posts on the BCC forum.  Phase 2 trials of PARP inhibitors are being done in Newcastle.  

157. And again

I managed to leave things with I a couple of days.  But its there.  It’s in my mind the whole time.  I had a nightmare about it last night.  And I’m simmering.  I talked to R about it but he’s a bloke.  Doesn’t understand.  He knows I’m upset and tries to help but he really doesn’t get the complexities of my relationship with my daughter.  Neither of us are easy women.   

Eventually I text her.  Just a simple question mark.  She replies relatively politely that she has a day off next week so will book an appointment for then.  I reply asking if she wants me to go with her.  No.  She’s hurt and resentful that I stopped having any contact with her.  She’s VERY upset about the death of the step dad of one of her flatmates yesterday.  He had cancer (lymphoma) and was on chemo although I really didn’t know the details.  I is not good with death (is anyone?).  She had several bereavements in one year, 6 years ago and ended up having a nervous breakdown over it.  It makes total sense that she’d be finding it very hard to deal with.   

I DO really get that she’s scared about getting herself checked because of my cancer.  Knowing about the genetic link is horrific for her.  Huge breasts and young and healthy but knowing that she may have a ticking time bomb in her.  AND then a bad smear and something that needs looking into.  I get it.  It’s terrifying.  And our relationship seems to break down under any stress.  Which is really horrible.   

Please god, please let her go next week.  Please. 

156. Again

Back to my daughter again.  She STILL hasn’t been to have her smear checked.  What the hell do I do?  If I push it with her, she’ll get totally pissed of with me.  Her excuses though, are ridiculous.  Not enough time to go get checked.  Tell cancer that!  Her ignorance astounds me.  

I’m gonna have to stop contact with her until she’s dealt with it.  If she wants my support, I’m there.  If she wants to tell me that she’s having a cancer scare and then expect me to ignore the risk, I can’t do it.  I accept that I can’t force HER to deal with it; she’s an adult now but she can’t make me accept it. 

Get checked!


In the background to this is a letter, informing me that the date for my hysterectomy has been booked.  Fab!  Get it done.  Reduce MY risk.  Just the one cervix to worry about then.

155. Stinging Nettles

Over the next few days I gradually got used to my new boob.  Too small, disfigured nipple, rectangular shape.  Despite not having particularly good boobs before, they were my natural shape.  I really felt now as if I'd got a man boob, given the shape and the size.  I really just didn't get why he'd mismatched them.  The intention, or at least MY intention, was to match up my breasts so that when I went in for my mastectomy and reconstruction, I'd have 2 fairly equal boobs.  Now, my healthy boob nipple was higher and smaller than the cancer boob nipple AND the healthy boob was a lot smaller. 

Almost second to the appearance (which was causing me great distress) was the reaction that I’d developed to the dressings that had been on there.  A sticky stingy rash that felt like I’d got stinging nettles in my bra caused pain and loads of irritation.  Something cold on it helped, but only temporarily.  Back on the pain killers again.  Ironic really.  The pain from the wounds was minor compared to the reaction. 

154. Mutilation

Phoned the plastics breast nurse Monday as instructed.  In the interim, she’d spoken to ‘my’ nurse who’d told her to get me in for Wednesday. 

Turned up, having been warned that I may face a long wait, but was seen quickly. 

She peeled the huge strapping tapes off which stung.  I was half afraid to look but eventually did.  Not bad considering it was only day 6.  The nurse finished pulling the strapping off underneath.  By my armpit was a stingy patch.  She looked at it and proclaimed it a blood blister.  When I tried to put my arm down, it was sticky and felt prickly.  Overall though, the nurse was pleased with the way I was healing.  

Before she redressed it, she asked me if I wanted a look at it.  I was shocked when I did.  My boob was incredibly reduced.  Much more so than I’d expected.  My cancer boob is an F cup.  My new boob looked to me to be a D cup.   

Not only was my boob much smaller than it should have been but the shape was weird too.  It continued into my armpit, giving a weird lump shape at my side.  At the bottom, near the crease, what should have been a rounded curve was oval, almost rectangular.  And the nipple!  My areola was almost completely gone.  Yeah, the nipple was there but around it, there was probably only a centimetre of areola left.  Now, I know my areola was large, larger than the one on my cancer boob, but still.  Now it was ridiculously small.   

I had to stop examining myself in the mirror to allow the nurse to put the new dressings on.  She put on a very light dressing, which was a real relief after the heavy strapping that had been on there.   

I walked out of the plastics unit in a daze.  Upset, shocked, let down by the way my surgery had gone; by what that bloody stupid plastic ‘surgeon’ had done to me.  One thing was obvious.  I needed a new bra.  I wasn’t really in any state to go shopping, but the huge bra I’d been given on the ward just didn’t fit.  M&S bra department was alien, given that I had to eschew the usual underwired bras.  I found myself a selection of soft, D cup bras and tried them on.  Too big.  Not even a D cup then.  Down to C. 

