tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44405029375062832812023-11-16T12:32:21.089+00:00red shoes green peppers"It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces", said Bridget Jones.
I guess she means like the day someone says to you: "Yes, it is breast cancer".Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-47126924194872826482010-12-31T20:59:00.022+00:002011-01-14T19:50:53.603+00:00Life is a rollercoaster ...You know ... I used to say “<em>if only I could have a pound for every compliment I receive for them red shoes.</em>” However, over the last few weeks it would be for each time someone has said to me “<em>Gosh</em> <em>... doesn't time fly ... where did that year go ...?</em>” <br />
<br />
These comments have left me rather bemused ... wondering whether I am now looking so good that people have forgotten what has featured during my year ... or (what is more likely) is that they have very short memories. You see, to be honest, I wouldn’t say this year has been totally plain sailing. Why not? Well, let's spend a moment flicking through my 2010 diary ...<br />
<br />
January ... mmm ... that was when I had my seventh and final chemo. Moving onto February there were discussions about a mastectomy – something that I really didn’t want – though the ultrasound showed Yukky Lump had not totally disappeared or dispersed but had shrunk and a lumpectomy was indeed possible. In March I had surgery – including the removal of 11 nodes – which was thankfully successful, and finally seven months after my diagnosis I was told that at this moment in time I was cancer-free. <br />
<br />
Moving onto May ... when I experienced the high of returning to work ... and the low of four weeks on my back enduring radiotherapy. June and August saw sunny spells in France ... with the final removal of my trademark Baker Boy caps ... coming back to discussions in September regarding further surgery. Then, in mid-November, I saw not one op but two ... asymmetrical surgery on my ‘other side’ and the abstraction of my ovaries. Following a few nail-biting weeks, when I was dreading further bad news, I was informed that the tissue removed had been tested and everything was looking good ... and I was finally done and dusted ... in time for the festive period and the New Year.<br />
<br />
Last Christmas I spent a lot of time thinking about this Christmas ... and this Christmas I spent some time reflecting on last Christmas. Twelve months ago I wasn’t in a good place – not really mentally and definitely not physically. I had just received my sixth chemo – Taxotere number two – and the weird second wave of side effects were just kicking in. I probably could have endured the cardboard mouth and achy joints – but the sore throat, hacking cough, the loss of voice and the hideous rash were terrible. On Christmas Day family members cried when I walked into the room, I missed the <a href="http://redshoesgreenpeppers.blogspot.com/2009/09/eeny-meeny-miney-mo.html">Pigeon Pooh Crew</a> Annual Festive Outing ... and by Boxing Day I was visiting the out-of-hours GP to discuss the possibility of being admitted to hospital so I could be treated with antibiotics.<br />
<br />
During this horrid spell I remember sitting on my bed – feeling isolated and lonely – flicking through my <em>Favourites</em> and deciding to pop over to <a href="http://alrighttit.blogspot.com/">Alright Tit</a>. Now, for those of you who have had some unfortunate experience of BC the chances are you will also know Lisa .... Lisa is <em><u>the</u></em> Queen of the BC blog world. <br />
<br />
I came across Lisa very shortly after my own diagnosis and, although it sounds funny to say it now, I couldn’t bring myself to read large segments of her blog. It was so brutally honest and detailed there was only so much that my distraught emotional state could take, so I would read one entry, switch off and return at another point. However as time went on ... and as I came to terms with what I had ... and the treatment I was to receive ... I became a regular reader.<br />
<br />
So what did Lisa have to say during the 2009 festive period? Well, she had posted a photo of herself and husband P. In fact two pictures. The first taken on a bus in London a week after her own diagnosis ... and then the second, more recent snap, captured on a boat on the Seine. She looked lovely in both. Not just lovely ... but happy... a girl that looked a picture of health and fitness ... who was having fun. Lisa’s accompanying commentary basically said “<em>this was me then</em>” and “<em>this is me now ... we made it</em>”.<br />
<br />
So I dropped her a note (mine was one of 31 comments on that entry – I told you she is the Queen of blogs, I think the maximum I have attracted is half that number) and this is what I wrote:<br />
<blockquote><em>Hey - that is just what I needed. I am having a totally shite time in the middle of this cancer crap - and Christmas crap. Gives me hope that one day I can truly smile again.<br />
<br />
Love and hugs - P x</em></blockquote><em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em>Lisa’s pictures and lengthy personal response to my comment gave me inspiration and on my own blog this very day last year I said: <br />
<blockquote>“<em>I bought myself a camera for Christmas. I know, I already have a camera. But the camera I have is big and bulky ... in your face ... so I decided to purchase a little cutie which I can pop in to my back pocket. And it is pink! Yes, how girlie. Now, I am usually very practical with these things. Normally I would buy one in black ... or silver ... with view to the fact that once I have outgrown it then I can pass it on to one of my boys ... they are both broad minded and level headed but they don’t ‘do’ pink . But I didn’t this time. I just thought sod it. I want pink. I am having pink. </em></blockquote><blockquote><em>So far I have taken one picture with my new pinkie camera. Yep, just the one. Of what? Of me. Yes, rather surprisingly of me. Me, who hates having my pic taken at the best of times ... and this definitely ain’t the best of times. Now, don’t worry I am not gonna post it anywhere. Not yet anyway. I think the description above probably gives you a pretty good idea of what I look like at the moment. Perhaps the word ‘pretty’ isn’t the most appropriate word to use ...</em><br />
<br />
<em>You know the last week has been really tough. The worst in terms of feeling physically poorly. I won’t lie ... there have been tears. But not that many really. Yeah, I got cheesed off ‘cos I wanted to enjoy Christmas Day. I didn’t want my children to wake up on their special day and see their mum looking and feeling so God damn awful. And all the nice things I had planned ... meeting up with my friends for brisk walks and leisurely lunches ... a Christmas party with colleagues ... have all been knocked on the head ... I was really disappointed about that. But mentally I could have been worse ... and am not quite sure why I wasn't ... why I haven’t dissolved in the middle of the kitchen floor. And the only thing I can put it down to is that I have felt so physically poorly that I couldn’t slip mentally ... ‘cos my mind and body would not be able to cope with both. Or perhaps when you feel so so bad that you know that the only way is up ... I dunno. So what has kept me going? Next Christmas. Yeah, I know, it sounds a bit odd. Especially from me ... who doesn’t really ‘do’ Christmas. </em><br />
<br />
<em>You know I mentioned that red silk dress of mine ... the one that I wore to the Christmas party last year. The one where my Little Friend said that I looked like Jessica Rabbit. Well, I have been thinking about that. Thinking about it a lot. And I have made a promise to myself ... that next Christmas I am going to be back in that dress ... and I ain’t going look like I did for Christmas 08 ... no, that is because for Christmas 2010 I am going look even better. </em><br />
<br />
<em>I am going to have the little pixie crop, just like I had done a week before my hair dropped out, and which everyone loved. My brows will be back ... and hopefully my beautiful long black lashes ... Oooh ... and as a treat ... I think I might buy some new cracking killer heels ... red of course. Then I will take a second photo with my little pinkie camera. And I will be able to say ... that was last Christmas ... poorly, blotchy and hairless ... but I made it ... just look at me now. I am back</em> <em>..."</em></blockquote>And so that is exactly what I am going to do ... what I promised a year ago today.<br />
<br />
This is this time last year ...<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu_d93l0VO_tK3HsiHUU3c8qeXwjl5nGrjJnrxJDkMkW2go8YisBdpQcQsMO4ZFQ25G1KRkNXR7Q0w5nX7qMUyLjCjHmZmuPq7lV7GlccLW46J89tTaLplMXot8PntiF7Nf-rVECk-EFyk/s1600/Picture0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu_d93l0VO_tK3HsiHUU3c8qeXwjl5nGrjJnrxJDkMkW2go8YisBdpQcQsMO4ZFQ25G1KRkNXR7Q0w5nX7qMUyLjCjHmZmuPq7lV7GlccLW46J89tTaLplMXot8PntiF7Nf-rVECk-EFyk/s1600/Picture0005.jpg" /></a></div><br />
And ... this is now ... <br />
<br />
Me in a new red frock ... and new red shoes ... with that pixie hair cut ... with a celebratory glass of red. I hope you think I have "made it" ... and that it gives inspiration to anyone who is currently where I was this time last year.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrLntEmjeSOlBBKNLmyrmdukNQN8gZ84h1_Fn1DbjY7o3E4jqDuFTVl5XlGt5SWvXbh_Jrhh3OCdS13_Mms0Z_tPaIF11ebCAMmEztwJlMEV4JAdfQCEI78oWDyFopg8Ihs2PpiwkzoHm/s1600/IMG_0229.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrLntEmjeSOlBBKNLmyrmdukNQN8gZ84h1_Fn1DbjY7o3E4jqDuFTVl5XlGt5SWvXbh_Jrhh3OCdS13_Mms0Z_tPaIF11ebCAMmEztwJlMEV4JAdfQCEI78oWDyFopg8Ihs2PpiwkzoHm/s1600/IMG_0229.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
I talked about rollercoasters in my very first ever Red Shoes Green Peppers blog ... so I think it is only fitting to refer to them in my very last.<br />
<br />
Indeed life <em><u>is</u></em> a rollercoaster ... but I am getting used to riding it. In fact, I would say I am riding it bucking bronco style, one hand gripping and the other swinging, into 2011 ... <br />
<br />
Appreciating that most women would not want to stand in my shoes ... but that there are a few out there which gladly would ...<br />
<br />
Saying farewell to Red Shoes Green Peppers ...and possibly hello to Red Shoes Red Wheels ... <br />
<br />
Someone out there knows what I am referring to ... the rest of you will just have to wait and see ...<br />
<br />
In the meantime I would like to wish you a happy, healthy, fit and fun New Year!!!Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-79456427500498792722010-11-22T20:15:00.007+00:002010-11-23T09:37:28.349+00:00When ‘C’ is the common denominator ...Back in January I went to the supermarket to do my weekly shop. As I was wandering around the store I caught sight of my reflection. It was really was one of my worse times ... both mentally and physically. My bare scalp was covered by one of my trademark Baker Boy caps ... my eyebrows had long gone ... and there was nowhere to apply my mascara. My treatment had finished but my consultants were trying to prepare me for the possibility of a mastectomy ... not something we had aimed for... and something I certainly didn’t want.<br />
<br />
As I took the items out of my trolley and put them on the conveyor belt the lady behind the till stopped ‘pinging’ my goods and looked up at me. “<em>Are you having chemotherapy</em>?” she enquired. I was so cheesed off that I was tempted to snap “<em>What is it to you</em>?” But I didn’t ... I just affirmed I was. “<em>I hope you don’t mind me asking</em>” she said, “<em>but that was me last year. Breast cancer</em>?” I looked at her, astonished. She looked so well ... so healthy ... and I told her so. “<em>What about the chemo ... did it work</em>?” I asked urgently. She replied it had. “<em>So what about surgery, did you have a lumpectomy</em>?” “<em>No, no</em>” she replied. “<em>I just wanted the whole thing off. Get rid of the breast.”</em> I told her that was something I didn’t want. “<em>Having said that</em>”, she replied, “<em>I don’t like not having a breast and I am hopefully going to have reconstruction soon</em>.”<br />
<br />
I wished her well ... and as I walked away I was very grateful ... despite my initial annoyance ... that she had spoken up and given me some encouragement.<br />
<br />
A couple of days ago I was required to go to the Oncology Department for a photo shoot. Whilst waiting for everyone to turn up I stood in the waiting room. Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly flashed by ... was a little surprised to see me ... but said “<em>hello</em>”. I wondered how he does it ... how does he surround himself with people with cancer all day, every day.<br />
<br />
Then a face caught my eye. A young angelic face ... a girl who was in her 30s ... maybe even her 20s ... sitting under a familiar turban-type cap. And as I looked at her ... she looked at me ... and I remembered sitting in the very same spot watching ‘NHS managers’ wandering in and out ... and wondering where they were going and doing. I guess she thought I was ‘just’ one of those. I wanted to go up to her and say “<em>This was me, this time last year I was going through this too. I made it. Well, this far. You can too</em>.”<br />
<br />
But I didn’t get chance ... as I got called through to take the pic. It was a donation from a lovely chap ... probably the same age as me ... a football referee so probably quite healthy ... he had been diagnosed a few years ago with cancer of the throat ... but went on to have cancer of the tongue. He proudly told me the details and said that he is now in remission. I was really pleased for him ... he really didn’t know how pleased.<br />
<br />
That was the first of two trips down memory lane – the second was to the Breast Care Unit. Now when I came back from holiday back in June – after I had finished my four weeks of rads and completed my treatment – one of my first meetings over at the hospital was up at the BCU. A group of patients were looking to raise some money and for the unit and I was asked to go along, in my capacity of Comms Manager for the hospital.<br />
<br />
It was a late afternoon meeting and I was a little nervous. It was my first full day in the job ... and the very first day that I had gone into work without my cap on. I needn’t have worried ... as I walked in I was greeted by about a dozen very smiley faces. One by one the ladies went round the room introducing themselves. And then it got to me ... “<em>Hi, my name is Paula ... the Communications Manager ... and a patient of Dr J’s ... I finished treatment just over a week ago</em>.” There were cheers and clapping ... it was so welcoming.<br />
<br />
Later on we moved down to the Board Room for a presentation. By chance I was sat next to Dr J and all ‘the girls’ were sat on the opposite side of the table. I looked over at them in total awe. They were all chatting, laughing and giggling ... all enthusiastic about their mission to raise money for the unit. I watched and thought they could be anywhere and anyone. A group of old schoolfriends ... colleagues ... a gaggle out on a hen night ... nobody would have known they had one thing in common ... breast cancer ... and they were all patients of Dr J. I felt so inspired ...<br />
<br />
Someone walked by to pick up a cup of tea and whispered to me “<em>I expect you still like a patient ... you haven’t moved on yet</em>?” She could have almost read my mind. “<em>No, no</em>” I replied, “<em>it is still early days</em>”. “<em>Don’t worry ... you will quickly move on" </em>she replied.<br />
<br />
I thought of that comment when I returned to the Breast Care Unit a couple of Saturdays ago. I was late ... as usual ... and ‘the girls’ and Dr J were already sat comfy, drinking coffee and eating muffins. They welcomed me just as warmly and introduced me to<a href="http://www.thisissouthdevon.co.uk/news/Casualty-actress-joins-breast-cancer-campaign/article-2893627-detail/article.html"> Rebekah Gibbs – who had volunteered to compere the first charity event ... a Gala Ball</a>.<br />
<br />
As I grabbed my own coffee I looked across at Rebekah ... and thought it is a funny old world. You see, when I was very first diagnosed I did lots of googling ... desperately trying to find any ‘ray of hope’. Stories of women who had been told that they had breast cancer at a similar age to me ... that had got through the horrid diagnosis, treatment ... including chemo, who had experienced the trials and tribulations of losing their hair, had undergone surgery ... to finally live another day. And, during my hours and hours of cyber searching I had come across Rebekah.<br />
<br />
Rebekah Gibbs ... also known as BBC Casualty’s Nina Farr ... was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 35 ... ten weeks after her daughter Gigi was born. Despite the shock she went on to write a book and a weekly column for the Daily Mirror ... and this was what I read and what gave me some comfort and confidence that I could get through it all.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFvk78Bhbw2185tP08DUXoWkxDc1We8eilqluUXn7m3KAsa5zWPDzOahu5w9X7XkyB6_RaXdSU_qTFAnhyphenhyphenUGiUtl38bMSj_XjUEysRqoKDE4dNI4kfxChHlY49ag2NQ5zL4ymvhFZliUi/s1600/1858917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; height: 129px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 178px;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFvk78Bhbw2185tP08DUXoWkxDc1We8eilqluUXn7m3KAsa5zWPDzOahu5w9X7XkyB6_RaXdSU_qTFAnhyphenhyphenUGiUtl38bMSj_XjUEysRqoKDE4dNI4kfxChHlY49ag2NQ5zL4ymvhFZliUi/s1600/1858917.jpg" /></a>And there I was a year later ... sat in my BCU waiting room ... drinking coffee and swapping stories with her. Note that I didn’t mention the muffins ... they were passed under my nose and as I went to grab one I noticed Rebekah’s black skinny jeans tucked into some absolutely ‘gorgeous dahling’ black boots ... and suddenly changed my mind ...<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">On Thursday I was back over at the hospital ... stood in a now familiar position ... Dr J drawing in black felt-tip pen over my semi-clad torso. “<em>Hey, I just thought</em>” he chuckled, “<em>I just realised</em> <em>you are going to miss the Ball on Saturday night!”</em> “<em>Yeah I am!</em>” I laughed. “<em>After all the build up I am once again going to be sat home alone ... a right Cinderella</em>”.</div><br />
And as I relax at home recuperating from last week's surgery ... which consisted of not just one op, but two ... with two different surgeons ... I am not sad or depressed about missing the Ball. Don’t get me wrong it would have been lovely to be actually there ... with my new BCU friends ... but I was there in spirit ... even if I was sat at home in front of the TV with my beans on toast.<br />
<br />
The first time back in March I had to have surgery ... a lumpectomy ... because I had cancer.<br />
<br />
But on this occasion I made the decision to have surgery ... for cosmetic reasons and to hopefully prevent me from getting a different type of cancer in the future.<br />
<br />
This time the ‘C’ was ... for choice ... <br />
<br />
and control ...<br />
<br />
... and a cracking pair ;)Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-90079175930641345112010-10-02T18:17:00.013+01:002010-10-28T23:09:24.994+01:00Life on a ‘G’ string<em>When you’re with a man you like, be quiet and mysterious, act ladylike, cross your legs and smile. Don’t talk much. Wear black sheer pantyhose and hike up your skirt to entice the opposite sex! You might feel offended by these suggestions and argue this will suppress your intelligence or vivacious personality. You may feel that you won’t be able to be yourself, but men will love it!</em> <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">The Rules ~ Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider ~ 1995</div><br />
The miles and miles of vines and vineyards had expired and we were skirting one of those non-descriptive industrial French towns ... so unremarkable I can’t remember its name. We were on the way to a medieval fort up in the mountains. <br />
<br />
“<em>I am glad we are going out for the day</em>” said S, “<em>I couldn’t do another day on the beach, it is far too hot. Besides ... I am starting to look like a Sambo</em>.” “<em>You could never be a Sambo ... you don’t have any hair</em>” I retorted. “<em>As opposed to you</em>” he replied, pointedly looking at my dark curly post-chemo barnet. “I <em>guess you are going for the golliwog look?” </em>he chuckled. “<em>Actually I used to love golliwogs</em>” I responded huffily. <br />
<br />
I turned away and looked out of the winddow ... my mind drifted as I thought back to my childhood and how I used to eagerly and routinely chop out the coupons on the Robinson’s marmalade jar ... and despite this I never obtained the much wanted golliwog badge for my school blazer ... as I kept losing the little slips of paper and struggled to save the six that I needed.<br />
<br />
“<em>Why does everyone called Ronald have ginger hair?</em>” asked a little voice behind me, breaking my train of thought. “<em>Such as ...</em>” I asked rather bemused. “<em>Well, there is Ronald McDonald</em>” Harry Look-a-likey replied and pointed back to the Golden Arches that we had just passed. “<em>Right ... and?</em>” “<em>And Ronald Weasley</em>.”<em> </em>OK so he didn’t quite say “<em>doh</em>” but it could have easily followed. If my life is ‘g’ filled then his generation has moved onto ‘h’ ... all Harry Potter, Homer, Halo and hamburgers.<br />
<br />
“<em>I don’t think Ronald Reagan ever had ginger hair</em>”, I finally replied. <br />
<br />
“<em>Who is Ronald Reagan ...?</em>”<br />
<br />
That evening we sat on the sofa and watched Grease. I snuggled up to Harry and said “<em>I was your age when this film came out.” </em>He nodded a little but said nothing. I am sure that as my head touched his I could swear I could hear his mind saying “<em>Please ...</em> o<em>ne day ... let me sit down to watch this film without her saying that</em>.” Anyway he got his own back, because what I didn’t realise until a few days later was that the Harry Look-a-likey thick brunette mop was riddled with nits and they took the opportunity at that very moment to jump into my boucles. Ruddy nits ... something I haven’t had since I was his age ... and something wouldn’t have ... couldn’t have ... this time last year.<br />
