Making a right tit of myself

It's a 6am start on the day of the operation and I'm understandably apprehensive. It's a dark rainy morning. Both Lily and Gary want to take me to the hospital. With the Covid restrictions, they can only drop me off at the door and I trot in with my little bag. Dressing gown, slippers and biscuits. You can never have enough biscuits. I get to the ward. Temperature taken. Wristband on. A short wait and I'm ushered to my bay. A lady comes in opposite. The nurse sees to her first. They need to take her blood pressure so she's asked to remove her coat and scarf. Then cardigan number 1. Then cardigan number 2. Then cardigan number 3. Then a sweatshirt down to a blouse. I swear she's one of those Russian nesting dolls! I sit bemused.

My surgeon Mrs Conway comes to see me. We discuss the operation and she helpfully marks the offending boob with a big black arrow. She marks the right hand side with SN (Sentinal node). I'm second on the list but Mrs Conway is not happy with that. I am to be first. The anaesthetist comes in and explains the procedure. Did I also want two nerve block injections into my pectoral muscles whilst I was asleep? Yes. Why wouldn't I?

Because Mrs Conway has spoken - the staff are summoned into action. Theatres are changed. Staff changed. Suddenly I am being prepped at speed. Gown on. Obs done. Fetching blue stockings fitted. I walk to the operating theatre. I hop up onto the bed and the rigmarole of finding a vein begins. Three different staff try and four attempts later - they're in. The anaesthetic begins like too many G&T's. Woohoo - this is fun! And then I'm gone.

I wake up in recovery. Well that's a relief - I survived the operation at least.

I wake again and I'm back in the bay, Did I want tea and toast? That was quick - I've only just woken up. Tea and toast arrives and despite my mouth feeling like a camels hoof, I do partake. Would I like to sit in the chair? Christ - there's no peace for the wicked, They want you up and moving as soon as you can blink. I feel OK though. Obs are done but my blood pressure is low. I drink some squash and then some more. Reinforcements are sent for. That good old medicinal favourite - Lucozade. It's early evening. Would I like to get dressed? Sure thing. As I do, I look down at where naughty left boob used to be. A dressing from my cleavage, round my rib cage to my back. I feel sad. I feel sad for the lack of symmetry. I'm lob-sided. I feel sad that Gary's best man Neil will never be able to rest his beer bottle in my cleavage again....

Reminding myself why I agreed to this, I dress gingerly. I can go home. Major surgery and I'm done in a day. Major surgery to prolong my life. Major surgery to make a right tit of myself.

Lymph node biopsy results next Thursday.

Hide and seek

 Gary and I travel down the M5 to the Royal Devon and Exeter hospital. The nuclear medicine department beckons. Its not that scary - just sounds a bit futuristic. The idea is I have a shot of nuclear substance which will show up lymph nodes during the operation. If the cancer is going to travel anywhere it does so via the lymphatic system. We get to the waiting room and I change into a gown covering my top half. I'm shown into a treatment room where I'm to receive the injection. Why did I think this was going into my arm? No. It's a direct hit into naughty boob. I'm not going to lie - that hurt a bit. A dressing is put on and I am to sit in the waiting room with a rubber ball. I am to squeeze said rubber ball and move my arm rotationally to get the nuclear substance to move through my body. That's OK except there are others in the waiting room not doing this. I feel a bit of an idiot. But needs must. A gentleman arrives at the front desk and clearly can't see the waiting room just behind him. In a Brian Blessed voice he gives his personal details to the nurse very clearly. And loudly. "I'M HERE FOR SOMEBODY TO LOOK AT MY SCROTUM". That's it. Gary and I have gone. We're laughing because we're not supposed to be. Tears rolling down our masks. 'I wonder where he's going to get his injection' I hiss. 'More to the point' says Gary 'hows he going to get it moving.....'

I'm called in to the scan room. On the movable bed. I'm pulled this way and that. Many pictures are taken. Many poses made. After a good 40 minutes I return to the waiting room. There's a problem. I'm leaking apparently. Leaking radioactive substance. I'm redressed and told to repeat the ball clenching exercises for a good 30 minutes. Crikey I shall look like a lob-sided Popeye at this rate. Eventually I'm called back in. The first time round the substance hadn't moved round my lymphatic system far enough. This happens when you've had previous surgery as I have had, The lymphatic plumbing goes awry. More scanning. This time for a good hour. 'This is interesting' says the radiographer 'your first lymph node is on the right hand side not the naughty left. Your body has re-plumbed itself and sent it all the way over to the other side. But you've got some on the left so that's OK - they are just playing hide and seek. 

The results are in...

I'm called back to the hospital a week later. I take Gary with me. I may get news I might not like. We wait to see Mrs Conway. Both Gary and I have nervous tummies. The 'What ifs' are swirling round our heads. We are ushered in. Mrs Conway speaks. It's triple negative again. The most aggressive of breast cancers. Already grade 3 so well advanced. We need a full mastectomy and chemotherapy. No radiotherapy this time as apparently I've had my quota. Nothing to do with NHS supplies - it's to do with how much my body can take. We discuss reconstruction. They don't do it in Barnstaple so I'd have to go to Exeter. But there's a waiting list and no beds in Exeter (Covid) and with this being aggressive cancer, we don't have the luxury of time. I accept my fate. I'll be a one tit wonder. 'Just one tassel for me Doris!'. At first glance of my scan there appears to be no spreading 'Yay' - she'll confirm later. What's the likely outcome? I ask. It's more than likely this will come back a third time. I find this news hard to swallow. What? I'll have to do this again and again? 'Well at least you know what you're going to die of,' Gary offers helpfully.....

