Tsunami

 This post is not for the faint-hearted. 

I awoke on Monday morning at 4am. My pyjama top was wet through. As was the bed, the sheets, the duvet. What on earth?? I got up and examined the evidence (you can tell my Dad is a retired copper). I was leaking, no, pouring, from my wound. I had erupted. I know I had some fluid build up but was told my body would absorb it naturally. Yeah right. I dressed the wound with a waterproof dressing, changed PJ top. Laid towels on the bed so as not to disturb Gary and tried to sleep. Half an hour later I'm wet through again. Repeat 4 times. By 7am the alarm goes off. I show Gary and we set about stripping the bed - Gary's doing his best not to faint.... I have brown apple juice coming out of me like a tsunami. Its gone through the sheet, the mattress protector and onto the mattress. I feel like crying. Gary only changed the sheets yesterday.

I ring my special hotline to the breastcare nurses at 9am. Can I come straight to the hospital? Sure thing. The use of sanitary pads to stem the tide becomes no laughing matter. Gary gets me there for 9.30am. He sensibly waits in the car. He doesn't need to see this. The kindly, efficient nurse Karen works quickly and before I know it I have a tap inserted into the wound. This tap is turned on the the fluid flows out into the measuring bowl. It's surreal. I have bodily fluid being pumped out. I am a beer keg that's just been tapped. Lots of squeezing and pushing. She's determined - every last drop - and it's done. I have been drained. We calculate over a litre of fluid. Large steristrips to mend the breach in the dam wall and two enormous waterproof dressings to contain the leaks. This may build up again, I'm told. Come back tomorrow if you are leaking otherwise we'll see you on Thursday at 3pm. If this doesn't heal - we may have to postpone your chemo. Oh no you wont! - I chime. I've got to be good - got to rest up again - be a lazy bum. That doesn't stop me putting washing on to boil!

Tuesday morning. I've had a dry night - like a baby. May this continue.

A little prick...

 Part of the deal to having chemo, was to have my Covid vaccine. Despite now being classed as 'Extremely Clinically Vulnerable' I didn't come up as such on the NHS covid vaccine site. My records hadn't caught up with the list yet. I phoned the GP's surgery and was met with the stern phone message warning of 'DO NOT PHONE THE SURGERY FOR YOUR COVID VACCINE - WE WILL CALL YOU'. I ignored that, obviously. When answered, I simply explained my dilemma. My oncologist had requested I had my jab ASAP. Waiting for the computer to say NO - I was most surprised to hear '5.10pm on Saturday at the Leisure Centre?'. Crikey. Just like that.

So it was on Saturday, that I went for my jab.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Just a little prick.....!

Chemo Cocktail

 When I was ill before, that is back in 2011 when I was first diagnosed with cancer, several friends did mad things. Things like 10k runs, ran marathons, and jumping out of aeroplanes, all in the name of charity. They wanted to raise funds in my name for my chosen charities. I split the funds between my local hospice and a new cancer unit about to be built at North Devon Hospital. It was with some irony that I entered the Seamoor Unit on Thursday. Set away from the main hospital building, I admired its sense of calm, its newness and seemingly cheerful staff. I raised a virtual glass to those friends who had selflessly faced their own fears and raised funds for such a unit. At least I'll get my monies' worth!

After initial checks, height, weight, BP, pulse, oxygen levels I a called in to see Dr Stephens the Oncologist. I was surprised to be greeted at the door by Stephen Merhant wearing a mask. I suppressed a giggle wondering where his sidekick Ricky Gervais was hiding. Come on Jane, this is serious. A matter of fact type of doctor, we discussed my previous experience with chemotherapy. I had tolerated it quite well. That's not to say it was easy. It wasn't. It was bloody hard. It got harder and harder each round you had but I never failed at it. My bloods each time were good enough for more and I never abandoned nor postponed any of the treatments. Dr Merchant, sorry, Stephens explained that the evidence for chemotherapy in recurrent cancer is much weaker than primary cancer. Mmmm. That's not brilliant then. But its the only tool in their toolbox. Furthermore I can't have the chemo combo (FEC100) I had before because I've reached my lifetimes' limit. So my chemo cocktail this time is TC (Docetaxel and Cyclophosphamide). Four rounds with 3 week intervals. We went through the side effects. Nausea, hair loss, sores, bone-marrow suppression, bleeding, anaemia. And yes I was made aware of the important risk of chemo related toxic death. On that cheery note - I signed my life away.

So Saturday 27th Feb Covid Swab

Monday March 1st Pre-chemo appointment

Tuesday March 2nd PICC line inserted

Wednesday March 3rd First round of chemo

Bring it on......I love a cocktail.....cheers! 

Dodging a bullet

 A week after surgery and it's time to go back to the hospital. The first challenge was washing my hair. With the instruction to keep my dressing dry, I'd been having a weird half shower (bottom half) and a wash in the sink for the top half. My hair had to make do with dry shampoo and wearing in a pony tail. The advantage of this Covid lockdown number 3 of course, is that we can't go out and we can't have any visitors - so who's going to see me? So I lean tentatively over the bath with the shower in hand and give my locks a well deserved wash. Bliss.

With my hair washed and dried; make-up on and a falsie in, I feel almost human again. We (Gary and I) arrive at the hospital, temperature checked and wait in the waiting room. We do have to wait a good 45 minutes which is not great. I'm very nervous. If there's cancer in my lymph nodes, I know that my future is very uncertain. I have a raft of questions ready to ask. We're called in and Mrs Conway is waiting. As we sit, she speaks immediately. There are no nasties. There is no cancer in the lymph nodes. I repeat. No cancer in the lymph nodes. I am so relieved, I can't tell you. The rest is a blur. She wants to see her handy work, remove the dressings. She's pleased by what she sees. I daren't look. She tells me I'll be passed to the oncology team and the next treatment will be 4 - 6 months of chemotherapy.  We leave the room and there's a spring in my step. 

I've dodged that bullet. And I'm smiling. Glad to be alive.

Oncologist 11th February.