I bought 6 and took them home. 

153. Head OUT of ass

In the background to all this, Me, Me, Me is my daughter.  She still hasn’t been tested following her dodgy smear.  And she now also has housing problems to contend with.  She lives with 2 gay blokes, 1 of whom had developed into a very good friend.  Then she made the mistake of going away on holiday with them and found they were virtually neo Nazis (in her opinion).   

Things in her house have deteriorated and 1 of the blokes has threatened violence.  So obviously, she needs to get out.  She has been house hunting, on her own, unaided (which sounds reasonable but YOU don’t know the background to my little girl; Facebook name is Princess.  Fittingly).  Unbelievably she’s found a tiny little flat that she can just afford.  They check her details and out of the 3 applicants to rent it, she is deemed the best candidate.  Which is great.   

Now though, I’m back to worrying about getting her smear test checked out. 

152. Big bra

It hurts some more. Enough to phone the plastics breast nurse.  It takes her 5 hours to get my answer phone message and call me back.  She’s undecided about if I need to go in or not.  Well, I don’t know!  She’s the expert.   

That night, I put a flannel under the band of my bra to cushion the sore bit.  It helps.  A lot. 

Next day, I keep it in.  I feel like someone’s granny, in my huge functional bra, stuffed at the side with padding and a huge dressing rising up out of my foundation garment into my neckline.  Urgh.  I hate this bit.  Bad enough having the fold in my boob in my neckline, but I remember this bandaged and bound stage from last year.  It’s demoralising. 

151. Day 4

Next day it hurts again.  Painkillers. 

That night, I go home.  R’s kids are over, noisy, messy, and I need some space.  My boob is more uncomfortable than ever, despite the painkillers.   

In the night, I roll over in my sleep and feel… something.  I imagine it feels as if something has burst and then I feel a trickly feeling.  It’s hard to tell though.  The elastic strapping is so thick that I can see or feel nothing through it. 

150. Day 3

The morning of day 3, I feel so well I decide to walk up to the high street.  Because I can.  I feel OK walking there.  Not full of energy but capable of walking.  It’s cool, despite it being July and the coolness makes my boob uncomfortable. 

I do a couple of errands and go to the supermarket.  White stone baking dishes on sale.  VERRRRY cheap.  So I buy two.  Which are then heavy to carry, but WTF.

I manage to carry the stuff I’ve bought home.  Just.  But then have to have a lie down.  

By the evening my boobs hurting a bit.  The nipple and the area where the drain was.  I take some painkillers.

149. Operation Nipple

Admission today for right breast reconstruction, liposuction to flanks and lipofill to last years op scar. 

I was admitted to exactly the same ward as last year.  My attitude was different tho.  Quite jovial and upbeat.  The admitting nurse was nice.  Because we were early, he had time to chat and be human with us; always a nice touch. 

Then the anaesthetist, who was a little more formal but nice still and lastly the consultant.  Who was NOT my consultant but her registrar.  Grrrr.  I’d met him in clinic and not liked him but no one had pointed out that he would be doing my op.  What a choice though.  Allow him to operate or not have the operation.   

He drew all over me, marking where my nipple would be moved to and making minute measurements.  I wasn’t happy with where he wanted to put my nipple.  It was gonna be higher than the other one.  Hmmm.  So much for a consultant listening to their patient.  I explained my opinion and he went off to consult via telephone with CP my real consultant.  She agreed with him and despite misgivings to the contrary, I bowed to their combined experience.   

I had my premed and then, 10 mins later, they came for me.  I was on a trolley because of the premed so was wheeled down.  When I got into anaesthetics my anaesthetist was already there.  He was lovely.  He listened to which vein I wanted the canula in and when I explained the premed wasn’t working he gave me some more through the canula.  Getting drowsy, drowsy, drowsy.

My boob hurts!  More morphine.  Back to sleep.  I wake up on the ward with R sitting next to me, despite my having told him there was no point coming in because I’d be too out of things to spend time with him.  THIS year I make a concerted effort to stay awake for him (last year I slept through his visit).  It's hard talking with an oxygen mask on and eventually I get fed up and take it off.  I manage to stay awake for a while but eventually begin to drift off.  R leaves.  I wake intermittently in the night.  The woman opposite me has diarrhoea on the commode in our room.  Yuk!  I note that my boob isn’t as sore as it could be.  Goodo.  At some point in the night I try to get up to go to the loo and vomit with the effort.  I give in and go on the commode.   

Next day is good.  I make sure I conspicuously get up and about appearing lively to encourage the staff to feel I’m OK to go home.  Overall I DO feel very good.  I’m in a lot less pain than I expected.  Breakfast stays down.  I read the paper a bit.  The nice red headed nurse takes my drain out which is weird.  Not painful but a peculiar feeling curiously near the inside of my nipple.  It can’t have been that far in, surely? 

And home.  Well, well, well.  What a lot of fuss; or not really.  Done and dusted.  I’m a seasoned patient, me.  Even if my nipple is twinging.

