On the 28th July 2011, my life changed in one phone call with the simple words - 'yes - it's cancer'. I've created this blog, for the benefit of my wonderful close and extended family; and for my amazing friends around the globe, so I can keep you abreast (!) of my journey.

My diagnosis of 2 x grade 3 (fast growing) tumours - type - 'Triple-Negative' - so called
because it doesn’t
have receptors (proteins on the surface
of cells) for the hormones oestrogen and
progesterone, or a protein called HER2, was shocking. This rare aggressive sub-type of breast cancer, therefore, doesn't respond to common
hormonal treatments, such as tamoxifen or
anastrozole (Arimidex®
) or
trastuzumab (Herceptin®
). Survival rates are considerably lower, than for more common types of breast cancer, especially in years 0 - 5, but on a par 5+ years post treatment.

Fast forward to December 2020. Secondary cancer . Triple negative again but the tumour localised to the scar of the primary cancer. The prognosis is weaker. I am buying myself time - with chemo currency.

This will not be a sad tale - but I hope it will amuse you, inspire you, and most of all allow me to lean on you from afar, as you guide me through what looks like a rocky road ahead.

I can't guarantee a happy ending, but hope to make you laugh to the end.

Monday, 18 January 2021

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. 


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