<br />
Grease was the first grown up film that ever saw. It was 1978 – a few years before Ronald R became president of the United States - I was 10 years old. I went with my friend Sue. It was Thursday night – a school night – "<em>we stayed up</em> <em>til ten o’clock</em>". I felt very grown up. And ... thinking about it ... it was about that time that life changed ... I changed ... and I started to mature. Up until then my life had been very Enid Blyton. All Mallory Towers, O’Sullivan Twins and Famous Five. My heroine was George. Famous Five George – the bright one of the pack - with her dark curls and cool dog. To the extent that I wrote “<em>George</em>” on my pink eraser and tried to get my friends to call me that.<br />
<br />
And then things changed ... I left George and her jolly ginger beer behind ... and I started shopping at Chelsea Girl and listening to songs like Heart of Glass and Enola Gay. Ironically those tunes are still on my playlist today ... unlike other things that have come and gone ... like golliwogs ... George and Mildred ... <em>My Guy</em> ... and gob stoppers ... ‘cos they were all politically incorrect. Which is why Grease is hanging on in there right? Mmm ... let’s just stop and have a think about that ...<br />
<br />
Grease. Boy meets girl on holiday. He likes her. She likes him. They think they won’t see each other again ... but by chance she doesn’t return to Australia as planned ... instead she stays and goes to his school, Rydell High. However ... when they meet up he acts really cool and shuns her as she doesn't fit in with his image. There is some emotional to-ing and fro-ing. He does up a car and claims that "chicks'll cream for greased lightnin'" - that it will be "a real pussy magnet" and that "we'll be gettin' lots of tit". In turn, she bouffants her hair, puts a fag in her mouth and sews herself into some incredibly tight leather trousers ... and he changes his mind ... ahem ...<br />
<br />
My favourite character was feisty funny Rizzo ... who sings "<em>Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee</em>" and “<em><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IGwVLJrhw5Q&feature=related">There are worse things I could do</a></em>”. Sandy prior to her transformation was a bit wet ... and afterwards ... well ... somehow I knew even at that tender age that never in my lifetime would I squeeze into a pair of leather trousers like that. Having said that ... I can’t claim that I could foresee that thirty years later that my post-chemo look would leave me looking like Rizzo ...<br />
<br />
Before going on holiday we had a barbie ... the old <a href="http://redshoesgreenpeppers.blogspot.com/2009/09/eeny-meeny-miney-mo.html">Pigeon Poo</a> crew ... My Little Friend, the Silverback and the Prince and Princess of Darkness. With it being August 1st I had images of us sitting in a beautifully sunny garden ... but it wasn’t like that ... and the afternoon commenced with the guys erecting the gazebo. The gals supervised from the kitchen ... with a little glass wine ... trying to hum the tune of the Good Life - but coming out with Terry and June – I am still not sure why. Then the conversation moved on ...<br />
<br />
“<em>I remember our first meeting Princess</em>”, said My Little Friend. “<em>The Prince turned up at the curry house with his new girlfriend. All long blonde hair ... high heels ... wearing black leather trousers</em>”. “<em>Ooh ... I’ve still got those trousers</em>”, replied Princess, “<em>they are in the attic</em>”. “<em>I bet you can still fit into them?</em>”, replied My Little Friend. “<em>I am not sure about that</em>”, admitted Princess. “<em>Well</em>” I chipped in “<em>I can safely say that I certainly don’t have any leather trousers in my closet</em>”. “<em>No</em>” replied My Little Friend, deadpan and no second of hesitation, “<em>we would have to kill a few more cows for that to happen</em>.”<br />
<br />
G is for Game for a Laugh ... do you remember it ... awful programme ... but time for a revival me thinks ... I have a few victims lined up already ...Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-83337619456067122252010-08-08T17:09:00.019+01:002010-08-15T21:35:46.669+01:00Simply red ...<em>I love the thought of giving hope to you</em> <br />
<em>Just a little ray of light shining through</em><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">Mick Hucknall ~ Fairground ~ 1995</div><br />
My mother died 14 years ago, aged 53, of ovarian cancer. She had been diagnosed five years before ... but to be truthful the cancer had probably been there since her early forties, when she was a similar age to me. For a year or two they had said she was peri-menopausal and by the time they realised the real problem, and operated, the tumour was the size of a melon.<br />
<br />
I wore a pillar box red jacket to my mother’s funeral. I wasn’t being disrespectful. My mother didn’t like black. I don’t recall her ever wearing anything black. Black doesn’t suit me ... and it probably didn’t suit her. She liked red ... she liked the red jacket ... so I wore that.<br />
<br />
I remember the cortege pulling up outside the crematorium, and as I opened the car door and climbed out I heard someone say “<em>There’s Sylvie</em>”. It was an odd thing for me to hear. Sylvia was my mother. Obviously, they weren’t talking about her ... they were referring to me... and how much I looked like her.<br />
<br />
I must admit I did inherit a number of her features and as I mature, steadily edging closer to the age she was when she died, it is probably now even more noticeable. She was also shortish and curvyish, with high cheek bones, and fine brown hair. When she was alive mine was shoulder length and wavyish and which I would straighten ... whereas she wore hers short and would curl it. <br />
<br />
My mother was pretty low maintenance. She used to wear a dash of mascara and little bit of lipstick. However, her big thing was her hair. She liked to go to the hairdressers and have it permed and styled. The chemo she had didn’t make her hair drop out until right near the end. When it did she got a really good wig and lots of people didn’t realise it wasn’t her hair ... but she did. It hit her hard.<br />
<br />
Until twelve months ago the only cancer that really appeared on my radar was ovarian. If I saw something about it in a magazine, or on TV, then it would get my attention. Not breast cancer. And ... when I went for my very first appointment at the Breast Care Unit, a year ago this week, Dr Jordan looked at my family history and said he wasn’t too concerned. “<em>The lump is probably a cyst that will need draining.</em>” Of course once they had scanned it and taken biopsies we all knew that it sadly wasn’t “<em>just a cyst</em>”.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago I returned to the hospital to have Perky checked out after the four weeks of rads. I saw Dr Gillies, the oncologist, and she said it was looking pretty fine ... that there might still be a little fluid there and that I need to keep slapping the aqueous cream on and massaging it ... and that they will take another peek at Perky again next month.<br />
<br />
Whilst I was there I decided to ask her a couple of questions. I wanted to know why they hadn’t done any genetic testing ... why they hadn’t tested to see if I have either of the faulty BRCA genes and whether my chances of another incidence of breast cancer, or my chances of getting ovarian cancer, were significant. She said that as I didn’t appear to have a noteworthy number of breast or/and ovarian cancer cases in my family then that isn’t something they would normally do. I explained that my mother had no sisters and no aunts ... however, my grandfather had died of cancer ... as did all of his five or six brothers. She said it wasn’t something that the health profession was sure about ... but if I wanted genetic counselling to talk about it then she could arrange it.<br />
<br />
I knew the answer ... I had thought long and hard about this ... and the answer was “<em>no</em>”. <br />
<br />
Is that right? I don’t know? I may have the opportunity to discuss what my risks are of another incidence of breast cancer ... or getting ovarian cancer ... but I am not taking up the option. <br />
<br />
I explained to Dr Gillies that I have survived this last year ... but my head is not in a place to consider the implications of testing and recommendations ... which I guess may mean being advised to have both my breasts removed ... along with my ovaries. Perhaps I am being silly ... or naive ... or stupid ... especially as I am Triple Negative and there is no medication to keep the cancer at bay. But, for the moment least, I am happy to protect my ignorance ... and live on a ray of hope ...<br />
<br />
I went back to the hospital again last week. Let’s think ... on Monday. Oh ... and Tuesday. And probably Wednesday. Thinking about it ... Thursday too. And Friday ... definitely Friday.<br />
<br />
Don’t worry ... I am OK ... I didn’t have any appointments. No. I was at the hospital because I now work there. Yes ... my hospital. What I have not had chance to tell you about yet is that when I came back from holiday in June my job changed. Not totally. I am still working with those old colleagues including Mr Campbell, Peaches, Miss Sweaty Jockstrap, Cornish Cous et al. But my different role means I now have some new colleagues ... including Chemo Nurses A to H, Dr Jordan and the luv-ver-ly Dr O ....<br />
<br />
Now ... I know it sounds odd ... but you would think that each time I go to the hospital I would think about what has happened there before. My mother’s cancer ... her death... as well as my own diagnosis and treatment ... especially as that really wasn’t very long ago. But I don’t. OK ... so when I walk past the breast care unit ... or radiotherapy building it might fleetingly cross my mind ... but generally I consider it just to be one of the places that I work.<br />
<br />
I say “<em>generally</em>” as last Friday was a little different ... it was a year to the day that I attended the Breast Care Unit for the very first time.<br />
<br />
On Friday I went over to the hospital to do a charity donation photo shoot. It went well and once it was done I left the hospital feeling all warm and fuzzy. That was until I drove down the drive .... and I looked at the clock and it said ten to two ... about the time of my appointment exactly a year ago ... and it got me thinking. I had a flashback of me and Nit Nat getting into her little black car and setting off to the hospital to get my lump checked out. I remembered feeling nervous ... and a little scared ... but certainly no idea of what was about to knock me for six ...<br />
<br />
As I drove along, the memories from my initial visit the previous year caused tears to well up in my eyes and warm salty drops toppled down my cheeks. I thought back to the comment made by the actress Lynne Redgrave when she heard her diagnosis. She said: “<em>I have my moments of such sadness. They hit me quite suddenly. My loss of innocence. The innocence that made me feel that cancer couldn't happen to me.</em>” <br />
<br />
And that is what happened to me at that moment as I was driving along. I got cancer... I got treated ... and hopefully it has gone away ... and I am truly grateful for that. But ... I will never be the same person who walked into that Breast Care Unit a year ago. I want to continue to live a healthy, happy and fulfilling life ... but I know that even if I go hours ... or maybe days ... and perhaps one day even weeks without thinking about cancer ... that it will always be in my life. Not necessarily physically but definitely mentally. There will always be something in the back of mind ... I will never have that innocence ever again ... I will always live with a silent shadow ... a tiny grim reaper sitting on my shoulder whispering in my ear and reminding me that the cancer could reappear ... in my breasts ... my ovaries ... anywhere ...<br />
<br />
I got back to the office and pulled into the car park and checked my face ... grabbed a tissue to wipe away the smudged make up. And, as I did so, I caught sight of my hair ... and let out a little chuckle. Yes ... my hair ... my hair that used to be fine and shoulder length but ain’t no more. Following the chemo it has grown back thick and curly ... not even wavy ... but curly. Honestly, my mum would love it. She would be so envious of it ... along with them infamous red shoes of mine ...<br />
<br />
I can’t remember who made that comment as I got out of the car at her funeral ... I am not even sure if they are still alive ... but I do know that if they thought I looked like my mother back then ... then they certainly would now.<br />
<br />
Fingers crossed hey, that it is just our looks ~ and our passion for red ~ to remain the things she and I have in common.Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-66130124817179065512010-08-02T21:11:00.024+01:002010-08-07T11:04:22.529+01:00You are one in a million ...<em>Well, actually I am not one in a million ... I am one in 28 million. </em><em>What I am not sure about is whether that makes me more ... or less ... special ....?</em><br />
<br />
Last weekend saw the end of the Tour de France. Yes, I know what you are saying. “<em>Tour de France?!</em> <em>What is she on?</em>" <br />
<br />
That it is up there with my admission about my fondness for fishing?<br />
<br />
OK – your thought processes? Well let me guess ...<br />
<br />
“<em>Tour de France? No! </em><br />
<br />
<em>Oh ... but hang on there ... Tour de France ... men ... fit men ... fit men in lycra ... perhaps it is to be expected of her ...</em>"<br />
<br />
Oh you guys ... do you really think I am that shallow? Honestly! <br />
<br />
Let me explain ...<br />
<br />
Well ... annually I do dip in and out of the Tour de France ... as I did this year. Why? Well, as an imposed-Francophile I like to check out the bits of France that I’ve been to ... and the ones I haven’t. I must admit there aren’t many. As I joked with a colleague at work a couple of weeks ago ... I am often tempted to buy one of those ‘departmental’ maps of the country and fill in the places that I have been to ... painting by numbers style ... and I don’t think there would be too many white ones ...<br />
<br />
And then there is Lance. I must admit I have a bit of an obsession with Lance. Yes ... Lance Armstrong. Now ... I don’t want you to worry ... I have not become some kind of celebrity stalker ... he has not had any need to take a court injunction out on me ... honestly. Maybe 'obsession' is too strong ... perhaps I should say 'admiration' and since my diagnosis 'fascination'. <br />
<br />
"<em>Why</em>?"<br />
<br />
Well firstly, I muse over how on earth back in 1996, when he was the world no 1 ranking cyclist and member of the Olympic team, did Lance get cancer. Nope ... not only did this extremely fit top sportsman get cancer, but he got bad bad cancer. It started as testicular cancer – but that wasn’t it in a nutshell. No. No, that definitely wasn't it. It roamed ... and roamed lots ... it spread to his lungs and his brain. It was so severe that in fact he was given a less than 50-50 chance of survival.<br />
<br />
Secondly, I want to know how someone who was <em>so</em> poorly manage to kick that cancer in the balls and come back and not only complete the arduous Tour de France the following year ... but an unbelievable further <strong>six</strong> occasions after that. Hollywood could base a film on these incredible highs and lows ...<br />
<br />
And thirdly, as an aside, how on earth did he and singer Sheryl <em>I-just-want-to-have-some-fun</em> Crowe get it together? I guess it takes all sorts, everyone to their own ... and all that ...<br />
<br />
So this year? Well .... Lance didn’t make it an eighth time ... but he certainly didn't let me down. If he ain't conquering cancer one way ... then he is successfully doing it another ...<br />
<br />
I don't think Lance really thought he was going to win this time round. And at the end he was 40 minutes off pace. 40 minutes ... about the time it takes me to do a bit of shopping, or make some supper or run a bath and have decent soak. But 40 minutes is a long time in the sporting world. <br />
<br />
<em>"So this race was a meek and mild affair then</em>?" <br />
<br />
Err no ... this is Lance ... who is renowned for not just being yellow-shirty ...<br />
<br />
First of all there was that run-in with the pedestrian who made the mistake of getting in his way.<br />
<br />
But ... even more amusingly there was that ending ... when Tour officials noticed Lance’s Team RadioShack were wearing unauthorised jerseys for last Saturday's final stage, they halted proceedings and made them put their official kit back on. <br />
<br />
The disgraced shirts were emblazoned with the number 28 - to signify the 28 million people suffering from cancer worldwide. They were billboards for <a href="http://www.livestrong.com/">Livestrong</a>, the charity Lance set up in 1997, a year after he was told he had a less than a 40% chance of beating his cancer. The successful charitable foundation vows to '<em>unite and fight cancer'</em>.<br />
<br />
Lance and Radioshack had already been told by Tour officials that they weren’t going to permit the unauthorised sweaters. And, if the intended message was that nobody is bigger than the Tour, then it didn’t happen. Lance and the guys still put the shirts on ... and Tour officials insisted they be removed. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nt6G1jSdhFo&feature=related">Farcical scenes</a> ensued as the team changed by the side of the road, safety-pinning race numbers to their old shirts, while the rest of the riders wondered what was going on. The officials had stuck to their guns but ironically headstrong Lance still got his photo opportunity and publicity. The world’s media watching and talking about what he is doing to raise awareness of cancer for 15 minutes ... absolutely and totally priceless. I have to hand it to him ... a true example on how to take others for a ride ...<br />
<br />
<em>"So talking about France how was that holiday back in June</em>?" <br />
<br />
Yeah, nice. It was warm and sunny. I got do the things I said I would do. Resting and relaxing .... reading my books and poodling around on my bike. But to be truthful it feels like quite a long time ago now ... it was after all two months back. I’m actually looking forward to my next holiday ... to France ... in a week.<br />
<br />
Yes, I know, I know. Another holiday. But nobody can begrudge me of this one. This is the holiday I was due to go on last August. But didn’t ... as I was diagnosed the day before my scheduled departure. So I am going this year ... on my actual first year 'cancerversary'. I will be taking the ferry to Calais and going right down the middle of France ... all the way to the Spanish border, nestling in the foothills of the Pyrenees, beside the sea. Oh don’t worry, I will have my bike with me, but I won’t be cycling there. Gosh, no. What takes Lance three weeks and 40 minutes would take me at least three years ... honest. No, I will be travelling down more conventionally by car. The Tom Tom says it will take about 10 hours ... 10 hours for me to watch the French countryside fly by ... and quietly reflect on the last year.<br />
<br />
Now, for those of you who have been with me since the beginning you may remember the <a href="http://redshoesgreenpeppers.blogspot.com/2009/10/gone-to-cogs.html">Cogs</a> story ... when I described how the months ahead of me felt long and never ending. That how I wondered whether I would ever look back at that diagnosis and treatment time... and it would feel like a distant memory. Well, for those of you that are just starting off on a similar journey ... I can say it does. Only three months since I returned to work ... and two months since I finished treatment ... those nine months of hell really do feel like a blur.<br />
<br />
So what will I be thinking about as I am heading down to the sunny south? Well, I will be looking forward to that long-awaited break ahead of me. How I will be enjoying my usual favourites walking, cycling, exploring, taking photos ... soaking up the sunny atmosphere ... swimming ... and boarding. Yep ... boarding. That raised a few titters in the office this week. Instead of the delivery of the expected and accepted shoe box shaped parcel ... this week it was body board shaped ... and what most of my colleagues failed to realise was they had paid for the accompanying wetsuit. <em>Uhhh ....??</em><br />
<br />
Well, about six months ago, Mr Campbell said to me that he still had some money left over from my gift collection. He asked if I would like him to buy something or would I like the money ... did I have something in mind I would like to purchase. And I told him that funny enough I did. <br />
<br />
Back in September, after my treatment started, I spent a day on the beach with my family and friends. Now, I have done a bit of body boarding ... borrowing a wetsuit and board as required ... but I have never been too bothered. I was just as happy sitting quietly on the blanket with a magazine or book. But back last summer it was different ... it was the classic thing of I wanted to do something ... because I couldn’t... I wasn't allowed in the water because of my low immunity due to the chemo. It was a bit like wanting a particular food if you go on some wacko diet which doesn’t allow you to have certain things to eat. Life is like that ... as soon as you are told you can't have something you want it makes you want it even more. So, I vowed there and then ... that once I was able to ... then I would grab the opportunity. Which I am ... and every time I put on my wetsuit I will picture my lovely kind and generous colleagues. I am just thankful that they won't be able to see me ...<br />