148. MRI

I assumed that as I’d just had 2 scans that I wouldn’t need the breast MRI before my op.  I knew I’d have one before THE big op but not this time.  Then the letter came.  Day prior to op.   Someone, somewhere must have requested it. 

I don’t sweat it.  Why bother.  I’ve heard it’s not nice but what I don’t know won’t worry me.

The morning of the MRI, we’re up at the crack of dawn.  Since R’s ‘rethinking’ of his role, I’m more upfront about what I want.  I don’t want to go for the MRI on my own.   

Most unusually, we arrive at the doors to X –ray, which are locked, only to have someone run up to unlock them and usher us in.  In the waiting area, someone comes STRAIGHT over and takes me off to get changed.   

I’m taken into a little room to have a canula put in.  WHAT?  Why?  To put the dye drip in.  Fuck.  As if it’s not bad enough being totally enclosed in the scanner, now I’ve got to have a drip?   The girl looks dubious when I explain about my veins.  She goes off to get a more experienced bloke.  Who then insists on using my burned chemo vein.  He gets the needle in and flushes it through.  It hurts a fair bit.  What an arse.   

In the scanning room I’m made to lie on a bed with my boobs hanging through 2 holes.  Very attractive.  The radiographer (or whoever she is) gets my arms in position to put me into the tube.  At some point, she puts headphones on me because the machine’s going to be loud.  And I’m winched in.  To be honest, I’m most worried about the dye going through my vein.  It hurts and I’ll probably flinch.  And it’s going in mid scan.   

I feel various things during the scans.  I’m actually inside the scanner for 20 mins.  It’s loud, uncomfortable, scary.  My arms shake involuntarily with the stress of being in such an awkward position for so long.  A couple of times I feel fairly hysterical.  She scans me twice and then warns me that the next scan will be 6 minutes long.  The dye will inject half way through.  By this point, I’m getting a little immune to it.   

Nora Jones is playing in the background.  This is somewhat ironic.  R and I watched a Nora Jones concert on TV on our first weekend together, which was very passionate, and I’ve had a soft spot for her music ever since.  Not any more, probably.   

Sooner than I think, it’s all over.  Unfortunately, the drip has made me feel very sick.  Totally psychosomatic.  All the associations with chemo.  But still, the nausea is very real.  In the changing room, I almost barf but manage not to.   

And out and home and in the car and off to work.   

The nausea talks a couple of hours to wear off.  Course, now I’m worrying about where they’ll put the line in tomorrow and the post op nausea.  Better than worrying about having my tit chopped off I suppose.

147. Annual Mammogram aka hell day

So.  New week.  THIS week however, is the week of my annual mammogram and ultrasound.   Anxiety inducing for anyone that’s had breast cancer and additionally so for me because during my last visit to the breast clinic the doctor found ‘areas of concern’ in my boob.   

I’m anxious about I. The house I’m buying has proved to have huge amounts of damp in it, possibly to the sub floor timbers.   I’m also terrified about myself.  One of our group had a dodgy scan a couple of weeks ago and had a week of terror while they analysed her biopsy and finally decided it wasn’t cancer.  The thought of another year like the one I’ve just had makes me want to give up. 

I’m OK until Wednesday but then I start getting scared.  By Thursday morning I’m terrified.   

10.30 I have an appointment in the plastics clinic.  I wanted to see my surgeon to discuss how safe it was, lipofilling my scar, given that I’d only finished radio therapy 4 months ago.  She wasn’t there.  I wasn’t keen on the bloke, her registrar (I get confused by the terms).  He was very new school; very ‘look the patient in the eye and emote’.  I don’t like boorishness but come on, someone that is going to cut you open needs to radiate bloody confidence! 

The downside is that my plastics consultant is leaving.  I knew this.  The REALLY bad bit is that she isn’t being replaced and I’ve got to go on the waiting list for one of the other bloody consultants to wait for the second operation; the big one.  Should be within 16 weeks officially but we all know how waiting list times are increasing again under the bloody Tories. 

Still.  All this minutiae is just distraction from the major action of the day.  The scans. 

R and I kill time in town, waiting.  We have lunch.  Or rather he does.  I have soup if only to kill the sick feeling in my stomach.  If all goes well at my scan, today is weigh in day at fat club and I don’t want to ruin my diet.   

2.30.        No receptionist at the clinic.  I go to the breast clinic to ask but by the time I get back, she’s there.  I’m second one in.  As I walk through the doors I feel as if I’m going to the executioner.  The minor distraction of the fear of pain in my operative boob from the mammogram helps.  I’m still a wimp, but at times, physical pain is a relief from the mental torment of fear and worry.   