I know I need to tell my friends. I write to some, I call some, I email some, I message some. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but I want them to hear it from me. Like all good friends - and I'm lucky - I've got a few, they rally round, send amazing messages of good hope, of practical help and good dollop British humour. I need that. One friend Paul, who I've known since infants school, suggests I tell 2021 that I got a cooling off period and a better deal to take me to 2022. A fine idea.

I'm going for a nuclear scan on Tuesday 19th Jan at Exeter. A nuclear substance injected in so they can locate the lymph nodes during the op, for removal. The naughty cancer travels to the lymph nodes first if its going to spread. Full  operation scheduled for Wednesday 20th Jan. Taking Gary with me for the scan. You know. Just in case. I don't want a bit part in Holby City even if my acting skills were realistic.

Wish me luck!

Drama Queen

I'm off for a CT scan with a contrast dye. I've been before, several times. Nothing new.

I gown up, one at the front and one at the back. Trussed up like a Christmas turkey. This is the scanner that's like a giant polo mint. A cannula is inserted into a vein and I'm hooked up to a blue dye that will permeate my body and show up any cancer that's lurking. I feel a bit warm. The scan takes place and I'm told to swing my legs over the side of the bed. Crikey - I do feel a bit hot. The radiographer takes me to a side room where I'm to wait for 30 minutes - just in case. As I get to the chair I feel I'm going to faint. Whooosh! Gone! The next thing I know I'm on a trolley with several people talking loudly and running me to A&E - which happens to be next door. Into a resus room. Lots of people shouting things about me. It's like a scene from Casualty. I'm trying to communicate but I can't speak. Do I know where I am? My brain is saying Hospital. My mouth is saying 'H.....H......H....' Oh God - I've had a stroke. Doctors and nurses are doing things to me. I'm being attached to drips, attached to monitors. Then I'm stabbed in the thigh with adrenaline. More monitors . More questions. Why can't I speak? I'm stabbed in the other thigh with more adrenaline. Now I'm shaking. What's happening to me.

Time passes. Jane - you've had an anaphylactic shock. You must be allergic to the blue dye we gave you. Do you have any allergies? No! Not until now. Jane this was very serious - it could have resulted in death. Flaming Nora. I only popped out from work for a quick scan! We're keeping you in for 24 hours as a precaution. What? In a Covid ridden hospital. Overnight. Must be my lucky day.

Gary is informed. He's shocked of course. He rings my employers a Lord and Lady. He reaches his Lordship and explains the situation. His Lordship ring down to the office and tells my colleagues I've been electrocuted in the scan!

I'm such a drama queen!

  

Six years on...I'm back...and so is the cancer

 Yes folks - it's true. The naughty aggressive triple negative breast cancer has decided to make a return. In the middle of a pandemic no less.

How did I know? Itchy boob. What was left of my boob after last time's surgery had two big scars on it. They were itchy and I was annoyed. Then I felt it. 'What's that?'. Scar tissue? Or a lump? Mmmm. Has it been there always or is it new? I pondered this scenario for 2 or 3 days, telling no-one. Then I made a GP appointment. That's fun isn't it during Covid? The doctor will call you back. I was at work. Good job I've got my own office. GP calls back and thankfully agrees I should be seen. 2 days later off I trot to the doctors. Masked up. Hands sanitised. I've whipped my top and bra off before the curtain is even drawn. I'm a dab hand at this. The doctor can feel something too. She's put me on a 2 week fast track at the hospital. But we've got Christmas in the middle. My appointment comes through for 29th December and I confess to Gary, Mum and my best friend Julie.

29th December. 9am. North Devon Hospital. On my own because I'm only going for tests. Matching bra and knickers. My surgeon Mr Groome has retired. I'm seen by a lady consultant surgeon Mrs Conway. Whip off the bra. She has a good feel. Yes - there's something there. Mammogram follows. Ultrasound next. Mr Polish. Biopsy now. Remember that? Knitting needle with a gun on the end? Numb boob. Bang, Bang, Bang. 3 goes at it. Do I have any questions? How's it looking? I ask - not expecting an answer. 'It's not looking good'. I'm a bit stunned. Back to the consultant. She looks at me and says 'I'm sorry - you have a recurrence of your breast cancer.' Wow! I wasn't expecting that today! Shit! This is for  real! 'Will it be triple negative again?' 'More than likely but we'll know more next week. And I want you to have bloods and a CT scan so we can see if it's spread'. 

I'm in a daze. And on my own. I managed to get to the car. I must phone Gary. 'It's bad news - the cancer is back. I'm sorry'. And I am sorry - I don't want to put this on anyone. I must go to Mum and Dad's. I arrive, walk in and shake my head. Mum bursts into tears. We hug. We've been denied hugs by the Covid rules (my parents are 84) but we cling on to each other. My Dad finally emerges from the kitchen 10 minutes later.. Dad - I've got bad news - the cancer has come back. More hugs. Two fingers to Covid.

And now Lily. My gorgeous precious 15 year old daughter, whose greatest fear was my cancer coming back. I sit next to her and tell her. God give me strength. She sobs, clinging helplessly to me. This is heartbreaking . Then questions. A 1001 questions and I try to answer all of them truthfully. An no, I can't guarantee I wont die. I'm so sorry.