<br />
Before I sign off I want to mention my friend <a href="http://www.prostatecancercharity.org.uk/personalpage.aspx?registrationID=322665&sms_ss=facebook">Johnny Boy</a> ... Johnny Boy who will be jumping on his bike soon and cycling from Honiton to Teignmouth to raise money for prostate cancer – the number one cancer for men. Now, if you know and work with Johnny then put your hands in your pockets and throw him some loose change ... And for those of you who don’t ... well ... when someone you do know does something similar then I ask you to do the same for them. Honestly, every little bit counts. There are 28 million of us out there you know ...<br />
<br />
I am going to sponsor Johnny Boy ... but I am not sure how much yet ... I need to check out whether he is prepared to put on the lycra ...Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-21776558885056662142010-05-30T11:31:00.016+01:002010-06-05T19:09:26.587+01:00That’s all folks ..."<em>Women are like teabags. We don't know our true strength until we are in hot water</em>."<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">Eleanor Roosevelt</div><br />
You know ... I used to say if only I had a pound for every time someone made a comment or complimented me on them little red shoes. These days I confess I would relish a quid for each occasion over the last few months that I have been told that this blog is really good ... and that I should write a book ... <br />
<br />
And believe me, I am delighted. If only one person who reads my ramblings takes on board what I have explained ... and who appreciates that cancer can happen at any age ... that breast cancer can sadly appear in those who are in their 40s, 30s .... even 20s ... and encourages them to regularly ‘coppafeel’ ... it means I have achieved something extraordinary.<br />
<br />
When I was little I loved books ... and was renowned for being a book worm. I wanted to be a writer or poet when I grew up. Either that or a travel agent or a librarian. Many years on, I am fortunate to have a job which involves writing ... and in hindsight I now realise that being a travel agent or librarian would be a nightmare. Assisting travellers to flit around the world, visiting exotic places whilst I was stuck in a shop ... or watching people walking off with all those books that I anxiously wanted to read. And besides ... I think those who know me would say I am not the shy, quiet retiring type suited to working in such a studious environment ...<br />
<br />
If I was a writer then I would be the sort to desperately miss my characters once my tome was complete ... ‘cos I even do that when I am just reading a paperback. And it is not just books ... ‘cos this week I am mourning the loss of Alex ... and Ray ... and Chris ... and Shaz ... and of course ... the ‘Unt ...<br />
<br />
For those of you who don’t have a clue as to what I am referring to, and didn’t watch <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/ashestoashes/">Ashes to Ashes</a>, then here is one of those infamous RSGP quickie summaries:<br />
<br />
Ashes to Ashes was a fictional BBC series about Alex Drake, a female police officer in the Metropolitan Police, who is shot in 2008 and inexplicably regains consciousness in 1981 ... working for DI Gene Hunt ... a whiskey drinking, foul mouthed, totally politically incorrect, tangerine-coloured Quattro driver ... but who is totally loveable. (<em>Gosh ... did I really publically admit that ...</em>)<br />
<br />
Throughout the series, we didn’t know whether Alex was dead or alive in the present day, though in last week’s final episode it was revealed that the Ashes to Ashes world was a kind of limbo land for ‘restless dead’ police officers. That in fact Gene, Ray, Chris, and Shaz were all dead; and in fact that Alex herself has died. The programme ended with all of them, except Gene, all moving on to a new heavenly life ... via the local pub, the Railway Arms. I know ... if you didn’t watch it then it does sound a bit odd ... but it was really good ... honest ...<br />
<br />
Over the last few weeks colleagues have been asking how it feels to be back at work. My response? Great ... but a bit weird. It is wonderful to have returned ... but it is still not quite the normality that I unexpectantly left behind last summer. Why? Well for starters I am only doing 15 hours a week ... rather than 37 ... over three short days where I start later and finish earlier. Then, on top of that, I am still a breast cancer patient. I have to be at the hospital for my daily zapping ... which once I have got there, waited and had my treatment is about an hour out.<br />
<br />
I’ve often spoken of this weird parallel-malignant-universe ... where you live out a ‘normal’ existence ... even though you have this life threatening disease ... and are receiving this powerful cocktail of chemicals ... which make you poorly ... and as a consequence you lose your hair ... and are vulnerable to infection. Where your doctor’s surgery and the hospital become your second homes ... and your GP and consultants become your new best friends. <br />
<br />
So as I watched Ashes to Ashes ... I felt an affinity with Alex. No, not because Keeley Hawes is nearly six foot ... with legs up to here. Nah ... but because her character Alex Drake found herself in an alien cosmos ... a world that wasn’t hers ... and she desperately wanted to return to the life she had suddenly and shockingly left behind ...<br />
<br />
And ... like DCI Drake ... this Wednesday I will be leaving my weird and not so wonderful parallel universe ...when my breast cancer care pathway comes to an end. Yep ... after 9 months of treatment which has included 4 bouts of EC, and a further 3 doses of Taxotere ... surgery ... and 20 sessions of radiotherapy ... I am finally done. That is it. There are no meds for me as I am Triple Negative. I was told that “taking hormone tablets would be like eating Liquorice Allsorts” ... worthless ... especially as I don’t like the black stuff ...<br />
<br />
But ... unlike Alex ... I am not escaping my ‘other world’ by entering the Railway Arms ... though Mr Campbell has suggested a celebratory drink at our local ... No, my transition is via a ferry ... to France. My first proper holiday for a year. And where am I going? Back to the idyllic <a href="http://www.la-palmyre-les-mathes.com/">La Palmyre</a> of course ... the place I visited exactly 12 months ago ... just before my diagnosis. The last time that I can really remember feeling happy and relaxed ... doing the things that I like to do ... cycling ... swimming ... photography. Eating some locally caught seafood ... oh and yummy cheese ... all washed down with more than a little red wine ...<br />
<br />
But unlike last time I won’t be coming home bronzed and bonnie ... as I am under strict instructions to keep out of the sun ... so I will be sitting under a brolly ... liberally lathered in factor 50. Bitter? Nope. At least it will drastically reduce my chances of skin cancer ...<br />
<br />
So is the Big BC all over? No ... of course not ... I am not kidding myself. I know this isn’t it. That there are still many more issues ahead. Of course there are. For starters I have been told I could suffer the side effects from my tough chemo for at least 12 months ... and that the consequences of the powerful radiotherapy could appear in many years’ time. I know I am still to face little challenges... like going out for the first time without my cap ... and the cosmetic surgery that I am have in the autumn. <br />
<br />
And then there are the bigger confrontations... like my regular trips to see Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly and Dr Jordan, my Oncology and Breast Cancer consultants ... that will take place over the next ten years ... and where they will continue to do tests to make sure the cancer has gone away ... and not returned. And trust me ... every one of those visits is going to be darn right nail biting and unbelievably stressful ...<br />
<br />
But for now ... I am packing for that long-awaited holiday. My clothes ... and shoes ... and swim wear. And of course there will be my books ... some in my suitcase ... oh ... and the one in my mind ...<br />
<br />
Yeah, perhaps I could .. and should ... write that book. Mmm ... I’m thinking it might be about a girl ... and her diary ... She has legs “<em>only up to here</em>” and will “<em>always be a little bit fat</em>”. She often says the wrong thing ... at the wrong time ... because her mouth goes into gear before her brain can stop it. She falls off her exercise bike ... and skis down mountains backwards. Mmm ... a bit like the endearing Bridget Jones ...<br />
<br />
But ... unlike Bridget ... she unexpectantly gets told she has breast cancer. So she talks openly and frankly about the consequences of that. What it is like to hear the news ... how she cries hysterically when she goes for her first chemo ... how she talks about ‘<a href="http://redshoesgreenpeppers.blogspot.com/2009/10/gone-to-cogs.html">Cogs</a>’ over a pub lunch with her pal Bubbles ... and describes the afternoon she sits in My Little Friend’s garden as her hair falls out. She shares how she is the only patient her consultant has seen who is pleased to hear that she has a lump ... because it means a breast conserving procedure. Oh ... and how she manages to inadvertently flash her silky covered arse to more than twenty patients sitting in the waiting room just before surgery ... <br />
<br />
And she also talks frankly about the trials and tribulations of her treatment. That there are very bad times ... along with much better spells ... and the special people that help and support her through both. That she makes wonderful new friends ... but sadly loses comrades along the way ... and that all these things that give her the strength to get through the crap and think positively about the future ... <br />
<br />
Anyway ... I am off now ... I am not saying I won’t be back ... but it will be a while. <br />
<br />
Maybe time out to write that book ...<br />
<br />
<em>Storms and teabags in my D cup ...</em>Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-92149410622645082382010-05-16T20:38:00.016+01:002010-05-17T09:59:56.741+01:00I'm feeling hot ... hot ... hot ...“<em>I am thinking about buying this green top and matching shoes, what do you think?</em>” asked Cornish Cous. “<em>Very nice</em>” I replied. “<em>I don’t usually wear green ... do you think it will suit me?</em>” she questioned. “<em>Oh yes</em>”, I assured her, “<em>and</em> <em>green is very 'this season'. In fact I have never worn green before, but I have bought a few bits lately in various shades.</em>” “<em>Oh, perhaps I should go for them....”</em> she trailed off. “<em>Definitely</em>”, I responded. “<em>everybody needs a treat now and again ... and we have just been paid.</em>” “<em>You are right!</em>” she exclaimed. “<em>Will you be wearing green to our pub grub evening?</em>” “<em>I might</em>”, I replied “<em>but it is complicated .....</em>” <br />
<br />
Just before I went on long term sick leave, a colleague of mine enquired “<em>You have so many clothes and shoes, do you have a walk in wardrobe ...?</em>” And I confirmed ... slightly tongue-in-cheek ... that in fact I do. “<em>I knew it!</em>” she said. And I laughed. “<em>I have a walk in wardrobe but sadly not like the one that Mr Big built Carrie. I wish. No, my walk in wardrobe is the tiny nursery room which Little Tinker moved out of a few years ago and where the laundry basket and ironing board live ... along with my piles of clothes waiting to be pressed!</em>”<br />
<br />
So what issues can I possibly have when deciding what to wear ... when, I must admit, have such a vast choice? Mmm ... there are three very good reasons actually ...<br />
<br />
Well ... for starters I am still wearing my little caps and array of scarves. We have now moved from the thicker heavy cloths of the Autumn/Winter range ... to the lighter bright Spring/Summer numbers. My hair is growing ... but obviously not at the rate that I want it to ... a watched pot and all that. The good news is that it has returned dark ... in fact even darker than it was before. I was born a brunette and it is now bordering on black. It has a few sprinkles of grey ... but hey I had those before it fell out so I ain’t gonna grumble about those ... and, like them pit hairs, they will also magically disappear sometime soon. <br />
<br />
So what do I look like? Well for those of a similar age to me then think Lisa Stansfield ... you remember ... <em><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hf9q0DN0dGw">All around the world</a></em> Lisa ... And for my younger readers you need to think of recent pics of the model <a href="http://www.zimbio.com/pictures/zEtNPpnaskw/Agyness+Deyn+Coachella+Music+Festival+Day/3Dg-s_9WKpU/Agyness+Deyn">Agyness Deyn</a> ... though I need to point out that although the party prom dress and Doc Martin boots would not be at all out of place in Funky Town ... I would really need to lose two decades and three stone to pull it off ...<br />
<br />
Having said that, I guess I don’t look too bad ... I even got one of those infamous not-quite-compliments from My Little Friend a little earlier. Yes .. My Little Friend, who I haven’t seen for nearly two months (partly because she unintentionally ended up in Florida for almost half of that time), so it was lovely to go and see her and The Silverback for a spot of Sunday lunch today. <br />
<br />
“<em>Oh my</em>”, she exclaimed as I walked in the door and removed my hat, “<em>I always thought you looked a bit French ... you certainly do today. In fact, you look <strong>almost</strong> chic.”</em> Mmm ... what’s that saying ... who needs enemies ... bless her ...<br />
<br />
And so what else do I need to consider on getting dressed each morning? Well ... there is something I haven’t mentioned before ... I wasn’t really sure whether I should talk about it ... whether it was too much info ... But then I thought before I finally wrap up my blog in a few weeks time that I should ... after all ... my mission over the last nine months has been to talk about cancer ... raise awareness ... talk about the trials and tribulations of treatments ... and their side effects ...<br />
<br />
“<em>Can I ask you to read this and sign under my signature at the bottom?</em>” We have returned to last August and I am meeting my Oncologist, Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly, for the very first time. He has suggested that we go for neoadjuvant chemotherapy ... chemo before surgery ... and I have to sign a consent form to confirm that I understand what this entails ... and what side effects I could encounter. Doing as I was asked, I signed on the line and put the pen down. “<em>Oh no</em>”, said Dr Oh. “<em>Oh, I am sorry</em>”, I said and glanced down at the form “<em>have I signed in the wrong place?</em>” “<em>No, no. My fault I forgot to mention something</em>”, he said apologetically. “<em>I should have told you ...the chemo ... it might stop your periods. Permanently. Is that a problem?</em>”<br />
<br />
No, it wasn’t, and in fact I didn’t think much about it ... until the following month ... when I realised that he was right. Then ... in November ... out of the blue ... I experienced my first hot flush ... on the M6 ... in road works ... just outside Birmingham ... on the way back from Wales. Suddenly I had my head out of the window ... despite the noise ... and the dust ... like an over excited dog ... <br />
<br />
So what did I do when I finally got home? Switched on the PC ... and googled “<em>Symptoms of menopause</em>” ... obviously ... you really should know me by now. And this is what I found ....<br />
<br />
1. Hot flashes, flushes, night sweats and/or cold flashes, clammy feeling <br />
2. Irregular heart beat <br />
3. Irritability <br />
4. Mood swings, sudden tears <br />
5. Trouble sleeping through the night (with or without night sweats) <br />
6. Irregular periods; shorter, lighter periods; heavier periods, flooding; phantom periods, shorter cycles, longer cycles <br />
7. Loss of libido <br />
8. Dry vagina <br />
9. Crashing fatigue <br />
10. Anxiety, feeling ill at ease <br />
11. Feelings of dread, apprehension, doom <br />
12. Difficulty concentrating, disorientation, mental confusion <br />
13. Disturbing memory lapses <br />
14. Incontinence, especially upon sneezing, laughing; urge incontinence <br />
15. Itchy, crawly skin <br />
16. Aching, sore joints, muscles and tendons <br />
17. Increased tension in muscles <br />
18. Breast tenderness <br />
19. Headache change: increase or decrease <br />
20. Gastrointestinal distress, indigestion, flatulence, gas pain, nausea <br />
21. Sudden bouts of bloat <br />
22. Depression <br />
23. Exacerbation of existing conditions <br />
24. Increase in allergies <br />
25. Weight gain <br />
26. Hair loss or thinning, head, pubic, or whole body; increase in facial hair <br />
27. Dizziness, light-headedness, episodes of loss of balance <br />
28. Changes in body odour <br />
29. Electric shock sensation under the skin and in the head <br />
30. Tingling in the extremities <br />
31. Gum problems, increased bleeding <br />
32. Burning tongue, burning roof of mouth, bad taste in mouth, change in breath odour <br />
33. Osteoporosis (after several years) <br />
34. Changes in fingernails: softer, crack or break easier <br />
35. Tinnitus: ringing in ears, bells, 'whooshing,' buzzing etc. <br />
<br />
Wow ... a list that made the cancer and chemo look like a breeze. I won’t go through them one by one and tell you which ones I have or have not experienced ... that really would be too much information ... but I can thankfully say that to date it isn’t many, and that other than saving at least 50 quid on <em>monthly essentials</em> ... the most obvious one is the hot flushes. Oh ... and the cold ones. I am not sure if mine are particularly nasty as my menopause is chemo induced ... and is not part of the natural aging process that most women experience... but it does mean that when I am considering what to wear that layers are good.<br />
<br />
And thirdly ... the final impact on my wardrobe choice ... well, there is currently radiotherapy to consider too. Every day I have to go to the hospital at 1pm for my daily zap ... which, if I am truthful, I still don’t like. The actual treatment is literally two minutes ... but I usually have to wait for 20 minutes or so ... and then it takes I guess about ten minutes to carefully align me so the radiation is hitting the necessary area ... and not sensitive areas ... such as my lung. <br />
<br />
My lovely new booby is currently standing up to the powerful treatment ... but is a little red and warm ... a bit like sunburn ... so I have been told to keep the aqueous cream in the fridge and slap it on at any opportunity ...<br />
<br />
Rather than get changed on arrival for rads I usually wait until I am called to the treatment area and then quickly whip off my upper garments and slip on that fetching flowery gown, so I need to ensure I wear something that can be easily removed and put back on. And, as I did on Friday, if I wear a dress I need to remember to take skirt with me so that I am not lying on the couch half naked. Once treatment is done I grab my bag and items of clothing and then pop back to the changing cubicle to put on my usual attire.<br />
<br />
One of the positive aspects of radiotherapy is that you attend the same time each day ... which means other patients do too ... and you get to know others who are going through a similar care pathway as you. Bea, who comes along with her husband Jay, started her five week course of radiotherapy the same day as me. She is much older than me ... in fact her children are older than me ... but she too is very upbeat, open and frank about her illness, which is very different to mine. It has been interesting to learn about someone else’s treatment ... and lovely to be greeted by a pair of jovial faces each day.<br />
<br />
On Friday, I walked into the waiting room, a little late as always and a little puffy from running down the corridor. “<em>Hello</em> <em>Bea ... Jay ... how are you?</em>”<em> </em>“<em>Fine, fine</em>” they grinned. “<em>Ooh ... Bea ... you have had your haircut ... it looks very nice.</em>” “<em>Thank you</em>”, she responded, and smiled broadly “<em>it is lovely isn’t it?</em>” “<em>It is indeed</em>” I replied. “<em>I liked yours so much</em>” she went on to say “<em>that I asked my hairdresser to cut it the same</em>”. I paused ... I was going to explain that I hadn’t actually had mine styled ... and that it wasn’t a cut that I had by choice ... but stopped ... and smiled back ... “<em>great choice, suits you too</em>.” <br />
<br />
Here’s hoping for a long warm sunny summer ... 'cos us gals in the know are aware what is hot ... and what is not ... and will be looking and feeling pretty cool ... <br />
<br />
I am sure <a href="http://www.zimbio.com/pictures/zEtNPpnaskw/Agyness+Deyn+Coachella+Music+Festival+Day/4JtYMmSclcY/Agyness+Deyn">Agyness</a> would agree that short is pretty damn sweet ...Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-49126839627327871512010-05-10T19:45:00.008+01:002010-05-10T22:08:04.959+01:00Can’t be ...“<em>A woman can’t be too rich or too thin</em>” <br />
<div style="text-align: right;">Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor</div><br />
Well ... it has been a pretty momentous week ...<br />
<br />
Tuesday ... and for the first time in nearly nine months I returned to work. It was lovely ... back at my old desk ... working on my computer ... answering the phone ... and best of all seeing my wonderful friends and colleagues. Honestly ... it felt as if I had never been away ...<br />
<br />