The mammogram goes well.  It is uncomfortable this year.  Last year, ironically, when I HAD cancer, it was pain free.  I go back to the internal waiting area to wait for the ultrasound.  Now the terror really sets in.  I’m there for ages.  Probably 30 minutes, maybe more.  Periodically, I feel myself becoming hysterical, unable to control my jittering thoughts and thumping heart rate.  To calm myself, I close my eyes and do my meditation breathing, totally ignoring the woman next to me who is trying to chat.  I REALLY resent the older women that are in the clinic for their check-up mammograms.  They should do different clinics.  Those in there, chatting, never having faced the terror of cancer, should not be mixed in with younger women that have faced death (OK, I know that sounds melodramatic, but it’s how I feel at this particular point).   

Finally, I’m called in.  The consultant is the one that diagnosed me last year.  I tell her this and she apologises.  Poor bloody woman!  The familiarity, however is good, because I’m not embarrassed to ask her if my mammograms were OK.  Both clear!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

I feel as if someone has lifted my head off my shoulders.  My brain has left the building.  She scans my boob.  I have a seroma.  Would I like it drained?  Nah.  Leave it.   

Dressed, I float out to R in the waiting room.  He is oblivious to my relief and witters on about something else.  Outside, I’m a danger to myself.  Fortunately, there is enough of a signal between my brain, floating in the stratosphere somewhere, and my body and I grab his hand as we’re crossing the road because I realise that I am incapable at this point of propelling myself safely through traffic.   

I don’t know what happened to the rest of that day.  Oh yes, I lost 4 ½lbs at fat club.  The rest is gone, never to return.  Whoopee!!!

146. No. Not my girl

Weekend with the family.  Uh oh.  The usual drama, aggro, bickering and stress.  I love ‘em, really I do, but…  they really are nuts.  I’m visiting for a weekend mid term because my first operation is due at the very beginning of the holidays and although I’m hoping I’ll be OK, there’s no guarantee.   

I and I go out shopping on Saturday, because I want some time alone with her.  A couple of weeks previously she’d been away on holiday with her housemates and another couple.  While she was away I’d had messages from her saying how offensively right wing she found them and that she didn’t want to live with them any more.  She’s very like me and also has depressive tendencies and this, combined with the xenophobic, racist, right wing crap that she hated, had really got her down to the point where she’d decided she wanted to move up north to live with me.  I knew she had to be feeling pretty low to even consider that.  So.  Mum and daughter time.  Fortunately, she seemed a lot better and things in ‘the house’ had calmed down.  Obviously, I was very relieved. 

Then she landed the bombshell.  She’s had an abnormal smear and also has a white mark on her cervix.  I try not to overreact.  We’re having lunch when she tells me and she wouldn’t tell me if she didn’t want to be nagged about it.  I try to be calm, discuss it sensibly, but she (true to form, she’s a unique one, my daughter) has chosen to merely take offense at the doctor and disbelieve her rather than deal with it.  We talk a bit, I tell her to make an appointment at the doctors and then amend it to MY making her an appointment at the doctors.  I make her one for  Tuesday morning.   

(Post script.  GP can’t help.  She has to go to the GUM clinic at the hospital)

145. Home

Next morning, I’m awake early.  Result of my early mornings for work, mores the pity.  I lie in bed for a while but then quietly get up and go downstairs to get a complimentary paper, leaving the ladies a note to let them know where I am.   

After an hour or so my phone beeps with a message.  M1 is up and hasn’t seen my note.  I give her half an hour to get dressed then go back up. M2 is still fast asleep and M1 is in the girl’s room.  We sit, chat and have a laugh while A waits for her painkillers to kick in.  It is hard to watch her in pain; she’s so YOUNG and so eager to be full of life.   

Later, when M2 is up and about, we go out for breakfast.  Again, it’s hard.  A’s pain is still not good and her ankles are swollen.  M2 arranges some ice and tea towels and A sits with her legs up, but she’s scared; it’s obvious.  I feel a bit as if she’s my daughter and get the knot of anxiety in my stomach that I get when I is ill or in pain.   

A’s dad picks her up and we go for the train.  Complication: the air conditioning in our carriage has broken and it is unbearably hot.  We drag our stuff through the train, looking for a cooler place but the only place we can get to is first class.  A lengthy discussion with the guard ensues, but he is unwilling to let us move.  The girls try every trick in the book, invoking the C word repeatedly.  E even tells him that she has no nipples, to no avail.    Then an angry lady comes through and shouts at him.  After that he’s nicer to us and lets us go and sit in first class in what was previously a locked carriage that was merely being transported. 

144. Weekend in York!

Whooppee!!!! 

I’m really looking forward to this.  Several group members have dropped out, a couple because they’re having chemo and aren’t up to the trip, W can’t come because although she’s out of hospital, she’s not feeling well enough.  This is crap because the trip was HER idea and a fair amount of the planning was done by her too.

I’m due to meet 2 of the group members at the station in Newcastle.  I recognise M1 from my first NEBB lunch.  M2 has booked the tickets.  We wait for a bit but then I notice it’s only 15 mins before our train leaves.  M1 checks her phone and sees she’s had a missed call from M2.  She calls her back.  M2 has missed her metro and is going to be late.  Argh!  I hate the tension of worrying about missing a train.   

