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.

Tuesday, 16 February 2021

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.

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