Wednesday ... my first session of radiotherapy. It was OK ... it doesn’t hurt ... but it is daunting. You lie there in a darkened room ... alone ... with the red “<em>Radiation on</em>” sign flashing ... and the machinery clunking around you. I will admit that on that first day I got a bit low ... there on my back ... knowing that this was the inaugural session of 20. It has been two months since surgery ... where did that time go ... and four months since my last chemo ... and there I am ... back to being a patient again. But ... as always ... I turned my situation around ... remembered that the consent form that Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly had asked me to sign had said “<em>precautionary treatment</em>”. That he thinks the Yukky Lump has gone away and that this is a belt and braces job ... to make sure it doesn’t come back ... and I need to be grateful for that.<br />
<br />
Then on Thursday I jumped on the scales and was delighted to see I had shed the final couple of pounds to get me back to my pre-chemo weight. OK ... I am not suggesting that I don’t need to shed some more ... ‘cos I do ... but at least the scales are saying the same as they were last August before I went off work ... and I can now comfortably fit into my clothes.<br />
<br />
And finally ... Friday. I popped into Marksies to buy some sausages for the boys ... yep my life has returned to that level of normality ... and I bought .... mmm .... a copy of <em>Hello</em> magazine.<br />
<br />
Now ... I have never purchased a copy of <em>Hello</em> before ... though I am not saying I have never read it ... if it is loitering on top of the coffee table in the hospital waiting room then I will take peek and flick ... but it is not something that I actually buy. <em>Why? </em>Because it is usually full of slim and bronzed young soap actors and actresses ... that I don’t even recognise ... let alone name ... and who generally make me feel very old and frumpy ... heck I don’t need to pay for that privilege ... so what swung it on this occasion ...<br />
<br />
Last weekend I was really quite shocked to read a small newspaper article which reported that the actress Sally Whittaker, who plays the character of Sally Webster in the TV soap, <em>Coronation Street</em>, had been diagnosed with breast cancer back in October ... a case of life imitating art when she discovered she had the disease after a plotline in which her character underwent treatment for breast cancer. So when I caught sight of her picture on the front of <em>Hello</em> ... with the subtitle “<em>My battle to beat breast cancer</em>” ... my curiosity got the better of me. <br />
<br />
Now ... I have mentioned <a href="http://redshoesgreenpeppers.blogspot.com/2009/09/eeny-meeny-miney-mo.html">Kylie before</a>. Yes, that Kylie. Cute, sweet, girl-next-door Australian Kylie with the gold lycra hotpants ... who was diagnosed with breast cancer back in 2005. And I have admitted that the announcement and media coverage floated past me ... not really hitting my radar ... even though we are exactly the same age. Probably because I didn’t think it would ever happen to me.<br />
<br />
Well ... over the last nine months I have thought about Kylie quite a lot. Mostly during the dire time of chemo ... when I felt really rough ... and looked really ill. As I lay in bed ... contemplating whether I had been transported to a living hell ... I would think of Kylie ... reminding myself that although she was rich ... famous ... pretty ... with a hot-totty-botty ... that she had to endure exactly the same as me. Similar treatment ... comparable sickness ... the loss of hair ... and eyebrows ... and eyelashes ... <br />
<br />
Some years on Kylie described her treatment. “<em>It’s like a prison sentence. I can’t quite articulate it. It’s a bit like being in an atomic explosion and people asking you to describe it: ‘ So, exactly how big is the hole?’ I don’t think anyone who hasn’t had it can understand it</em>.”<br />
<br />
So what did Sally Whittaker have to say in <em>Hello</em>? Well ... she explains that she discovered the cancerous lump in her breast herself, prompted by her storyline. "<em>If I had not been researching this storyline, I may not have discovered the lump in my breast and had it looked at so quickly. I had never properly checked my breast before because I thought this wasn’t going to happen to me. It’s a stupid thing to think, but I think a lot of women are like that</em>.” <br />
<br />
Sally was diagnosed with a 1.8cm grade 1 tumour. "<em>We got into the car and I cried like I’d never cried before in my life. It was uncontrollable sobbing. I didn’t want to die. I said to Tim, ‘I’ve got three children, I can’t die’. I would hate to be sat on a fluffy cloud looking down on them. I couldn’t cope with that. I had to be there to see them grow-up."</em><br />
<br />
Despite the coincidence Sally agreed to continue filming her soap scenes in a bid to raise awareness about the condition. “<em>Those were the hardest scenes I’ve ever had to film</em>,” she explains. She undertook her cancer plotline scenes in a month’s block then took a break to undergo surgery, chemo and radiotherapy. <br />
<br />
Sally says she now has a new outlook on life. "I<em>t’s made my appreciate life more and I feel humbled. Everybody I love, I love a million times more</em>."<br />
<br />
The photos of Sally in the mag are great ... but as someone who has been there ... the first things I notice are the painted eyebrows and false eyelashes ... And although she is pictured with her little blonde prickles she admits “<em>I would love to go around with a bald head, but sometimes I wear headscarves because I don’t want to draw attention to myself and I don’t want pitying looks</em>.”<br />
<br />
She received no payment for her interview and instead asked that a donation be made to The Genesis Breast Cancer Appeal and The Christie Hospital Appeal, the hospital where she has been receiving treatment.<br />
<br />
And that is the first article that I read this week and I wanted to tell you about ... the second ... was the announcement by her publicist, that actress Lynn Redgrave had this week “<em>passed away peacefully after a seven-year journey with breast cancer</em>.”<br />
<br />
After she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2002, Lynn asked her daughter Annabel Clark, then a photography student at Parsons School of Design, if she would photograph the course of treatment and recovery. Following her death, at the age of 67, these intimate and emotive photos are now displayed on the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2004/04/15/magazine/20040418_REDGRAVE_1.html">New York Times website</a>. <br />
<br />
I must admit that I find some of them difficult to look at ... especially the post-operative ones ... particularly the one with the drains ... perhaps it doesn’t feel like such a short time since my own surgery ...<br />
<br />
And then, under the picture of Lynn doing her recuperation exercises, there is an inscription taken from her diary which rings so true. It says: “<em>I have my moments of such sadness. They hit me quite suddenly. My loss of innocence. The innocence that made me feel that cancer couldn't happen to me</em>.”<br />
<br />
There are a number of events taking place over the next few weeks ... including the many <em>Run for Life</em> races, organised by Cancer Research UK, as well as the <em>Playtex Moonwalk</em> in London, which a number of my friends and colleagues are participating in. I would like to wish all those that I know, as well as those I don’t, the best of luck with raising awareness and attracting funds to improve the treatment of cancer. Sadly it is too late for the likes of Kylie ... and Sally ... and Lynn... and me ... and the many millions of people who have already been diagnosed with cancer ... and who have already had to endure the horrid side effects of chemotherapy ... and radiotherapy ... and surgery ... <br />
<br />
But we don’t know who will be next ... you ... a family member ... or a friend ... or a colleague ... or a neighbour ...<br />
<br />
You can’t be too rich or too thin ... or too old ... or too young. You can't be too famous ... or too pretty ... or too popular ... or too talented ... <br />
<br />
Cancer ... it doesn’t discriminate ... so never think “<em>It couldn’t happen to me</em>”.Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-42333792278042264492010-05-03T21:06:00.009+01:002010-05-03T22:12:00.036+01:00One small step ... one giant leap ...<em>Work like you don’t need the money</em> <br />
<em>Love like you’ve never been hurt</em><br />
<em>Dance like no one’s watching</em><br />
<em>Sing like no one’s listening</em><br />
<em>Live like there is no tomorrow</em><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">Mark Twain</div><br />
Friday ... and the Sloane Ranger came over to Funky Town and we strolled into the high street. After a spot of lunch (thank you Hun) we had a bit of a wander around the market and the cute little shops. It was in one that I pointed out a little plaque, you know the sort, brightly coloured, a bit kitsch, the type that people hang in their kitchen. The verse on it was the one above. “<em>I think I should buy that and hang it on my desk at work</em>” I joked with the Sloane. “<em>Oh yes ...</em>” she laughed appreciatively. I am sure she feels some camaraderie with my current colleagues ... and empathy ... and sympathy ... after all she spent a number of years listening to my 'beautiful' dulcet tones ...<br />
<br />
Later that evening, tucked up in bed, I was reading a magazine which featured an interview with Joseph Fiennes ... the actor ... best known for wearing breeches and doublets ... When asked “<em>What do you think is the most important lesson that life that has taught you?</em>” He quoted the exact same poem ... surely someone somewhere is trying to tell me something ...<br />
<br />
It has been a busy week ... my diary has been so full even Bridget J would be envious. On Monday I met with Mr Campbell to discuss my return to work ... before meeting up with over a dozen of my girlie friends from work for a pub grub evening (<em>thank you Lindyloo for organising</em>). It was great fun ... lots of giggles and raucous laughter, in fact as if we could neither be seen ... nor heard. No, Cornish Cous, I am not going to repeat what happened at that Divorce Party you attended and what you actually did to those vodka jellies! Then on Thursday I had lunch with Hoops and Margarine ... before attending the staff awards ceremony ... where I boogied for hours ... like no one was watching.<br />
<br />
Wednesday was the day that I went into work ... to discuss my return with HR. My half hour meeting was followed by cruisin' around the office getting up to speed with my friends and colleagues ... which took four hours. Yeah ... I know ... four hours ... but I had a lot of catching up to do!<br />
<br />
Whilst meandering around the building I bumped into PG, a colleague who I haven’t seen since I was at work back in August. We started chatting and she asked after my health, what treatment I had received (chemo and surgery) and what further treatment I am to receive (radiotherapy). She went on to say that a friend of hers had been diagnosed at a similar time as me, but that the chemo had no impact on her tumour so they terminated that treatment and undertook radical surgery instead. I said that I empathised ... that I know of women who had received chemo and that their tumour hadn’t shrunk ... or even continued to grow. I explained that I appreciate that the treatment worked for me ... that initially things were definitely not looking good ... a 6cm grade 3 stage 3 tumour ... but thankfully the chemo had reduced Yukky Lump to less than half its original size ... and fortunately it appears it has been caught before it ventured any further.<br />
<br />
PG said that her friend had not felt a lump but had made an appointment to see her GP after seeing a dent in her breast ... and that she didn’t realise that this was something to look out for ... that when she checks her own breasts she is only looking for a pea-sized lump. Which, of course, was an opportunity for me to give my little spiel ... so I explained ...<br />
<br />
You need to feel your breasts for changes... any lumps ... small or significant. Look in the mirror ... for any dimpling ... puckering ... or indents. Inspect the nipple for discharge. Some women do experience tenderness and soreness ... either immediately before their period ... or during the middle of the month ... and this is sometimes accompanied by ‘<em>lumpy breasts</em>’. Breast cancer doesn’t usually hurt ... though I should point out that mine did as the Yukky Lump was so large it was pressing on a nerve. And ... at the end of the day ... anything that does not go away after a week or so should be followed up. <br />
<br />
Thanks to my friend MackieC who has recommended the <a href="http://www.channel4embarrassingillnesses.com/video/how-to-check-yourself/">Embarrassing Bodies</a> website where there is a great video demo on the best way of examining your breasts. Sermon over.<br />
<br />
After I had finished my health promotion talk PG leant forward and whispered “<em>Can I ask you a personal question?</em>” Now, as I am sure you appreciate, I am a pretty upfront kinda girl ... yeah, in more ways than one ... but that request does unnerve me slightly. “<em>Go ahead</em>”, I responded, wondering what she was going to ask. “<em>Well ... having said all that ... how come your lump was so big by the time you found it?</em>” And that is a very good (personal) question.<br />
<br />
Right, for those of you that have just joined me this is a potted history on how the Yukky Lump and I became reluctantly acquainted. I woke one Saturday last summer ... and as I lay in bed ... I could feel a funny tingling in my breast ... like one of the first signs of pregnancy. I knew that definitely wasn’t the case ... so wasn’t too concerned. However, a few days later my breast felt solid ... and then a few days after that I started experience some pain ... so I called my GP. To be truthful I wasn’t too worried to start with ... because the mass was so large ... sitting right along the cup of my breast ... I didn’t think anything so big could be that suspicious. I too, at that stage, naively thought that nasty lumps were petit pois sized. Sadly ... I was proved wrong. Very wrong. And for a long time I kept kicking myself ... beating myself up for not seeing it ... nor feeling it ... much earlier. How could someone who is usually pretty in tune with their body allow a lump to grow to 6cm before spotting it?<br />
<br />
Now, I have told you about them infamous red shoes. Yeah the ones I used to wear to work and that everyone loved. “<em>They are chilli red, with peep toes, a Cuban heel and shiny buttons. A bit sexy, a bit cute but def not OTT. When I wear them I get at least half a dozen comments. I often say that if I had a pound for every compliment that I have received then I could have bought another three pairs ... or more</em>”. But what about their less glamorous and more practical cousins ... my little pink crocs?<br />
<br />
Just before I found the lump, and whilst I was still at work, I had one of those late Friday afternoon chin wags with The Poet. We were talking about our plans for the weekend. “<em>You know if people could see me at the weekends they would be horrified</em>” I confided in her. “<em>I don’t wear a scrap of make up ... I just wear something that is comfy ... no heels ... just my crocs</em>.” “<em>Don’t worry</em>” she said “<em>I am just the same</em>.”<br />
<br />
And that is how I was ... that afternoon in June. Saturday ... the day I spend most of my time doing household chores ... cleaning ... tidying ... washing. On that oparticular day the weather was warmish ... with a breeze ... a great opportunity to empty the laundry basket and peg everything up outside ... which is what I had done. It was about 5 or 6 o’clock and I had just started cooking supper, when I heard a tapping on the window. I turned around to see it had started raining. “<em>Oh no, my washing!</em>” I exclaimed. So I grabbed the wash basket, ran out into the garden and up the steps. But I didn’t make it ... just as I got to the top step my croc hit the damp surface ... and I slipped. But, because I had the basket in my hands I couldn’t put them down to protect myself, and instead I fell, very heavily, onto my chest. No kidding, it was full pelt. I lay there for a few seconds ... shocked ... and in pain. It is probably the closest, as a female, that I will get to understand what it is like for a guy to be kicked in the b...s<br />
<br />
I thought such a heavy impact would, after a day or so, leave me with multi-coloured bruising ... but it didn’t. And in fact I didn’t think much about the incident until I was referred to the Breast Care Unit. It was only at that point that I thought that maybe the thickening in my boob was in fact internal swelling as a consequence of the battering ... but of course it wasn’t.<br />
<br />
However ... it may still be relevant as I have since learnt that cancer can feed on inflammation ... inflammation that is fuelled by our environment. This maybe what we eat, drink or smoke. The amount of exercise we take and the amount of stress we endure. It is also believed that a number of cancers that develop are directly linked to a chronic inflammatory state ... for example cancer of the colon and rectum is linked to inflammatory bowel disease ... ovarian cancer is linked to pelvic inflammatory disease. Not only that, but studies undertaken as far back as 1863 showed that patients developed cancer where a shoe or tool had rubbed repeatedly, or at the exact spot on their body where they had received some kind of trauma, such as a blow.<br />
<br />
Now I am not saying that my fall was the cause of my breast cancer – but what I believe may have happened is that the inflammation, which was a result of my fall against the step, fuelled a small but malignant tumour that was already there. A tumour which otherwise may have grown at a slower pace, which would have been less noticeable, and so possibly a greater opportunity to roam to more vulnerable places. Mmm ... perhaps I have a lot to thank those practical but unflattering little pink crocs for.<br />
<br />
So what is in my diary for this week? Well ... Tuesday 4th May says ... “Return to work”. Yes! After nearly nine months of horrid gruelling treatment and its nasty side effects ... the nail-biting angst ... and lonely solitude ... I am about to take a significant step to resuming normality. <br />
<br />
<em>Live like there is no tomorrow.</em><br />
<br />
I did. <br />
<br />
But I sincerely hope there is a tomorrow ... ‘cos my red shoes are sitting here ... polished and shiny ... ready to dance around the office ... whilst I sing a little song ... <br />
<br />
It really has been far too quiet there ... for far too long ...Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-60268192184074575432010-04-24T20:16:00.015+01:002010-04-25T11:43:21.101+01:00Oh ... oh ...I lay in the semi-darkness ... strapped to the bed ... and looked around the room ... noting first the bright lights ... and then the camera which was pointing at me. A voice beside me broke the silence. “<em>It won’t take long. And it shouldn’t hurt. It is just a small prick. Then I will untie you ... we’ll be done ... well for today anyway...”</em><br />
<br />
My very first porn film. It is a remake of that raunchy 80’s classic ... <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/9_1/2_Weeks">9½ Weeks</a> ... but this time called <em>4 Weeks</em> ... as twenty years on Mickey Rourke no longer has the stamina that he once had. <br />
<br />
O ... kay ... so I am joking ... teasing ... pulling your plonker. It was in fact just my infamous vivid imagination during this week’s radiotherapy planning session. But hey, it got your attention didn’t it ... and the thought kept me amused.<br />
<br />
So it was back over to the hospital on Wednesday. I wasn't really looking forward to my appointment ... nor was I worried or concerned about it ... I just couldn’t be bothered. The end of treatment is in sight and I am getting impatient. <br />
<br />
“<em>Hi, my name is Looby Lou, I am an Assistant Radiographer, and will be doing your planning session today</em>.” I peered up at the beaming friendly face ... gosh I was definitely old enough to be Looby Lou’s mother ... I quickly tried to mentally calculate if I could be her grandmother ... she looked so young!<br />
<br />
“<em>Today we are going to work out your treatment so that your breast receives the most radiation and the healthy tissue and organs, such as your lungs, receive the least. Are you OK with us doing some small tattoos so that we can easily see which area is to be treated?</em>" I nodded my head ... I knew they were going to be tiny. “<em>It means that when you come in for your four weeks of treatment we will be able to line up the linear accelerator quickly and hopefully you can be in and out within 20 or so minutes ... of that the actual treatment will only take a few minutes. Is there anything you are worried about</em>?” I smiled at her. “<em>After seven sessions of chemo ... and then surgery ... this is the part I am least concerned about</em>.” Now, I have been told that this bit is ... <em>quote</em> ... “<em>compared to the rest radiotherapy is a walk in the park</em>.” But as I was the person who used to insist that my dental records were marked with <em>Nervous Patient</em> ... and that I used to greet my dentist with my stress ball ... I am not using that phrase quite yet ... after all we are still talking health professionals and medical equipment ...<br />
<br />
“<em>I have read the booklet that I was given ... and I think that explained most things</em>” I said to Looby Lou. “<em>Oh good</em>”, she nodded ... and grinned. I wanted to tell her about the bit which made me smile... but there was no point ... she wasn’t old enough to appreciate my comical thoughts. It was under the paragraph Reactions to Radiotherapy. It said .. “<em>External radiotherapy doesn’t make you radioactive. It is safe to be with other people, including children, throughout the course of treatment</em>.” Which made wonder whether some patients think they are going to walk around with a fluorescent silhouette ... like that 80's TV advert for <em>Ready Brek</em> ... with the slogans <em>Central Heating for Kids</em> and <em>Get Up and Glow</em> ...<br />