She sends M1 the booking reference so we go to the ticket office to ask if there is any other way to get the tickets.  Not without the card they were booked on.  Bugger!  M1 checks her phone again.  M2 has texted her to say she’s just coming into the station.  We watch the door.  M2 skids through, pushes her card into the machine.  Nothing.  She tries another card.  Still nothing. OMG.  My heart is pounding.  I wish I hadn’t bothered to do this!  Back to the ticket office.  The tickets print and we DASH through the turnstiles (my ticket doesn’t work FFS!) and over the bridge.  I really shouldn’t have worn those bloody high heeled boots!    

We make the train with 2 minutes to spare.   

3 of us get on at Newcastle.  2 get on at Durham.  3 at Darlington.  1 got the train that went 10 minutes before us.  1 arrives by car.   

Lunch first.  It’s great catching up with everyone again.  I’m sitting next to M2.  I met her for the first time at my first NEBB lunch.  She’s lovely.  I remember her telling me about her 1^st  cancer, 12 years before her 2^nd one.  It made a great impression on me; gave me hope.  She’s lovely, gentle, quiet, thoughtful.  Opposite me are E and A.  E also had triple negative cancer, has had a hysterectomy and has, 5 weeks before, had her double mastectomy and reconstruction; a 15 hour operation.  She’s bubbly, cheerful and a mum of 2 despite being only 30.  A is 24 and has bone mets.  She’s lovely although somewhat quieter than E.  As usual, there is the usual cancer talk and at some point, A says that she doesn’t really like discussing it all the time because her condition is so serious.  Fair bloody point.  And frankly, the group spend too much time talking about the C word anyway.  So we drop it for a bit.     

We spend the day in small groups, wandering, shopping.  I go off on my own for a bit because my heads getting too full.  I find it really hard to do full on, in company performing, over a long period of time.  Nothing to do with the cancer, just me. 

When I find the girls again, they’re in Ann Summers, being raucous, letching at the underwear and perusing the dildos and vibrators.  If anyone reading this is in any doubt about whether or not women who have had breast cancer have sex, the answer is obviously a resounding yes!  Boobless, one boobed or delumped, we’re clearly all shagging for England and ho-bloody-ray for it!   

We try to do Betty’s Tea Room but its too full so we decide to save it for when our missing partner in crime, W, can come too.  At this point, most of the day girls leave and the rest of us wander quietly off to our hotel.  We loll in the room for a bit and have a bit of low key conversation and then head down to the bar while A has a nap.   

Showered, changed and remade up we go out to dinner, in a restaurant very close to the hotel.  E has shown us her new boobs, made from her stomach.  They’re AMAZING!  They do have large almond shaped patches where her nipples once were but they are firm and pert.  While we’re in the restaurant, she shows us pics of her old boobs, which were large ‘real woman’s breasts’ as M2 puts it.  The waiter seems to find the 'before' photo very attractive too, much to E’s horror! 

We don’t have a terribly late night.  I’m tired, A is in pain, M1 and M2 were fairly tiddly fairly early, so we go back to the hotel.  I’m asleep before the girls are in bed. 

143. Me looking back?

So I’m mulling things over a bit.  Nothing major, but I’ve just caught a flash of myself in the bathroom mirror, naked.   

It crosses my mind that I don’t have an image in my head of how I look anymore because it’s changed so much over the last year, and because I’ve yo yo’d up and down in weight so much over the last few years that I have no idea who I am, physically at least.  Fortunately, I’ve got an exceptionally strong self of self mentally so the physical isn’t the be all and end all, but still… strange sensation.  Just what DO I look like?

142. Pre Op Assessment

AKA a lot of sitting around.  Bloods are hard to get; veins are fucked.  I’ve lost weight since last time I went, which cheers me up.  It all takes about 4 hours, which is even longer than I’d been told to expect.  I emphasize to the nurse about how sick the anaesthetic made me.  Hopefully this will prevent the sickness following the operation this time.  An x-ray of my chest is considered but the doc decides it’s unnecessary.  

Since I’m at the hospital, I try to change my appointment dates.  Currently, my consultation with the plastics consultant is before my mammogram and ultrasound.  If the scans show anything dangerous, it will alter what the plastic surgeon is going to do, if indeed I then have ANY plastic surgery.  First I try the plastics clinic.  My appointment can be shifted by about 2 hours.  So I go to the breast assessment clinic next.  I explain the problem to the receptionist.  She discusses this with the booking clerk who explains the problem to me.  I’ve been fitted in to the first available clinic where there is a dual mammogram and ultrasound appointment available due to the areas of concern in my boob. 

Areas of concern?  Heart sink time.  Not again. 

141. Dates

I’m on the way home from work and have stopped for petrol when my mobile rings.  It’s the booking coordinator from the RVI.  My reduction op has been set for the 1^st of August.  Whoa! I was quoted the middle of June.  Nope, not possible.  After a bit of whingeing, the date is brought forward by a week but she can’t help me any further.  I ask if I can be called if there are any cancellations.  This at least is agreed. 