<br />
“<em>I have some pressies for you</em>”, said Looby Lou. Oh goodie ... I like pressies. “<em>Here is a gown for you to take home and bring in each day. It is yours. Well, until treatment is finished anyway</em>.” I can admit to you now ... I wasn’t at all disappointed by that last bit. Quite frankly, the gown would have ended up in the same drawer as those fetching DVT stockings ... and at least the DVT stockings might be of some use if I jump on a plane. “<em>And ... some aqueous cream</em>.” Hey ... I bet Looby’s colleagues hope she doesn’t draw their name out of the Secret Santa hat ...<br />
<br />
“<em>Some people get a mild reaction during treatment so there are some things we recommend you do and don’t do</em>”, continued Looby Lou. “<em>Firstly, we recommend using this cream at least twice daily to keep your breast moisturised. You shouldn’t shave or use a hair removing cream on that armpit ... and no deodorant</em>.” I looked at her quizzically. “<em>I know I shouldn’t put deodorant on before treatment ... but I can apply it afterwards ... right?</em>” “<em>No</em>”, smiled Looby Lou back, "<em>we don’t recommend using deodorant at all during the four weeks ... unless it is aluminium and perfume free ...</em>” Well folks, I know I was pretty excited about the arrival of them pit hairs ... but what I didn’t go on to say was that they didn’t hang around for long ... and although I didn’t admit it to Looby there and then ... there is no way that I can endure four weeks of smelly pit hair ... and for those of you who personally know me ... I don’t suppose you could either ...<br />
<br />
“<em>Now, I will give you a few minutes to change into your gown and then I will take your down to the treatment room. We will ask you to lie on the couch and then we will work out where we need to make the treatment marks. It can look a bit scary with the green laser lights ... a little like that James Bond film ... but I promise that unlike that, this definitely won’t hurt.</em>”<br />
<br />
Oh yes ... I know what she is talking about ... which film was that ... err ... ah ... <em>Die Another Day</em> ... with Halle Berry... as <a href="http://www.jamesbondmm.co.uk/bond-girls/halle-berry?id=002">Jinx</a>. Now there is a girl who looks good with very short hair. Very short hair and in a bikini. Not just that ... very short hair ... and in a lurid orange bikini. Pah. Just as well I don’t do orange ... <em>I say tongue in cheek and with no bitterness</em> ... <em>ha ha ...</em><br />
<br />
“<em>Don’t worry</em>,” interrupted Looby Lou, “<em>we are there all the time so if you are concerned or feeling uncomfortable then you can just say. We do have to leave the room twice ... just quickly ... but we are watching through the CCTV so you just indicate if there is a problem.</em>"<br />
<br />
I changed into my blue flowery gown and Looby Lou took me down to the treatment room and introduced me to Nicola ... and for 20 minutes or so I lay on the couch, with my arm strapped above my head, as it moved up and down ... left to right ... and light beams flashed across my torso ... Then Looby Lou finally made two tattoo marks ... one between my breasts and another on my armpit ... so tiny they are smaller than my freckles.<br />
<br />
As I walked out of the Oncology department ... back into the bright sunshine ... I grabbled for my sunglasses in my bag ... and had a flashback. I suddenly remembered the time a couple of years ago when I was delivering my canvases to the hospital for the annual art exhibition. I had dropped them off and was getting back in my car ... I was feeling a bit low and gloomy. As I went to start the car I looked up and saw a woman leaving Oncology ... she had a book in her hand ... and a scarf on her head ... she had obviously had chemo and was now having radiotherapy. ... but her face was bright and smiley. I recall looking at her and thinking “<em>If she can be happy ... with all that she has been through ... then so can I ... what have I got to be so down about?</em>” <br />
<br />
Little did I know that exactly two years later ... that woman would be me ...<br />
<br />
As I strided down the hill to the car park I bumped into a friend of mine, F1. “<em>You look really well</em>” she said. I thanked her and said that I felt great. “<em>Honestly, you look<strong> really</strong> well”,</em> she repeated. It wasn’t until later that I realised what she was saying. That not only do I look OK physically, but that I look OK mentally. She could see that sparkle in my eye and a spring in my step. <br />
<br />
And things are feeling good you know ... in fact this week I am meeting with my manager, Mr Campbell, to discuss my return to work ... part time to start off with.<br />
<br />
“<em>I guess you will want to take it easy at first ... especially if you are still having radiotherapy?</em>”<br />
<br />
Yeah ... there is that ... but then there is this new thespian avenue that I want to pursue. Perhaps a small role in the next Bond movie ...<br />
<br />
... with <a href="http://folbot.files.wordpress.com/2009/08/daniel-craig-james-bond.jpg">Daniel Craig as 007</a> ... in his DJ and dickie ... I could be tied to the bed and be shaken and stirred by him anytime ... in fact I am getting that Get Up and Glow just thinking about it ...<br />
<br />
Oh oh dear ... I really am back on form aren’t I ...Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-12995281297047597132010-04-18T18:54:00.021+01:002010-04-21T20:25:39.234+01:00"Say fromage .... "<em>A great photograph is a full expression of what one feels about what is being photographed in the deepest sense and is, thereby, a true expression of what one feels about life in its entirety.</em> <br />
<div style="text-align: right;">Ansel Adams</div><br />
A while ago ... actually sometime ago, long before the Yukky Lump appeared, I asked my friend Bubbles a favour. “<em>If I was to die ... would you arrange an exhibition of some of my photos ... perhaps just a dozen of them ...?</em>”<em> </em>“<em>Of course!</em>” she replied. Then after a moment of two of consideration she said ... “<em>but does the death bit have to be part of the equation ... I would much rather help you do one whilst you are alive and kicking ...</em>"<br />
<br />
After I had recovered from my diagnosis in August (well sort of recovered ... I don’t think I will ever really come to terms with it), I decided to make the most of my involuntarily time out and set myself two goals, and one of them was to do that photography exhibition. Ironically, my new vulnerability had given me the confidence to go ahead with it ... but I didn't appreciate at the time that my photography mojo was going to take a serious bashing.<br />
<br />
Photography is one of my true passions. I remember the very first time I was allowed to use a camera. I went on a school trip to the <a href="http://www.romanbaths.co.uk/default.aspx">Roman baths in Bath</a> and my mum let me take her Box Brownie. I got on the bus and everyone else had one too ... and I recall being really fascinated by the fact they came in different styles and colours. Since then photography has always featured in my life ... though at some points more so than others. In my early twenties I purchased a 35mm Canon EOS ... but then some years on the children came along and didn’t have so much time ... then I bought a cheap and cheerful digital to record their early days ... before I later invested in some more heavy weight equipment.<br />
<br />
My pals are use to me constantly carrying my camera in my hand or around my neck. My bike even has a pouch on the handlebars so I can easily pedal around and whip it out at a moment’s notice. I remember me and My Little Friend cycling around Poitou Charentes a couple of years ago ... at the beginning of the holiday she would look at me and then out at the landscape to where my lens was pointing and wail “<em>I can’t see the picture ...</em>” but after two weeks of observing me ... literally watching me take hundreds of photos ... she got the idea ... and would get really excited as the shutter clicked and would exclaim “<em>I can see the picture!”</em> She and her family even have a special term ... “<em>Oh it is very Paula-resque</em>” ... which they use to describe a photo ... or something that I might take a photo of.<br />
<br />
So what has happened with the photography over the last few months? Well not much really. I am not sure why ... probably because I haven’t being getting out and about much ... and on top of that, because of treatment, two of my proposed French holidays were knocked on the head ...<br />
<br />
When I went to Wound Clinic a few weeks ago Nurse G asked me when I was due to see Dr J again. I said I didn’t know and so she logged on to the computer and checked. “<em>Oh ... next Wednesday</em>” she said. “<em>No</em>”. I replied. “<em>I am not coming in next week. I am going away next week. Since August I have cancelled two holidays and I am not giving up another one</em>.” “<em>That’s OK</em>” she assured me “<em>it is only a check up we will postpone it a week. Where are you going ... somewhere nice?</em>” “<em>Only Cornwall ... but it will be an overdue break</em>.” She nodded and replied “<em>Cornwall can be lovely ... especially if the sun shines ...”</em><br />
<br />
The first couple of days were a bit grotty weather-wise. Grey and damp ... but on Wednesday I woke to glorious blue skies and sunshine. We drove into <a href="http://www.padstow.com/">Padstow</a> ... now jokingly nicknamed <a href="http://www.rickstein.com/">Padstein</a> ... and actually saw the renowned chef walking up the hill ... though it was funny not to see <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2227232046">Chalky</a> dancing at his feet. We met up with Lil’sis, her husband and That Ruddy Dog, who had chosen a great day to join us, and we all jumped on the little ferry and rode over to Rock. Once there we walked along waterfront, admiring the beautiful and impressive houses, before settling down at a restaurant for a little alfresco lunch.<br />
<br />
Just after our food was served I turned to Lil’sis and said “<em>I had to laugh on our first morning here. </em><em>Tinker woke and asked if we had bought some pain au chocolat. He thought we were in France! We obviously spend too much time there!</em>” “<em>Well ... you can hardly talk</em>” jibed S, “s<em>at here with your mussels and glass of wine ... anybody would think you were there too</em>.” And I could have been ... I could have been in Cornwall ... or Poitou ... or even Cape Cod. The sun was shining ... the sea was glistening ... and I closed my eyes and sat back ... relaxed ... feeling happy and content ...<br />
<br />
The weather remained good and the following days we did more of the same ... packing picnic bags, books and various bats and balls and went off to Polzeath and Constantine Bay. And ... it was there ... at Constantine ... that I decided to pick up the camera and leave the beach and wander over to the rocky cliff. The huge waves were pounding into the cove ... spraying high into the air ... and ... for the first time in ages ... I was captivated. Which is one of the reasons I enjoy photography so much ... I just lose all my senses ... I become totally ignorant of what is around me ... my mind become totally focussed on what I am attempting to capture ... I enter a world of my own. And, it was there, as I waited for each wave to break, and I sat with baited breath, staring through the view finder, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/reallyreallyrosie/">with my finger on the shutter</a>, that for the first time in ages I felt that old familiar photography passion. Later, as I walked back to the beach I thought about a newspaper article I read earlier that day... <br />
<br />
Now, even before the arrival of the Yukky Lump, I wasn’t a save-it-for-best kind of girl. I couldn’t understand the point of buying a shiny new car but never driving it just in case it might get dirty or scratched ... or accepting a beautiful solitaire but never wearing it, because of fear that the rock might fall out ... so to me the thought of owning a camera and never using it is unbelievable.<br />
<br />
According to the morning paper, camera king Leica has teamed up with fashionistas Hermes, and are going to sell a special edition M7 camera. Just a hundred of them. I must admit they are cute ... clad in special orange calfskin ... delivered in special silk lined and linen covered boxes. But the cuteness comes at a price ... £8,735 ... to be exact. And, what is so sad, is that most of these M7s will remain in their designer boxes ... as just breaking the seal could mean a four grand depreciation. Of course, the fact it is actually a camera is totally irrelevant. It could be vase ... or a picture ... it is a collectable ... something to be admired and not used. What a waste.<br />
<br />
Just before my operation I hunted down my friend Caerphilly who works at the hospital and who organises an annual art exhibition. I have entered twice before and have sold a number of photo canvases. It is obviously nice when people say that like your pictures ... but when someone actually chooses to buy one ... and voluntarily displays it in their home ... it is a real compliment. Last year a hospital consultant was so pleased with his purchase that he even sent me a photo of my photo hung in his living room. <br />
<br />
“<em>I take it you are running the exhibition again this year? What date is it?</em>” I asked Caerphilly. “<em>Oh ... I am sorry ... we are not doing it this year ... I have just sent a note out</em>.” “<em>Oh no ... I was just considering my entries</em>” I said disappointed. “<em>I tell you what</em>” she replied. “<em>the current exhibition at the Chapel gallery is due to come down ... would you like to do your own exhibition there? Your photos would be suitable for such a sensitive environment. There is room for about a dozen pictures. I'll take you down there</em>”. So me and Bubbles followed her and took a look.<br />
<br />
So it is happening. My very own exhibition. And not only that ... an exhibition at my hospital ... at the hospital where I was born ... where my mother sadly died ... where I tragically lost my first baby ... but went on to celebrate the birth of two healthy sons. The hospital where I was told that I have a huge Yukky Lump ... and where the wonderful health professionals have shrunk it ... removed it ... and got me back on track ... to enjoy the things I love doing ... like taking photos ...<br />
<br />
So it looks like I am to achieve one of the goals that I set out to do last Autumn. The other one ....? Well ... maybe not ... <br />
<br />
<em>So what was it?</em><br />
<br />
Well ... it was to learn French ...and I admit ... I am not progressing so well on that front. I still can’t enquire “<em>What time is the next train to Lyon</em>?” ... or “<em>Do you have this shoe in a size 5?</em>” .... but heck ... I can I get by with the important stuff .. <br />
<br />
“<em>Je voudrais des moules ... et une bouteille du vin blanc, s'il vous plait ... oooh la la ...”</em><br />
<br />
To see the Cornwall pics come over to mine - <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/reallyreallyrosie/">click here</a>Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-37283027290374440562010-04-10T10:16:00.026+01:002010-04-12T21:42:02.277+01:00Lovin’ and livin’<em>Love – what is love? </em><br />
<em>A great and aching heart;</em><br />
<em>Wrung hands; and silence; and a long despair.</em><br />
<em>Life – what is life? </em><br />
<em>Upon a moorland bare</em><br />
<em>To see love coming and see love depart.</em><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><em>Love, What Is Love?</em></div><div style="text-align: right;">Robert Louis Stevenson</div><br />
You know people often say nice things to me – complimenting and praising the way I have been dealing with the Yukky Lump and everything else that comes with it. They tell me that I am “<em>brave</em>” ... and “<em>courageous</em>” ... and “<em>inspirational</em>” ... and although the comments are well meant ... I must admit I treat them like water off a duck’s back. <br />
<br />
Now ... don’t get me wrong ... if someone says they are reading the blog and enjoying it then I am absolutely delighted. If it means that I am succeeding in promoting breast cancer awareness, and sharing what it is like to go through the trials and tribulations of treatment, hopefully in an informative (and perhaps in a sometimes humorous and witty) way, then I feel I am making a difference ... and that is an achievement. But to be honest most of the time I don’t make a conscious decision on how to get through this crap ... I was dealt this dire card ... and my attitude is that I will grit my teeth and get on with it. Then, once it is over and done with, I will draw a line under it and get on with the rest of my life. Or will I ...?<br />
<br />
Thankfully I don’t have too many days where I feel really depressed ... my sad bad moments tend to last only minutes or very occasionally hours. My last grey day was ironically just after I was told the Yukky Lump had been successfully removed, that no more surgery would be necessary and I could move on to radiotherapy. Isn’t that ironic? The very day that I had longed for ... for over seven arduous months ... the day I should have been celebrating ... whooping for joy ... but I wasn’t. I was depressed, sad, angry ... and resentful. Though I wasn’t surprised by this. You see I have read that these are common feelings for people who have been diagnosed with cancer and have been successfully treated. Their friends, family and colleagues, expect them to be happy and buoyant ... but in reality they are often left shocked and traumatised ... and embittered. <br />
<br />
I am not sure why I woke on that particular day and felt so bad ... maybe it was the aftermath from the general anaesthetic ... or the side effects frm the huge amount of painkillers ...but whilst I sat back and thought “<em>yeah, it looks like I have cracked it ... for now anyway</em>” I then went on to consider that I hadn’t made it to this point without battle wounds. The lump may have gone but what had I endured to get that far? I had been robbed of nearly a year of my life ... no job ... no social life ... no holidays! Surgery that has left me permanently scarred. The physical mutilation after the seven sessions of chemo ... the chemo that made me really feel sick ... and left me fat and bald ... like a little Buddha. And, more than three months after the final poisonous cocktail, the chemical burns are still visible on my hands and wrists ... and a number of my fingernails are about to dramatically drop off. Yeah ... I had got to where I wanted to be ... but boy I paid a bloody price for it.<br />
<br />
For those of you who are reading this and are fortunate not to have cancer then you are probably unaware of a secret cyber world that exists in this malignant parallel universe. Until last August I had absolutely no idea of its being ... but it is there. People, who like me that have been told that they have a Yukky Lump nestling somewhere in their body, silently communicating electronically and supporting each other through blogs like this, or chat forums on sites such as <a href="http://www.macmillan.org.uk/Home.aspx?utm_campaign=Brand+|+Brand+Terms&utm_medium=cpc&utm_source=Google&utm_term=macmillan&gclid=CMfDj87i-6ACFRM_lAodfypsvg">MacMillan</a> or <a href="http://www.breastcancercare.org.uk/">Breast Cancer Care</a>, which are a bit like Facebook for cancer sufferers.<br />
<br />
A couple of days ago I “<em>popped</em>” over to say hi to my friend <a href="http://lifesfunnylikethat.blogspot.com/">Debby</a>. Debby lives in the States and went through what I am experiencing now about a year ago ... and, like me, she tends to wear her heart on her sleeve and tells it like it is. In her blog this week Debbie described her latest trip to the Cancer Centre. She detailed how, whilst waiting to be seen, she met a younger woman with two children – aged 8 and 10. Yep, a lady that is a similar age to me ... and whose kids are exactly the same age as mine. But what Debby found out from chatting to this lady was that she doesn’t have breast cancer ... she has metastatic breast cancer ... cancer in her liver ... and her lungs. She had breast cancer five years ago, and was thinking that she was in the clear... but then out of the blue these secondaries appeared. She told Debby "<em>I didn't know. I thought that because my mammograms were good, I was okay. I did not know that if it came back, it would probably be someplace else</em>." <br />
<br />
You see ... breast cancer rarely kills. We often hear that women (and sometimes men) die of breast cancer ... but that isn’t strictly true. The breast is not a vital organ and so if you can remove the cancer from the breast there is a much improved chance of living. But sadly cancer likes to roam ... and with breast cancer it tends to break out and venture into the brain, spine, liver and lungs. This is serious big-boy-cancer ... demise of those crucial parts of your body can be fatal.<br />
<br />
In her blog Debby points out that health professionals talk about getting rid of the breast cancer ... however patients are rarely told that the chances of the cancer returning to the same area is not the concern ... but that it might reappear in a more threatening location. Debby also explains how witnessing the stark reality of the cancer coming back to haunt this younger woman, a mother of two primary school aged children, has really shocked her. And, as I read her admission of fear, I could empathise with her angst ...<br />
<br />