140. Rubber Stamped

I’d had 2 appointments at the breast clinic sent to me.  Both times, I’d rung the breast cancer nurse line and spoken to the secretary.  Both times she’d told me I didn’t need the appointments and cancelled them.  Finally, Mr S phoned me.  ‘Why have you missed two appointments?’  I explained to him what had happened.  He rebooked me.   

The usual really.  R went with me, given our agreement following the meltdown.  I stripped off, was examined.  Except this time I was seeing a young female doctor.  I told her about the pain in my  boob and armpit and she examined me REALLY carefully.  She felt the lumps around my scar really carefully; asked me when my mammogram was due and suggested it be brought forward to July.  She also agreed an ultrasound would be a good idea.  Success.   

We discuss why I’m having the prophylactic surgery; the BRCA gene.  She agrees it is reasonable and approves it.   

Later that afternoon, when I’m back at work, R texts me.  The clinic has phoned to say I will be given an MRI scan before my big op.  I have no idea if this is because there is a problem or if it’s routine so I phone the breast care nurse to check.  She phones back and leaves a voice mail message later; purely routine.  Phew!!!

139. The embarrassment factor

N, a dear friend and ex colleague, is staying with me.  I have an appointment with the gynaecologist and the gynaecologist nurse, so N goes with me.  A bit of  a busman’s holiday for her, given that she’s had some health issues recently, but she’s a good friend so I don’t think it even crosses her mind that she doesn’t want to go.   

We wait for ages and then I’m called in.  N follows me into the office, until she sees a phallic shaped scan wand and backs out again.  I don’t blame her!   

I’ve had plenty of smear tests.  No problem.  That scan though!  It was more of a probe than a scan.  It went up and prodded and poked as far as it could do, in all directions!  It didn’t hurt exactly but it was very uncomfortable.   

I saw the gynae afterwards.  My consultant (never met the bloke) was on holiday so I saw a very young Asian registrar.  She was very sweet.  She delighted me by saying I had a small healthy uterus and that the scan was clear.  She examined me and appeared to have her arm in up to the elbow.  FFS!  It felt like something out of 'All Creatures Great and Small' with me as the cow.  Please god, don't find a calf up there!

We discussed why I wanted a hysterectomy rather than an oophrectomy.  She said it should be possible to do a keyhole operation, removing the uterus via my navel.  She also said that ideally, the hysterectomy could be coordinated with the reduction op, cutting down on the number of general anaesthetics necessary.   

I’m not really sure about the double op thing.  It sounds a bit of an ordeal.  My recovery from the big op is going to be bad enough, without having a huge recovery from the 2 more ‘minor’ operations before hand.  

138. Breath holding

W, one of the women in my support group, has secondaries.  She is also the one that did a lot of the mental leg work on our NEBB jolly.  So, we’re all excitedly chatting online about what we’ll do and where we’ll go.  W wants to go to Betty’s Tea Room in particular.

A week before the big day, W develops chest pain.  This worsens until she is admitted to hospital.  It continues to get worse until she’s in agony; morphine even doesn’t touch it.  The group is frantic with worry, with people posting online every few minutes.  No one wants to say it, but we all think it.  Have her lung secondaries spread despite her ongoing chemo?  The hospital think it could be a blood clot.  I have no idea what tests are done, but we know they’re doing everything they can.  A scan is attempted but can’t go ahead because they need to inject her and can’t get a working vein.  The scan is delayed by 2 days but eventually goes ahead.  It seems to take forever before W comes online again and updates us.  A lung infection is suspected, with fluid gathering and causing pain.  As the infection clears up, the fluid should be absorbed and the pain should lesson.  Euphoria!  A happy babble breaks out online.  Our little family can breathe again.

137. NEBB day (or rather weekend) out

This originated because W suggested another NEBB lunch.  Someone else suggested we go to York which then developed into an overnight stay.  There was much to-ing and fro-ing of discussion about train times and hotels.  Fortunately, W and M took the bull by the horns and sorted out a hotel AND booked train tickets for us. 

136. Forgive and forget? Probably not

I don’t see R immediately I get home.  There is much text bickering.  I make my point and he concedes I was right.  He WAS an arse.

He has, however, taken total umbrage at my going on holiday without him.  I don’t see it myself.  I don’t need permission and would do it again.   Still…  he’s apologised and I accept it.  I also make it clear that I need a lot more support in future.  He promises he will. 

We’ll see. 

135. The holiday

The holiday comes in several parts.

The room.

The hotel.

The kids.

The weather.

The resort.

The friend.

The room is OK, JUST.  It’s shabby and cramped but just hovers on the right side of OK. 

The hotel is nice.  Owned by a Spanish family.  Staff are friendly but not too much so (can’t bear obsequiousness) .

The kids.  NOT, NOT, NOT OK.  The bloody hotel is full of kids; boys to be precise, on football camp holidays.  They are unsupervised and roam the hotel until 1.30 in the morning.  I complain at reception every night.  Every night the very nice receptionist goes to the room above mine to tell them her version of ‘shut the fuck up you little shit heads.’

The weather is OK.  My first day there it rains.  For the rest of the week it is sunny and warm.  I lie on the roof terrace reading and sunbathing.  I pretend to myself I’m also writing a scheme of work for year nine.  This is a lie.

The resort is OK.  It’s a residential area.  The hotels there are for Spanish tourists.  Nice, other than the fact that the Spanish frequenting them are accompanied by hordes of kids who they do not monitor or supervise.  I’m beginning to see British kids in a more favourable light.  I AM however, very grateful for the lack of British louts. 

The friend.  Well, well, well.  On my 3^rd day, I notice a plumpish, bleached blonde lady of a rather indeterminate age on the roof terrace.  The same evening, in the bar, this lady makes conversation with me.  Within the first five minutes, she tells me she is on holiday partially recovering from breast cancer.  Uh huh.  I recognise her accent and ask where she’s from.  Gateshead.  Where was she treated?  Oh yes, at the Freeman.  OMG. 

We’re not inseparable for the remainder of the holiday, but it is nice to have some company.  One evening, we venture out to the next town.  We have a mediocre meal and do some strolling shopping and chatting.  Somehow, we miss the last train home, get followed by a gangster/dealer type and struggle to get a taxi.  Finally, we find an English bar, I chat up the cross eyed dwarf barman, who orders us a taxi, on condition that I give him a kiss.  As if. 

Ironically, me and the new friend are on the same plane home.  We want to sit in different places on the plane and do.  In the airport I’d pulled a rather good looking gentleman although I made no effort to do anything about it.  On the plane I consider it, but decide against it.  Not with a boob and a half hon.

134. Hmmmm

The airport.  I hate flying.  I twitch around the terminal in a state of suspended nervousness.  I’m keeping it in check, just.  On the plane, my attention is slightly diverted from my usual hysteria, to the two, highly irritating teenage girls sitting next to me.  I only snap at them when one considers turning her mobile phone on while we’re in the air.  Not bad, for an irritated teacher on a busman’s holiday.

133. Oooer

My friends were aghast.  My mother horrified.  My daughter impressed (that’s my girl).  I emailed R, telling him I was going away for a week on my own.  He replied with a generally chatty email.  OK.  No problem. 

132. Get her!

This is where it really gets funny.  I’m fuming about his gittishness.  I’m no longer talking to him although I’m trying to stay polite and answer his text messages.  I ignore the phone calls.   

It’s heading towards the Easter holidays.  I’m a bit unsure about what to do over Easter.  My daughter doesn’t have any time off and I don’t really want to travel down South to see my family if my daughter’s not going to be there.   The two weeks feel as if they’re looming in front of me.   

While I was having chemo, I’d promised myself a holiday.  In the days immediately after chemo, when I was tied to the bed by sickness, exhaustion and dizziness and dozed intermittently, I dreamed of swimming in a bay in Greece that I’d been to a few years before.  The water was warm, clear and from the cliffs above, appeared as a glittering, shimmering, azure carpet, covering the circular bay.     

Greece, so soon after radiotherapy had finished, was probably out.  I’d already agreed that with R, but Spain…I had no desire, however, to go away for a holiday with R, at this point in time.  It crossed my mind that I didn’t need HIM to go on holiday.  The thought nagged away in the back of my mind for days. Finally, I started looking up holidays on the net.  Fairly quickly, I found one.  Which seemed a bit prophetic.  Usually, I’m crap at finding stuff online.   

I put it aside but the thought kept nagging me.  I looked at the holiday I’d found twice more.  Finally, I sat in front of it, finger shivering over the ‘Enter’ button until, in a fit of irritation at my indecisiveness, I pressed go.  Whooooooo

131. Round two

So I’ve calmed down a lot after I’s visit.  It isn’t gone but I’m moving forwards.  There is a lot of talk in the cancer forums about how partners cope.  Men often find it very hard to cope.  I’ve talked to friends.  One thinks that her partner would be the same.  Great in the initial crisis but afterwards…  Another thinks that R really does care but just always manages to say the wrong thing.  Another still, a cancer friend, thinks that only someone that’s been through it really gets it.  Her partner is lovely, went to all appointments but still doesn’t understand her fears and worries.   

So I’m not hating him or anything, just adding these things up in my head:   

1)  When I found the lump, he didn’t leave the pub to come to see me but made me wait until he left at the usual time.   

2)  Doesn’t come to the appointments with me anymore.   

3)  Resents what the treatment has done to my body and uses it against me in an argument.            

Dinner time.  I’ve cooked something that we can both eat while I’m sticking to my diet.  We’re sharing a bottle of red wine.  We’re laughing, enjoying (?) the food and each others company.  The wine relaxes me and I mention how upset his comment made me.  He point blank refuses to discuss it, tells me he’s not going to talk about it.  Then he goes on to tell me how I do this to him in an argument (I do, because he will argue round and round for hours).   