A few days after surgery, I sat in bed and checked out a number of my favourite blogs. I wondered if my cyber friend <a href="http://pmapash.wordpress.com/">Pash </a>was around, as she hadn’t updated for a while. Pash – real name Sarah but known as Pash due to her passion for life – was diagnosed with breast cancer a couple of months prior to me. She had the same chemo regime as me, then a mastectomy just before Christmas and everything seemed to be going fine ... until January ... when she started complaining of vision problems and went back to the hospital for a scan, “<em>just in case</em>”. Sadly, Pash was told that the cancer had metastasised and that she had 8 lesions on the brain. Her prognosis was possibly up to five years ... but she was told in reality it was more likely to be 18 months to 3 years. However ... what should have been devastating news didn’t knock Pash ... nope, renowned for her postive mental attitude she kept striding on with life. She moved into the beautiful country cottage that she had always longed for ... with her new sweetheart Neil ... and was absolutely adamant that Mr Frodo was not going to stop her from doing anything ... she was going to get as much as she could out of every single day. <br />
<br />
As her blog appeared on my screen I could see it had been updated. But unfortunately not by Pash. The latest entry explained how she had not really recovered from a recent fall ... had contracted pneumonia ... and although her mind was a positive fighter ... her poor body couldn’t cope. And, on the day of my own surgery, Pash’s friends and family had joined her at her hospital bedside and celebrated her wedding to Neil ... and were there an hour or so later ... when she sadly passed away ... only nine months after her initial diagnosis ...<br />
<br />
As I read the devastating news the sorrowful words blurred as my eyes filled and I cried. There were tears for Pash ... and Neil ... and her family and friends. But ... if I am honest ... there were also tears for me ... for my own fragility ... vulnerability ... and mortality... <br />
<br />
And then the tears stopped ... something made me dry my wet face ... rise from my bed ... venture out ... and enjoy the beautiful sunny spring day.<br />
<br />
What I want to tell those folk who say I am “<em>brave</em>” ... and “<em>courageous</em>” ... and “<em>inspirational</em>” ... is that there isn’t always a smile on my face ... there are definitely grey down days. But what I think of ... and what I reflect on ... when I have those horrid grotty spells ... or tearful times ... is the likes of Pash ... and the lady in Debby’s waiting room. Yeah, I was handed a dire card ... but there are people out there that are even less fortunate and have been dealt two, or three, or four crap cards. I don’t know what is around the corner ... none of us do ... but I feel I owe it to those guys, as well as myself, to try and make the most of what I got now.<br />
<br />
As the feisty little angel whispered into my ear the other day ...<br />
<br />
“<em>Don’t just live the moment, love the moment. Get up. Go out. Kick ass</em>.”<br />
<br />
R.I.P. Pash.Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-20602634231875369692010-04-04T20:21:00.010+01:002010-04-05T10:44:02.222+01:00A puppy is for life ...“<em>You were audible from here</em>” Bubbles scolded gently, as I returned to the waiting area. “<em>You are the only person I know that I could escort to Wound Clinic and hear you laughing from the consulting room. What on earth was going on?</em>” “<em>Oh, it is Nurse G, she is a right one</em>” I responded matter of factly. Bubbles looked at me, her eyebrows slightly raised, her facial expression silently saying “<em>That didn’t answer my question.</em>” So I continued “<em>Well ... after she checked my breast she tried to preserve my privacy and dignity by covering it with the gown. However, I pulled it right back and said “Oh no, don’t hide it ... I am rather proud of my new boob ... I like to show it off at any opportunity"</em>. I went on to explain that Nurse G laughed and said "<em>Well, Dr J has done a very good job so I don’t blame you. Though I wonder what will you be like once he has done the other one?!</em>" <em> Then we both had a chuckle at that thought</em>.” What I didn't admit to Bubbles was my laughter was a possibly a little too hearty ... through slight embarrassment ... ‘cos I am aware Nurse G asked a very good question ... <br />
<br />
That was the first hospital appointment of the week ... as my sooper-dooper consultants are having a little game of <em>Paula Ping-Pong</em> and my wonderful breast surgeon, Dr J, has just batted me back over to my oncologist, Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly, who greeted me at my second appointment with his usual beaming smile. “<em>How are you feeling?</em>” he enquired. “<em>I am alright. The breast is OK but I am getting some pain in my arm. I went to Wound Clinic on Monday and they said this level of discomfort is to be expected. It could continue for the next few days or weeks, but it is something that I may unfortunately have for years. It is nothing abnormal</em>.” Dr O smiled sympathetically.<br />
<br />
“<em>I expect someone has gone through the outcome of the surgery with you?</em>”<em> </em>he probed. Now, Dr Price did say a little bit about it but I was more than happy to hear it again, and perhaps glean more information so I replied “<em>Mmm ... not really</em>”. So he launched into his appraisal “<em>Well ... the lump was 2.5 cm ... and the margins were excellent. They removed 11 nodes in total and although we didn’t expect to find any cancer in them, as the chemo should have probably killed it off, the good news is that we couldn’t find any evidence of there ever being any malignancy there</em>.”<br />
<br />
A bit of good news and not such good news then. Good news that there doesn't ever to appear to have been cancer in the nodes - but a bit of a blow that the lump was actually bigger than the scan had indicated, as Dr Ultrasound said he thought it had shrunk to only 1.5 cm. Having said that, this news didn't surprise me as I know ultrasound scans are not very accurate. Dr U had also said that my tumour was believed to be about 5cm at diagnosis – but Dr O had previously indicated it was more likely to be at least 6cm – and I am going with him on that as the Yukky Lump lay along the cup of my breast and even I could tell it was pretty big.<br />
<br />
My musing was interrupted as Dr O started talking again ... perhaps he had read my mind ... “<em>You know I am very pleased with your treatment ... things have gone very well. I know we cancelled your last chemo and I comfortable and confident that was the right thing to do. We are on track and I am now going to refer you for radiotherapy</em>." “<em>Four weeks ... three on the breast ... and one on the skin?</em>” I butted in. He chuckled a little at my rude interuption ... I guess not all patients have the awareness and understanding of their care pathway like I do. “<em>Yep, exactly!</em>” he said nodding his head. <br />
<br />
“<em>Now before you go, can I just take a look?</em>” “<em>Oh yes</em>” I replied just a little too heartily and eagerly stripped and jumped onto the chaise. “<em>Can you put your hand over your head?</em>” and I obediently did as I was asked. “<em>That’s great as you will need to be able to do that for radiotherapy</em>.” He inspected my new, rather yellow and orangey, but rejuvanated breast and concluded “<em>Ideal. It looks very good</em>”. “<em>I know” </em>I said and smiled proudly as I admired it too.<br />
<br />
Now I am aware that you are probably thinking ... she has spent months crapping on about how much she didn’t want surgery ... how much she loved her ample boobs ... and that she didn’t want some breast surgeon let loose on them. I know ... I know ... the only way I can explain is ...<br />
<br />
Imagine you have a pair of old faithful dogs ... something hearty like a couple of labs or retrievers ... and then suddenly and sadly one dies. And whilst you are upset and are grieving, your well meaning friends and family suggest that you get a new doggy to replace your previous one ... to fill the emotional and physical gap. But you are adamant ... no, nothing will replace your old trusty companion. Then one day someone turns up at your house ... with a cute little woof woof ... and although you initially resist ... after a few days you have fallen for its charms and enjoy its company. It ain’t the same as your old pet ... but you start to warm to it ... it is new, novel and fun ... it has an endearing youthfulness and is sparky and alert. Yeah I know it is ironic ... but that’s how I feel about my new boob. OK it might be a bit swollen and discoloured at the moment but give it a few weeks, once it has resumed its usual tone, I think I will become quite fond of it ...<br />
<br />
In fact I am seriously thinking of exhibiting at Crufts this year ... yep, my new puppies ... Pinky and Perky ...Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-82016003424967461542010-03-28T13:40:00.019+01:002010-10-05T21:55:40.364+01:00It ain’t over until ...Bridget Jones: <em>I read that you should never go out with someone if you can think of three reasons why you shouldn't.</em> <br />
<br />
Mark Darcy: <em>And can you think of three?</em> <br />
<br />
Bridget Jones: <em>Yes.</em> <br />
<br />
Mark Darcy: <em>Which are?</em> <br />
<br />
Bridget Jones: <em>First off, I embarrass you. I can't ski, I can't ride, I can't speak Latin , my legs only come up to here and yes I will always be just a little bit fat.</em> <br />
<br />
There is no doubt about it ... Wednesday was a pretty momentous day. The morning started with my new obsession ... lash adoration. Now, I have always really liked my long dark eyelashes ... almost as much as my boobs ... and absolutely hated it when they fell out. They and my brows were the last things to go ... and unfortunately this coincided with those truly horrid side effects from Killer Chemo. This meant I not only felt awful but I looked pretty ill and grotty too. <br />
<br />
OK ... they are not quite as lengthy and luscious as they were before, but they are getting there, and will a little help with some ‘scara they are looking pretty darn good. On top of that, I have spent the last couple of weeks looking as if someone has gone to poke two fingers in my eyes ... and missed ‘cos my little legs make me so short ... and they have ended up jabbing me just above the sockets instead, leaving two dark bruises. This is because my brow hairs have been nestling just under the skin waiting to push through... like little tadpoles beneath the surface of the water waiting to burst out of their captivity ... which they have finally succeeded in doing and are now sprouting nicely.<br />
<br />
As I stared into the mirror I contemplated the afternoon ahead. I had called Dr Jordan’s secretary as he had told me to. “<em>Hi Tania. Dr Jordan said I should call you to make sure my pathology results were available and that my case was going to team meet this morning?</em>” “<em>I’ll check and call you back</em>”. Which she did. “<em>Yes, your case went to MDT so you can come over this afternoon.</em>” “<em>Good</em>” I replied, nervously. “<em>By the way, it is not Dr Jordan this afternoon, it is Dr Price.”</em> Oh .... <br />
<br />
Now I have met Dr Price. Just the once. He came along with Dr Jordan to my pre-op meeting. That was where Dr Jordan merrily doodled all over my torso with a black marker pen whilst telling Dr Price what he was planning to do during surgery. After which Dr Jordan took a photo of me so that I could join his infamous photo gallery of patients he has performed surgery on. “<em>Make sure you don’t get my head in this pic</em>” I demanded. “<em>No, of course not</em>” he promised me. “<em>Well, I am not bothered about the boobs ... it feels like everybody has copped a look at those ... I just don’t want anyone to see me in this rather fetching outfit ... NOT!</em>” Well ... the hideous surgery gown, matched with the revolting white DVT surgery stockings and my fluffy slippers were so not a good look ... though my friend Bubbles did say she couldn’t believe I will still colour co-ordinated ...<br />
<br />
Now ... Dr Price seemed like a jolly nice chap ... but if there was going to be negative news ... they hadn’t got clear margins and that I would have to return to the hospital in the next week or so for further surgery ... this time for a full mastectomy ... then I would rather hear this from Dr Jordan. After all these months he knows what I am like ... that I will need lots of comforting and reassurance. Surely, he wouldn’t let me lose on the poor innocent Dr Price?! Then my heart skipped a beat. Perhaps that was it? Maybe that is why I had to ring in prior to my appointment...‘cos if it was bad news then Dr Jordan would postpone my visit for a week ... so that he would be the one to advise on the bad news ... but it is not bad news ... which is why I am meeting Dr Price ... or is all that wishful thinking ...<br />
<br />
My first appointment of the afternoon was to have the drain removed. Now, for those of you who have never seen one I will explain. The drain was put in during surgery and is a tube about a foot long with a clear see through bag at the end. Blood and other bodily fluids flow down the tube to the bag, which needed changing each day. I hated it. It looked horrid ... it was cumbersome and uncomfortable ... and I was worried that I would pull it out ... particularly during my sleep. It was a bit apprehensive the removal was going to hurt but it was fine, probably helped by the fact I was still on the painkiller combo. However, I was pretty shocked when Nurse C said she had removed it and then pointed out that the spaghetti like tube inside my body was about 9 inches long ... urrgh! As a consolation she let me keep the funky little linen bag that I carried the drain about in ... I am thinking I might dye it and hang on to it as a little keep sake ... along with them fetching DVT stockings which came home too ... mmm ...<br />
<br />
“<em>Well we have some good news</em>” said Dr Price cheerfully, “<em>All went well and</em> <em>I am going to refer you back to Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly</em> <em>so he can discuss radiotherapy with you</em>". “<em>It was clear margins?</em>” I stammered nervously and held my breath. “<em>Oh yes</em>” he smiled broadly, “<em>excellent margins ... this type of surgery is renowned for being successful. Do you mind if I take a look ... and can I bring my student?</em>” Oh ... some things are don’t change, I smirked to myself.<br />
<br />
“<em>I’ve waited seven months to hear that news</em>”, I confessed in hushed tones to Nurse J as she helped me undress behind the curtain. “<em>I know</em>” she said reassuringly. “<em>You can cry now</em>.” I looked at her and chuckled knowingly. Then I paused and wondered ... have these guys got so used to my delicate emotional state that they have set a sweepstake on how far into my appointment the tissues come out! If so I must have disappointed on this occasion ‘cos most surprisingly ... probably for the first appointment ever ... I didn’t cry. That is the honest truth ... really ... and I haven’t since ... though I am not sure why ... it is almost as if I can’t quite believe that Yukky Lump has finally gone ... that the light at the end of this breast cancer tunnel hell is getting bigger and brighter every day ...<br />
<br />
You know that saying ... that really famous one ... yeah ... <em>it ain’t over until the always-just-a-little-bit fat lady sings</em> ... well you’d better brace yourselves ...<br />
<br />
"<em>Climb every mountain, </em><br />
<em>Search high and low,</em><br />
<em>Follow every highway, </em><br />
<em>Every path you know.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Climb every mountain, </em><br />
<em>Ford every stream,</em><br />
<em>Follow every rainbow, </em><br />
<em>Till you find your dream.</em><br />
<br />
<em>A dream that will need, </em><br />
<em>All the love you can give,</em><br />
<em>Every day of your life, </em><br />
<em>For as long as you live.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Climb every mountain, </em><br />
<em>Ford every stream,</em><br />
<em>Follow every rainbow, </em><br />
<em>Till you find your dream ...</em>"Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-32408746173222163922010-03-22T10:48:00.002+00:002010-03-22T18:42:09.162+00:00Stop press!Happy Monday morning everyone! Just a very quick update between naps and daytime TV ....<br />
<br />
The lumpectomy/breast reduction op on Friday appears to have gone OK. Dr Jordan came to see me on Sat and he said surgery went to plan and that he was pleased. He is optimistic that he got clear margins around Yukky Lump but can't be sure until the pathology results come in - so fingers crossed!<br />
<br />
I am now at home - taking it easy. Emotions keep swinging around - I guess from the stress, drugs and tiredness - and worry that they might end up calling me back in for further surgery if they didn't get the clear margins. But hey ... you know what an emotional little soul I am at the best of times!<br />
<br />
I was really surprised how hard it was to walk to car from ward yesterday .. and a gentle cruise around the supermarket was a nightmare ... I was very weak and dizzy. I am feeling better today having had a good night's sleep. I am not in pain due to pain killers but absolutely hate the drain that is coming out of my armpit and which have to lug around in a bag. I have to change it in a minute ... urrgh ... shame they have stopped the morphine ....<br />
<br />
Can I just say a special "<em>hi</em>" to my new pals who welcomed me to the "<em>Girls Too Loud</em>" hospital ward ... their cheerfulness and support meant a lot ... best wishes to you ... I hope you are all doing well!<br />
<br />
<em>Yawn</em> ... I guess my 10 minute keyboard allocation is up ... time for another snooze ... catch you guys soon ...Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-31333764334700885012010-03-14T20:21:00.022+00:002010-03-15T17:52:04.140+00:00Un soupçon sojournPeaches and I have this little joke ... that we are going to write a book called <em>Soups of South Devon</em> ... ‘cos each time we go for one of our ‘<em>walks</em>’ we pop into an eaterie for a warming bowl. Well at least I thought it was a joke. I must admit I was little taken aback this week, when we had settled down for a leisurely lunch, and she announced with much authority, after a couple of slurps, that the celery and apple concoction was “<em>very nice though it doesn’t have the subtle undertones of the turnip and sage</em>”. I glanced up, smiling, but then realised she was being totally serious ... That was Friday ... a pleasant outing following my series of hospital appointments the previous day ... <br />
<br />
The envelope hit the door mat with a thud. The franking machine mark told me it was from the hospital even before I opened it. Inside there was half a dozen letters inviting me to various appointments ... my pre-op briefing; my pre-op one-to-one; my pre-anaesthetic review; my bloods and blood pressure; surgery and then, finally, the post-surgery meeting. I give it to my hospital ... they are co-ordinated ... and economical ... though it may have been a little less daunting if they had arrived separately ...<br />
<br />
So on Thursday I toodled off for my first four appointments ... picking up Lil’sis on the way ... armed with her snack and drink we could have been going for a day out in Scarborough. First appointment was the pre-op talk. There were three of us there ... me ... Gloria who was in her 60s and Gladys who must be 70-odd. The nurse handed out some info and talked about the surgery ... to be truthful she didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know ... but then again I have been hanging out in this parallel cancer world quite a lot longer than the other gals. Though ... having said that ... I was a bit shocked when she moved on to the post surgery stuff ... typical me, trying to run before I can walk, quite literally ...<br />
<br />
“<em>Now, after surgery and before you go home we want you to put a bra on. It is important that it doesn’t have underwire in it</em>.” She must of caught the look on my face. When it comes to bras I don’t <em>do</em> two things ... padded ... <em>what is that all about</em> ... and non-wired. “<em>You don’t have to buy one if you don’t have one</em>” she assured quickly, “Y<em>ou can just remove the wire from an old bra. Alternatively a sports bra is ideal</em>.” Well, I guess it would be, but even my sports bra is underwired.<br />
<br />
“<em>Talking of which, for those of you who are sporty you will need to refrain from activity for quite some time after surgery</em>.” I glanced over at Gloria and Gladys who, quite frankly, didn’t seem too bothered by this news. “<em>How long exactly?</em>” I chipped in. “<em>Three months</em>”, she replied. “<em>Three months?!</em>” “<em>Yes</em>”, she responded. “<em>What, including cycling?</em>” “<em>No cycling</em>.” “<em>What about swimming?</em>” I asked, almost pleadingly. “<em>No swimming</em>.” “<em>Walking?</em>" I was now sounding desperate. “<em>Oh walking is fine. We like walking</em>”. Just was well I have them little red walking boots ...<br />
<br />
"<em>There is a fine line between doing your exercises and over doing it</em>” she went on to say. “<em>For example, you will need to limit your time on the computer keyboard to ten minutes</em>.” Neither Gladys nor Gloria showed any emotion at this news ... whereas I gasped and let out a shocked and hushed “<em>No!</em>” “<em>I guess you use a computer?</em>” she enquired. “<em>Oh yes</em>” piped up Lil’sis, taking advantage of my state of shock. “<em>Facebook. Oh and her blog.</em>” “<em>Oh, you have a blog?</em>” enquired the nurse. “<em>Oh yes</em>” chattered Lil’sis, quite merrily, "s<em>he has people all over the world reading it</em>." I would have kicked her if I could ... but it wasn’t possible without everyone witnessing it. Yep, that is true ... guys from the US, Canada, France, Hong Kong ... even the Philippines ... but I wasn’t proposing to tell the people at my hospital, those who are treating and caring for me, that they are featuring in a weekly narrative ...<br />
<br />
Done at the Breast Care Unit we then pottered off to outpatients for the other two appointments. “<em>Hello, I am Staff Nurse A ... I need to get some info off you before your surgery ... it will take about 20 minutes ... is that OK? Right, can you jump on here so I can weigh you?</em>” I grimaced. Between August and and December I did really well and managed to remain the same weight, but Killer Chemo not only had an impact on the lump ... but my scales too. It is what my friend <a href="http://lifesfunnylikethat.blogspot.com/">Debby</a> rather endearingly calls Chemo Chub. Now, people often think that if you have cancer then you will lose weight ... and if you are very poorly this is the case ... but for the likes of me ... and many others... it ain’t. That’s because of a number of reasons .... for starters there are the ruddy steroids ... then due to the chemo you look and feel rough so you are nowhere near as active as you were ... so you are stuck at home ... with your head in the fridge ... trying to find something you can eat which doesn’t taste like cardboard ... And then you have surgery and are told that you pretty much can’t do anything for three months ...<br />
<br />
Staff Nurse A was right chirpy, breaking the monotony of the form filling by putting down her pen and telling little ditties. "<em>Have you had general anaesthetic before?</em>" asked Staff Nurse A. "<em>Yes.</em> <em>I started talking rubbish as I went under</em>" I admitted. “<em>Well</em>” she replied, “<em>I have a funny story about that</em>” putting her pen down once more. “<em>A while ago an elderly lady came in ... she was really posh ... well spoken ... pearls ... quite prim. We were talking about her previous surgery and she gripped her clutch bag, which was resting on her lap, and leant forward and told me in hushed tones what had happened when she was coming out round from the anaesthetic.” “I don’t know what came over me. Apparently I shouted: Right Mr P, all done you can now ‘eff’ off home.</em>” Staff Nurse A said “<em>I was quite shocked. I didn’t even think Mrs Windsor would know the word. Apparently Mr P was not offended and left a note next to her bed which said: Dear Mrs Windsor, I have now effed off home like you told me. I will see you in the morning</em>."<br />
<br />
Staff Nurse A picked up her pen and wrote some more before going on to describe what will happen on surgery day. “<em>Now, you might be able to keep your knickers on during surgery</em>.” Err ... I didn’t realise that I might not. “<em>So make sure the ones you are wearing don’t have any studs or sequins.”</em> Studs ... or sequins ... nah ... I don’t do padded or non-wired ... nor studs or sequins. <br />
<br />
So ... with only a few days to go until surgery ... how do I feel? Surprisingly, not too bad ... though admittedly I am not thinking about it too much. When I do ... I console myself that I am having a breast reduction ... just like thousands of other women do each year ... and who do it voluntarily. But of course in reality my situation is a bit different ... as my breast reduction also includes the removal of the now grape-like-sized Yukky Lump ... and some nodes under my armpit ... which probably means I will be carting a fluid drain around for a while. But then again ... for the first time in seven months I will ... touch wood ... be able to say that I am cancer-free.<br />
<br />
However, to be truthful, rather than surgery I am probably more apprehensive of my follow up appointment with Dr Jordan, which is to take place a few days after surgery. That is when and where he will tell me whether he has successfully removed the lump and enough healthy tissue around it. If that is not the case then I will have to return to the hospital and he will operate once more ... but would do a mastectomy ... and remove the whole breast ...<br />
<br />
A meeting that might be rather embarrassing if I start talking under anaesthetic ... ... <br />
<br />
“<em>Dr Jordan ... well you are Dr Jordan in my blog ... 'Jordan' because you are my boob man ... can I have your opinion ... knickers ... surely lacy is preferable to studs ... and hospital lunch tomorrow ... would you go for cream of mushroom ... or French onion ....</em>”Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-86621603177014492472010-03-06T19:17:00.005+00:002010-03-07T10:33:43.667+00:00Can you make it a double ...I heard some really good news this week. Someone got a job that she was after ... and I was absolutely delighted for her. <br />
<br />
"<em>What's so unusual about that?</em>" you might say ... OK so even in this awful economic climate that is no great shakes... but what might surprise you is this person lives far away ... I have never met her ... I haven’t even spoken to her... and I could sit next to her on a bus and she wouldn’t know me from Adam ... or Eve, for that matter.<br />
<br />
I am not exactly sure when I ‘<em>met</em>’ CK ... but it was just after my diagnosis in August. That awful foggy time ... when the shock of the news has left you numb and bewildered. I spent a lot of the time surfing the net to find out more about breast cancer ... what are the side effects of chemotherapy ... what kind of surgery... what is the long term prognosis ... why me ...? I was looking for information, reassurance and empathy. And that was when I found the <a href="http://www.macmillan.org.uk/Home.aspx">Macmillan</a> website. A brilliant resource that on a daily basis unfortunately ‘<em>welcomes</em>’ hundreds of just-diagnosed cancer patients, and their friends and family, like bees to a honey pot. And magically ... amongst the thousands of people who log on .... and within the maze of forums ... that is where I electronically bumped into CK ... doing the same as me.<br />
<br />
Now ... CK and I have a number of things in common ... we like photography ... and animals, particularly cats ... walking ... oh, and a little wine with supper ... but the majority of our e-mail conversations over the last six months have been about breast cancer ... and getting rid of it. As CK and I were diagnosed at about the same time our treatment has often coincided ... and we have had long rambling discussions on how we have tackled the different challenges. CK started her chemotherapy the day before me and so a lot of our initial discussions were about how we were each coping with the side effects. CK is much more grounded ... far less dramatic ... which is good for me. For example, as you probably remember, I hated losing my hair and both the anticipation and the seeing it dropping out was quite traumatic for me. However CK was quite matter of fact about it all ... I remember her telling me hers was dropping out whilst she was decorating ... and that she was laughing at the fact it kept sticking to the wallpaper she was putting up ... which made me smile too ...<br />
<br />
Now that we have finished the chemo our more recent e-mail exchanges have been about scans ... and surgery ... and radiotherapy. That was until she sent me the note to say that she was pleased as she had been for a job interview and had been successful. Obviously I read the news and was delighted for her ... but then I sat back and realised it meant a lot to me too. I felt uplifted ... but why? Why did I feel excited about someone, who I have never even met, getting a job?<br />
<br />
Because ... for the very first time ... CK and I were celebrating something that wasn’t to do with cancer. We weren’t patting each other on the back for getting through another session of chemotherapy ... it wasn’t wishing good luck with the surgery ... or congratulating the birth of stubbly eyelash growth. No ... this was a new job ... a promotion ... we were celebrating something that ‘<em>normal</em>’ people do. And that made me happy ... for her ... and for me. Together we were embracing the future.<br />
<br />
So tomorrow, whilst my friend is sitting in her kitchen ... the kitchen I have never stepped in ... celebrating her birthday ... I will be here ... many miles away ... celebrating mine ... and raising a large glass of fizz to my new found ‘twin’. <br />
<br />
CK ... it has been a tough old journey ... and we still have a way to go ... but we are getting there. <br />
<br />
Many happy returns to the both of us!Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-81191234118803691822010-02-28T17:54:00.023+00:002010-03-07T18:35:56.249+00:00One egg ... or two?“<em>Paula</em>?” called a very slim lady in a blue suit, clutching a clipboard. “<em>Apologies for keeping you waiting but</em> y<em>ou are next to see Dr Jordan", s</em>he said in response to my upheld hand.<em> </em>"<em>Which unfortunately means you are last</em>” she admitted, as she turned on her heels to face the patient sitting opposite me. On hearing this news the woman grunted and retorted “<em>Every time I have been here I have had to wait.”</em> “<em>I am sorry about that, but it is a very sensitive clinic</em>”, replied Miss Clipboard diplomatically. <br />
<br />
I thought back to a conversation that I had with my friend Bubbles, just after I had my ultrasound. “<em>Until you got this I have never really appreciated what it is like to have cancer and what people have to go through</em>” she said. “<em>You know one of the things that has struck me is the waiting</em>.” “<em>I know</em>”, I replied. “<em>Waiting at all levels. Waiting to be referred; waiting for tests; waiting for results; waiting for treatment ... waiting to be seen ...”</em><br />
<br />
My appointment to see Dr Jordan was at mid-day on Friday. Aware that the clinic commenced at half eight I knew that it could now be running over quite substantially and that I might be kicking my heels and twiddling my thumbs for at least an hour. And although the hanging around can be a pain, especially when you are there for news or results, I appreciate that there is good reason for this. It is because like my oncologist, Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly (I am sure you remember him), Dr Jordan, my breast surgeon, treats every patient as an individual. It really matters to him that you understand what is going on, what the recommendations are, and that you are totally happy with proposals. He gives you all the time you need.<br />
<br />
“<em>Did someone explain the ultrasound scans to you</em>?” asked Dr Jordan, after he had greeted me warmly and offered me a chair. “<em>Yes. The ultrasound chap got the scans out and put them up on the light board and he gave me the new dimensions of the lump</em>.” “<em>Are you OK with the results?</em>” he enquired. “<em>Well ... yes</em>”, I replied. “<em>I know that sounds odd, but now we know there is a small lump remaining I am hoping that you are going to be able to offer me the surgery I want?</em>” <br />
<br />
He grinned at me. “<em>Yes. I can now offer you breast conserving surgery</em>.” “<em>A lumpectomy?</em>” I asked. “<em>No</em>” he replied. “<em>No?</em>” I repeated looking at him wide eyed. “<em>No, I am going to suggest a breast reduction</em>.” “<em>A breast reduction</em>?” I looked at him quizzically. “<em>Yes. We will reduce the breast as we would with cosmetic surgery and take the lump at the same time. It will mean the breast will look much better and we can do the same to the other breast to match them</em>.”<br />
<br />
“<em>Sounds good to me</em>”, I smiled. “<em>You know how I feel about surgery, could you do them both in one go</em>?” “<em>I can do, but I would much prefer to wait and do the other one at a later date, as that will give the first breast the opportunity to settle down after surgery and radiotherapy. For the sake of waiting six months I would rather you had something that you are happy with for the rest of your life ... but it is up to you</em>. <em>You have right up to the moment that we sedate you to decide</em>.” Mmmm ... one or two. Do I get it all over and done with all in one go ... tempting ... but am I putting all my eggs in one basket ...<br />
<br />
“<em>What about your nipple</em>?” he asked in a matter of fact manner. "<em>Do you want to keep it, or not? And do you want chips with it?</em>”<em> </em>OK ... so he didn’t ask about the chips but it wouldn’t have sounded out of place. “<em>I would like to keep the nipple. Thanks</em>.”<br />
<br />
Dr Jordan pulled a form from a file. “<em>Now I will go through some potential risks of surgery and then I will ask you to sign the consent form. One of things that I need to forewarn you about is that if we go in and find more mischief than expected then we would need to make a decision there and then to do a mastectomy. Are you alright with that?</em>” I smiled at he him wryly ... he knows that I desperately didn't want a mastectomy. “<em>Yes</em>”, I replied honestly. “<em>We would have given the lesser surgery a go. If at the end of the day there is more cancer than we think then I would respect your clinical judgement to remove the breast.</em>” And with that I signed the form ...<br />
<br />
“<em>When are you looking to do the surgery</em>?” I enquired tentatively ... after all he had previously indicated that it wouldn't take place until April. "<em>What about Wednesday? Are you free on Wednesday?</em>" I gulped and nodded my head. Oh God, it sounded as if he was just inviting me out to dinner. “<em>No. Wednesday is good for me</em>”, I stuttered. “<em>OK. I will get them to check theatre availability</em>." Or should that be table availability?<em> </em>"<em>If it is not possible to fit you in this Wednesday then it will be a fortnight Wednesday.”</em><br />
<br />
So I am sat here ... in anticipation of a telephone call telling me which day the surgery is to take place. Maybe in a few days ... or within the next couple of weeks ... either way ... I ain’t going to be waiting long.Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-37915562581337330502010-02-21T19:37:00.046+00:002010-03-15T18:04:34.081+00:00That was the week that wasThe only thing that should surprise us is that there are still some things that can surprise us. <br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><em>François de La Rochefoucauld</em> </div><br />
Surprises are weird things aren’t they? Unexpected events which can make you ... or others ... feel happy ... sad ... lucky ... unfortunate ... or maybe optimistic ... Some have an impact that last only a few moments ... but others can be hugely dramatic ... life changing ...<br />
<br />
Let’s take Nigel Page for example. He woke up at his home in Cirencester last Saturday ... as I expect he has done on innumerable occasions ... though he probably won’t for many more ... ‘cos on that morning self-confessed “white van man” Nigel logged on to his National Lottery account ... to discover he was Britain’s biggest ever lottery winner ... with a cool £56 million sitting in his piggy bank. <br />
<br />
Recalling events Mr Page said: "<em>I'd already checked my National Lottery account and had seen I'd won £55 on Wednesday’s Lotto when I decided to buy two Lucky Dips for the big EuroMillions jackpot on Friday. I didn't think about it again until Saturday morning when I was watching the news with my daughter and saw that there was one UK winner who shared the jackpot with a ticket in Spain. I logged on to my account and saw the Lotto win for £55 in my account and just below it was the £56m EuroMillions prize. I started shaking and couldn't speak</em>." At a press conference later in the week, his partner Justine said: "<em>It's an amazing amount of money. We could never have wished for this</em>." <br />
<br />
And, usually that probably would have been the most awaited press conference of the week ... but it wasn’t ... because a couple of days ago Eldrick Tont Woods, better known to you and I as Tiger, decided to stand before the world’s media and, for the first time, make a grovelling public apology for cheating on his wife Elin. During the rambling 13½ minute public confession the shame-faced sportsman admitted his behaviour was "<em>selfish and foolish</em>". “<em>I thought I could get away with whatever I wanted to. I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and deserved to enjoy all the temptations around me. I felt I was entitled. Thanks to money and fame, I didn’t have to go far to find them. I was wrong. I was foolish. I don’t get to play by different rules</em>.” <br />
<br />
Now, let’s face it, although the reports of an incident, which took place a few months ago, where top golfer Tiger was found lying unconscious outside his mansion in the early hours of morning, after smashing his vehicle into a fire hydrant and a tree, all sounded pretty odd ... the fact it resulted in claims that for years he has been playing away from home was an unexpected revelation for most us. And then ... what went on to be even more startling ... was the news that it was not just one infidelity ... but that he had been victorious with at least a dozen birdies ... including a Las Vegas model, an Orlando waitress, a Manhattan socialite and an LA porn star. You gotta admit ... he’s got an awful lot of tiger in that tank ... <br />
<br />
Soooo ... what made our world renowned pro-golf swinger so very appealing and attractive to possibly a vast number of different women? Eldrick Tont, the poker–faced, mono-syllabic maverick ... it certainly wasn’t his witty sense of humour and smooth charisma ... or his penchant for wooly tank tops and dodgy caps. Perhaps it was that array of golden trophies ... and that billion dollar fortune from winnings and endorsements? Mmm ... just possibly. <br />
<br />
And despite his huge wealth and fortune, as Tiger walked with confidence and assurance to the podium, in front of hundreds of journalists, photographers and cameras, who were in turn going to relay his babbling confession, his every word and gestures, to millions across the world, there must have been, even if for just a fleeting moment, a point when he thought to himself “<em>Surely, this isn’t real. Not in a million years could I ever foresee this happening to me</em>.”<br />
<br />
And whilst Tiger was beating his breast ... to emphasise the sincerity of his apology to his fans and sponsors ... oh and his wife ... I was lying semi-naked in a darkened room with a tall, dark, handsome man staring intently at mine ...<br />
<br />
Yes, Friday was ultrasound day. From the moment they called me on Tuesday with the date and time I was dreading it ... for a few reasons. Firstly, it was at my initial ultrasound scan back in August that I realised that the huge Yukky Lump in my right breast was indeed malignant ... and not “<em>probably just a cyst</em>” which everyone kept repeating. That visit started off OK with Dr U, the consultant sonographer, being very polite and courteous and the assistant nurse chatty and cheery ... but as the examination progressed the atmosphere in the room completely changed. Dr U stopped talking and became very quiet and appeared really concerned ... I clocked how the nurse’s face dropped when she glanced at the screen ... and then she insisted on holding my hand ... even though I had said she didn’t need to. Nobody said anything ... my whole body started to involuntarily tremble with shock. Oh my God ... it is cancer. “<em>Say something</em>!” I barked loudly at Dr U “<em>You are scaring me.”</em> He replied matter of factly “<em>I am going to numb your breast. I need to do some biopsies on the lump</em>.” <br />
<br />
After that first scan I walked out of the ultrasound room to where my friend Nit Nat was patiently sat waiting. "<em>It is cancer</em>" I whispered. “<em>Why?</em> <em>What did they say?</em>” she asked. “<em>Nothing</em>.” “<em>Nothing?</em>” she repeated. “<em>Nothing, but I know.</em>” And I was right. <br />
<br />
Now, another reason I was anxious about this second ultrasound was that everyone – especially Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ley and Dr Jordan – has been telling me how pleased they are with the way the Yukky Lump has responded to the chemo cocktails. It went from something that basically filled the bottom half of my breast – about the size of small orange – to something that could not be felt between treatments 2 and 3. However, as I have not been scanned since that first time back in August ... nobody could be 100% sure what has really happened ... I was afraid this ultrasound might reveal something unexpected ... show that the lump had only shrunk a little; or maybe not at all ... or perhaps it had even grown ...<br />
<br />
“<em>Hello again</em>,” said Dr U in a friendly manner. “<em>Hello</em>”, I said. <em>Again</em>? Oh dear does he really remember me? Why? Because I was the girl who had previously strolled in with what she thought was a little harmless cyst but walked out with a grotesque and aggressive malignant lump? Or is it because there are not that many patients who end up shouting at their sonographer ... <br />
<br />
“<em>I see from your notes that things seem to have gone well?” </em>I explained that it has not been possible to feel the lump since October. “<em>Well, if you could lie down we can take a look</em>.” I took the familiar position on the couch, as I did before, with my right arm crooked above my head, nonchantly observing the ceiling. Dr U was studiously silent as he rolled the probe across my gelled breast – every now again stopping and typing something and then starting again. Then he got up and walked across the room ... he flicked a light on to see or read something ... and then switched it off ... and returned to his seat. Oh God, no. This is it. He has gone back to check my notes. Something must be really wrong ...<br />
<br />
“<em>You can sit up now</em>,” he said. “<em>Well, there is a lump</em>.” “<em>Oh right</em>,” I croaked. “<em>But it has shrunk dramatically</em>,” he smiled. “<em>I want you to go and have a mammogram and then when that is done you can come back here and I will write the old figures and the new measurements down so you can take them away with you. It is good news.</em>”<br />
<br />