Dinners over for me.  The evening is over too.  I don’t get up and slam out because I do that a fair bit and it’s always just seen as me overreacting.  We finish eating.  He chats away but I don’t join in.  Clearing up there isn’t any conversation.  I read the paper, he goes to watch the news, then I read my book.  My bedtime is early so I can get away from him.  When he comes to bed he initially cuddles me and asks if I’m OK.  What the fuck is the answer to that one?  Yes, despite cancer and future bodily mutilation I’m OK.  You, despite your health, are a selfish pig. 

130. Me and my girl

My gorgeous lovely girly and her mate gay C come to stay.  I’ve known C since they were 16.  She was with him when he had an almost fatal car accident almost 8 years ago and visited him everyday he was in hospital, despite being terrified of going there and having nightmares about it. 

She is a bit strange while she’s here.  Distant, on edge.  We’re OK though, I think.  A Mexican lunch is lovely and my friend S meets us there.  It’s strange, living so far from home.  My friends hear all about my family and my family hear all about my friends but so far, never the twain have met.  I’m not sure I and S will get on.  They’re both, shall we say, assertive ladies.  Strangely enough though, they do.  C doesn’t get a word in edgeways poor bloke.  Ce la vie.

Later, I, C and I go gay clubbing.  I’m too old for this!  I’m delighted to be able to wear my new, post cancer reward thigh high boots though and feel shit hot.  Later on in the evening, I’m just hot. The flushes have reared their ugly head.  I manage to hang with them all night, first in the pub then in a club. It’s OK but my heart isn’t in it. I can’t decide if it’s because it’s not a great club, because I’m too old or because I’m not drinking.  Could just be a combination of the 3 of course.   

C goes home Sunday, while my girly is staying an extra night.  For some bizarre reason, I is much more relaxed once he’s left.  We have a really nice evening in on our own.  I cooked dinner and we just sat and chilled out in front of the TV.  It was lovely.  Wish we could do it more.

129. Shit, but not as I know it

R has been taking a bit of a back seat in this blog lately.  With me, no news is very much good news.  So his reappearance ISN’T good news.  As I’ve mentioned, he stopped coming to my appointments with me a while ago. The last one he came to, I practically had to beg him to come.  He’d forgotten I’d asked him specifically to go with me and had arranged to meet a friend instead.  He was really arsy with me about my wanting him there and made it clear in his attitude, what he was saying and what he was doing (namely, NOT cancelling or changing his plans for me).  Fortunately, his friend changed their plans so he was able to come but his selfishness hurt and I determined not to ask him again.   

So flashback to my second genetics appointment.  I’d had the letter so knew pretty much the prognosis.  I have variations to my BRCA1 gene which means I’m probably predisposed to more cancer. I also know that to reduce my risk of new cancers (as opposed to a recurrence of the old cancer) that certain surgery is recommended.  Before I get the metro to the hospital, I ask R if he wants to come.  He doesn’t.  On the way, I send him a message saying ‘On my own.  Again.’  When I get back, we bicker about it.  He says that if I want him to go, I should ask.  I tell him that he should WANT to go.  That I would want to if it was him.  As he would want to if he cared about me.  We left it there.  Impasse.  He’s a selfish git. 

Since then I’ve had oncologist appointments, appointments with my surgeon, a biopsy done (clear), 20 X radiotherapy, appointments with the radiotherapy Dr and plastic surgery appointments.  None of which he’s come to.  Two of which friends have come to with me, which STILL hasn’t shamed him into any interest.  We’re still a proper couple, but now, this lack of concern, of care, of interest, of LOVE is in the back of my mind.   

But still.  He knows what I’ve had done.  He was there for the initial diagnosis.  He knows it can come back.  He knows I’m facing huge surgery.  He knew I hated chemo and was terrified of it, although I suspect he thought I was a wimp.  So he really should understand how all encompassing, terrifying and completely controlling it all was.   

Problem.  We’re driving home from a nice late afternoon in the pub.  I mention that he’d promised to give up smoking when I went on a diet and started losing weight.  Which I am (thank GOODNESS!).  He is silent.  I nag some more.  We stop at the traffic lights.  He eyes me, tells me he is killing himself biting his tongue (he’s the least tactful person I’ve ever met – really).  I continue to nag him, more in play than anything.  I know that really, you have to be completely in the right frame of mind to do stuff like that.  Then he hits me.  ‘I didn’t say anything last year when I gave up (smoking) for 5 months and you were on chemo.’  The implication is that while I was putting on weight from the steroids that were stopping me from turning my body inside out from vomiting, he was silently being critical of my weight gain.  Then he says ‘And now you’re going to pull the cancer card.’  

Instant silence.  My mouth is hanging open.  This person loves me?  

We get back to his.  I go upstairs to the loo, collect my things, get the stuff I was going to make for dinner out of the fridge and leave.