I did as I was told and sure enough when I returned he had written down the measurements of the Yukky Lump. “<em>The figures on the top are the original measurements back in August, the largest being nearly 5cm. The figures underneath are today’s measurements, the biggest is now only 1.5cm</em>.” “<em>Where is it?</em>” I asked, “<em>is it deep into the breast?</em>” “<em>No, not at all, it is quite near the surface. Look I will show you.</em>” And he eagerly pulled out images from the first and second ultrasound and mammogram scans and secured them against the light board. He pointed to the two on the top, “<em>These are from August – you can quite clearly see the lump. And these are from today</em>.” “<em>Is it behind the nipple?”</em> I asked. “<em>No</em>”, he replied and pointed to one of the latter scans “<em>it is below.”</em> “<em>Why can’t I feel it then?</em>” “<em>Basically it has been beaten down by the chemotherapy, it is now just a small palpable mass</em>.” “<em>Will it be possible to do a lumpectomy?”</em> I asked rather pleadingly. “<em>We will all gather on Wednesday to discuss your results and then you will meet with Dr Jordan to hear what we feel are the next best steps.”</em> “<em>I am meeting with Dr Jordan next Friday,” </em>I chipped in. “<em>Excellent</em>” he replied as I opened the door and thanked him for his time. <br />
<br />
“<em>You are going to have to help with this one,”</em> said My Little Friend, when I spoke to her on the phone a bit later. “<em>I don’t feel comfortable congratulating you on finding a lump</em>.” “<em>Well, the thing is</em>”, I explained, “<em>if they couldn’t see anything on the scan it didn’t necessarily mean that I no longer had cancer.</em> <em>Instead we would have to assume that it had fragmented, what Dr Jordan illustrated as ‘hundreds and thousands’, and if I that was the case then I would definitely have to have a mastectomy. However, now there is a definitive lump he may be able to do breast conserving surgery, a lumpectomy, so although it sounds a bit odd, for me it is good news.”</em> <br />
<br />
So I am currently sitting on tenterhooks until I find out on Friday what Dr Jordan and the posse think is the best way forward for me. Now, I don’t like to describe myself as a half-pint-empty kind of girl, ‘cos that makes me sound negative, and I don’t think that is necessarily true. But I do tend to curb my optimism ... to protect myself from mind blowing disappointment. So I am not assuming that because they have found a lump that Dr Jordan will say that a lumpectomy will definitely be possible ... after all it might be the wrong size, in the wrong place, it could be the wrong shape, or have the wrong flavour ... just the wrong ruddy something ... <br />
<br />
But on the other hand this is what we were aiming for in the first place ... for the Yukky Lump to shrink from the size of a lemon to that of a small grape ... a little lump that could be easily removed. So surely it isn’t wrong for me to have an open mind and positive thoughts that things might go plan? <br />
<br />
Isn’t life about weighing things up and trying to tailor your hopes and expectations accordingly? For example, you wouldn’t do the lottery if you really felt you had absolutely no chance of winning ... and let’s face it someone has to. <br />
<br />
However, on the other hand, you might want to think carefully before putting a sizeable wager on Wicked Woodie’s willy not going a-wandering once more ... <br />
<br />
Though ... as we all well know ... life is full of surprises ...Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-40080193406260211982010-02-13T09:20:00.025+00:002010-03-07T18:31:26.531+00:00With ... or without youI keep thinking back to my last holiday - my final BBC vacation – a week in France in May. Once again we stayed in <a href="http://www.la-palmyre-les-mathes.com/">La Palmyre,</a> near Royan. It is a village on the Atlantic coast about half way down on the left hand side (yes I did get my geography O’level ) about an hour below La Rochelle and hour or so above Bordeaux. I have mentioned it before ... in the <a href="http://redshoesgreenpeppers.blogspot.com/2009/09/eeny-meeny-miney-mo.html">Pigeon Poo story</a> ... which apparently is one of the most popular blogs on here ... and you call yourself friends ... <br />
<br />
La Palmyre is a wonderful place ... early on in the season it is quiet and quaint. At that time of the year the weather can be delightful, but it can be a bit temperamental ... which is why we left it until the last minute to ensure we weren’t going to endure seven days of wind and rain ... which we didn’t. The sun shone and I enjoyed doing all my favourite relaxing things ... reading, bathing and taking <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/reallyreallyrosie/sets/72057594088259574/">photos</a>. I watched the boys jumping in and out of the warm swimming pool. I cycled lots ... along the maze of tracks which follow the great stretches of desolate golden beaches. Sometimes these were planned intentionally longer trips, which incorporated lunch, eating freshly caught moules at a restaurant overlooking the sea, and then there were other trips which weren’t supposed to be quite so long ... but we got lost. At least twice I cycled a minimum of 20 miles ... and had no idea that I was so poorly. I returned from my short break relaxed and re-energised ... with some colour in my cheeks ... and absolutely no inkling that within weeks my world was going to be blown apart ...<br />
<br />
As I drove to the hospital on Wednesday I saw a single magpie. I was so disheartened and apprehensive of my appointment that I couldn’t even be bothered to swear or make a rude gesture at it. It was exactly six months to the day that Dr Jordan, my breast surgeon, had informed me that the lump in my breast was indeed cancerous and that I wasn’t going back to France, on the holiday that was due to commence the following day. It was mid-August and on that occasion the waiting room was heaving ... full of nervous patients ... all perspiring from the stuffy humid heat ... and from the anxiety of waiting to possibly hear absolutely devastating and life changing news. And on returning once more that was one of the things I was dreading the most ... the waiting ... As it turned out this time I was the only patient there to see him ... and I went in punctually.<br />
<br />
“<em>How are you?</em>” said Mr Jordan holding out his hand. “<em>O ... K... ,</em>” I said hesitantly. “<em>You don’t seem too sure about that?</em>” he enquired. “<em>Well I am nervous</em>.” “<em>Of what? Of me?</em>” he asked somewhat surprised. “<em>Well ... not you ... but being back here ... bad memories ... and we are going to talk about surgery ... I have never had surgery before ...”</em><br />
<br />
"<em>I have looked at your records and Dr O is absolutely delighted with the response you have had with chemo.”</em> “<em>Yeah</em>” I replied, “<em>it disappeared really early on ... between the second and third chemo</em>.” “<em>Brilliant news</em>” he said. “<em>Now, we are not sure how the lump has shrunk. “It may have ...”</em> and he pulled a piece of paper across his desk “<em>shrunk like this</em>” and drew a series of decreasing circles across the page ... “<em>or it may have done this</em>” and he drew lots of little dashes which looked like ‘hundreds and thousands'. I nodded ... I knew what was coming. I knew from the moment, way back in November, when Dr Gillies said “<em>They can only do a lumpectomy if there is a definitive lump.</em>” From that point I was pretty sure that a mastectomy was probably on the cards.<br />
<br />
“<em>Now</em>”, said Dr Jordan, “<em>I think we have three options and they are ... do nothing. Absolutely nothing. We just monitor you to make sure it doesn’t return. Or ... the second option is that we do a lumpectomy ... but it is going to be pretty radical to remove the whole area of the tumour ... and I can’t guarantee that I will capture everything that is sinister ... it will be hard to identify clear margins. Thirdly ... a mastectomy</em>.” Yep ... he said it ... the dreaded ‘<em>m</em>’ word ...<br />
<br />
I sat back and considered the options. Jeez ... wasn’t the first one tempting ... just swanning out of that consulting room ... into the sunset ... no surgery ... no rads ... I could cancel my sick note and strut back into the office on Monday morning; I could plan for the rest of the year ... book holidays without worrying that they are going to coincide with treatment or recovery ... just go back to my lovely ticking-along-life. But realistically ... no ... as tempting as it is ... I know within a few weeks I would start to worry ... every little bump and ache would be threatening and scary. And, even if they monitored me, what would happen if that Yukky Lump reappeared ... even if it was quite diddy in comparison to the original orange-sized one ... then I would have to go through all this again ... the testing ... the diagnosis ... giving up work and my social life ... because of chemo and surgery ... the hair loss ... the weight gain ... the horrific side effects. Nope, no action is seriously appealing ... but I am going to resist temptation.<br />
<br />
“<em>Do you mind if I take a look</em>?” asked Dr Jordan. I nodded. “<em>Do you mind if Alison, the student medic, has a look too?</em>” I looked at Alison and shrugged. “<em>No problem. Quite used to stripping off these days ... come along ...” </em>Honestly, if I had charged a £ for everyone who has a look or has copped a feel of my boobs over the last 6 months then seriously it would have paid for me to have the treatment done privately. Now, understanding how the system works I fully appreciate that although it would have cost me several thousand it could still possibly be Dr Jordan doing the surgery ... as consultants often swing between the public and private sector ... the only difference would be that he would be wearing posh scrubs ... probably with a colourful hand-embroidered crest on the chest ... rather than the standard NHS issue. Oh ... and that I would be served up a copy of a Tory tabloid with my brekkie ... probably the Daily Tale ... and if I was good girl a little red wine with my dinner.<br />
<br />
We walked through to the examination area of the consulting room, along with the Breast Care Nurse, and all three of them inspected my rather impressive cleavage. “<em>The impact of the chemo looks really good. Do you mind turning around</em>?” asked Dr Jordan, and then proceeded to pinch an inch of flesh on my back. “<em>Mmmm .... do you mind if I take a look at your tummy?” </em>So I twirled and unzipped my skirt. He poked about about a bit and said “<em>Nah ... not enough fat there.”</em> “<em>Jeez, are you joking</em>? <em>You ain’t looking hard enough!”</em> I laughed. “<em>Well, we could be talking about reconstructing a pretty big breast,</em>” he replied. Ooh ... touché ...<br />
<br />
I dressed and returned to the seat beside Dr Jordan’s desk. “<em>Now .. I would recommend that you go for the third option, a masectomy. With delayed reconstruction. If you agree I can’t offer you an inplant ... as they don’t make them large enough</em>”. I smiled weakly. “<em>So ... I would suggest that we do a </em><a href="http://breastcancer.about.com/od/reconstructivesurgery/tp/latissimus_dorsi.htm"><em>Latissimus Dorsi</em></a><em> where we ...”</em> I nodded my head and mumbled “<em>I know</em>.” He stopped and looked at me quizzically. “<em>You seem despondent</em>”, he said, really concerned. “<em>Well ... it just seems ironic ... the chemo has killed off the cancer ... but because the lump has fragmented or disappeared then you are recommending a mastectomy</em>. <em>Surgery where I will wake and be faced with only one breast</em>.” Dr Jordan picked up his pen again and pulled his earlier drawings across the desk. “<em>I wish all my patients were like you. The important thing is that the tumour looks like this</em>” and pointed to the smallest circle on the page “<em>or like this</em>” and gestured towards the ‘hundreds and thousands’. “<em>I know</em>”, I replied. “<em>I totally appreciate that. I really do</em>.”<br />
<br />
And I do ... let’s face it ... six months ago I walked into that consulting room with a 6cm grade 3 stage 3b malignant lump . That is as grim as breast cancer can get. The next stage? Stage 4 ... secondaries ... maybe a life threatening tumour in my liver or brain ... To be honest I was really dancing with big-bad-boy cancer. And, although the ultrasound won't take place until next week, when we will get to know what is going on with Yukky Lump for sure, everybody seems to believe that things have gone well. <br />
<br />
But ... as much as I am totally grateful for all that ... I am never ever going to be in a position of waving my hands in the air ... and hooting a huge cheer at the news that my surgeon has told me that he recommends three lots of surgery. A mastectomy in April ... coming around from surgery and only having one boob ... rads in May ... reconstruction in the autumn ... and reduction on the other breast maybe before Christmas. <br />
<br />
You know what really gets on my tits is when people flippantly say to me “<em>Ooh a free boob job ... lucky you</em>” as if I am going to come out of this with some kind of gratuitous perk. ‘Cos I am certainly not. With the best will in the world, and Dr Jordan would totally agree with me, if I go with his recommended surgery triathlon I will end up with two completely different shaped and much smaller heavily scarred breasts which won't be symmetrical, one of which is going to have no nipple and very little sensation, and on top of that gashes across my back and under my armpit. Sadly, I ain’t gonna suddenly look like some kind of super model.<br />
<br />
The other thing from my appointment on Wednesday is I just didn’t realise or appreciate that my life would still be on hold for so long. Naively, over lunch back in October or November, I said to my manager, Mr Campbell, that I was hoping to go back to work in April. I think I now have to make it clear that it could be April 2011 ... and am wondering if I can get a season ticket for the car park at the hospital. <br />
<br />
As I got up to leave, Dr Jordan shook my hand and said “<em>We will meet in a couple of weeks. In the meantime I want you to think about your options and work out what you want. It is really important to me that you are totally happy that you have made the right choice before surgery. I will also put some thought to you ... see whether I can come up with other options which would suit you better</em>.” Hey, what a trooper he is. Let’s face I can’t ask for any more ... why would I want to be treated privately?<br />
<br />
For a long time I have wanted to return to La Palmyre. I had this dream of going back there in the early summer, thinking that by then my treatment would have been all done and dusted, and I could draw a line under the previous twelve months. In my vivid imagination I felt I had a great holiday last year ... but afterwards I had taken the wrong turn. My vacation had finished ... and as I departed I had veered right ... down Breast Cancer Care Path, instead of taking the left fork towards Nicely Ticking Along Life Lane. But ... if I went back this summer I could rectify that ... say that was the year that was ... and move on, along the correct track. But I was adamant that I wasn’t going to return before my treatment was complete, especially if I needed to have a mastectomy with delayed reconstruction. If I went with only one boob then the consequence of this would be me sitting on the sun lounger dwelling on the fact that “<em>This time last year I had two boobs. Look at me now ... sitting here with only one ... this year has been totally crap ...”</em><br />
<br />
But ... having spoken to Dr Jordan, and taken on his comment that he wishes all his patients were like me, I have thought about this some more. You know, I could return to La Palmyre this May or June ... and there would be nothing to prevent me having the relaxing and re-energising holiday that I so totally deserve. If I end up with the mastectomy, which is looking pretty likely, I might temporarily have only one boob but I can still do all the things that I enjoy so much. I can still play with the boys, swim, cycle, read and take photos. <br />
<br />
Yes, I could sit there on that lounger and mull over the fact that my body is not the same as it was on my previous trip. And I could mourn my loss ...<br />
<br />
But then again ... I could savour the moment and say “<em>Yes, this year I do only have one boob ... but this year I don’t have cancer.</em>” <br />
<br />
Which is something I had last year. <br />
<br />
I just didn’t realise it.Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-60424458752632264552010-02-07T19:29:00.012+00:002010-02-08T19:16:59.421+00:00Everything in moderationOnce again, my wonderful friends have come up trumps as I have received a lovely flurry of DVDs to entertain me during my periods of convalescence. However, looking at the selection in front of me I wonder whether they were worried that my Sex and the City box set was leading me astray... encouraging my Samantha-like flirtatious quips and inciting my already developed shoe fetish ... and that I needed to indulge in a more sophisticated and cultural viewing experience as most of them are bodice ripping romantic classics. I know they mean well ... but if I really am that impressionable I am not sure of the consequences of me indulging in hours of films featuring bosom heaving women in frilly garters and long flowing dresses and men running around in breeches or jodhpurs .... I might have to ration my viewings ...<br />
<br />
Anyway, I decided to kick off my movie marathon with <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0864761/">The Duchess</a></em>. Now, if you haven’t seen the film then that is OK, as I am going to provide one of my infamous RSGP quickie summaries. Here we go:<br />
<br />
Starring Keira Knightly and Ralph Fiennes, <em>The Duchess</em> is set at the end of the eighteenth century, and is based on the true story of Georgiana Cavendish, the Duchess of Devonshire. From a moderate background, at the age of 17 Georgiana married the Duke of Devonshire, who was much older than her. She was a much loved fashion icon, but society also mocked her as a ‘failure’ for reproducing girls and not giving her husband the male heir that he so desperately wanted. He was a cold and distant man and who was blatantly unfaithful throughout their marriage, and although he wouldn’t allow Georgiana to leave him he happily moved his mistress, who happened to be her best friend, into their home. She in turn had a passionate and doomed affair with Earl Grey, who went on to become Prime Minister. Bright, intelligent and witty, her beauty and charisma made her name, but it was Georgiana’s extravagant tastes and appetite for gambling, politics and love that made her infamous.<br />
<br />
There are positive and negative aspects to the film that I won't detail, but what I will say is that it does make you reflect on how times have changed, how the opinions and views of society have altered so much over the last couple of centuries.<br />
<br />
There was a particular scene in the film which I found both enjoyable and thought provoking. The Duke and Duchess were hosting a banquet for the political party that he supported. After dinner a member gave a party political speech on freedom which Georgiana listened to with some interest. Afterwards, he sat down and asked her what she thought. She replied that if she were to vote – not that she could – that the Whig party would not get her support. He asked her why and she said that she didn’t believe that they were fully committed to the concept of freedom. He replied that the party would like to see the vote extended and she retorted “<em>To all men?</em>” and he laughs “<em>Heavens no. But certainly to more men. Freedom in moderation</em>.” To which she replies "<em>Freedom in moderation? Either one is free or one is not. The concept of freedom is an absolute. After all, one cannot be moderately dead, moderately loved, or moderately free. It must always remain a matter of either or</em>.”<br />
<br />
Which got me thinking. Like cancer. Surely, you either have it or you don’t? <br />
<br />
Well, according to the February 2003 edition of <em>The</em> <em>New England Journal of Medicine</em> that is not the case. An article which appeared in it describes the following. In May 1998 a woman with polycystic disease received a renal transplant at a hospital in Scotland. The operation went well, but in November of the following year she had a routine mammography which showed a lump in her left breast. A biopsy specimen was performed and breast cancer was diagnosed – though the tests showed that this and another lump found near the transplanted kidney were secondary tumours related to skin cancer. However, none of the health professionals that saw her could find the primary site, the melanoma, and sadly six months later she died.<br />
<br />
Shortly afterwards a second patient who had had a kidney transplant in the same hospital developed the same symptoms ... and once again no original tumour could be found. The doctor, which had cared for both patients, could not believe the coincidence and decided to do some investigations, including checking the register of transplanted organs. From this she was able to identify that the two kidneys given to the patients had come from the same person. The records showed nothing untoward and the donor’s general health had met all the usual requirements – no HIV, hepatitis or cancer. Still puzzled the doctor decided to check the Scottish database for patients with melanoma ... and sure enough eighteen years earlier the donor had been operated on for a tiny 2.5mm skin tumour. She had received follow ups for fifteen years and had been declared ‘completely cured’ a year before her death – from an accident – not from cancer. However, although she had been deemed ‘cured’ of cancer she continued to carry micro-tumours in her body but her immune system kept these suppressed and they did not grow. Though when her kidneys were transplanted to people whose immune systems had been weakened, so their bodies would not reject the new organs, the micro-tumours rapidly grew. Fortunately, due to the investigative work of the doctor, the second patient had the kidney removed and he survived.<br />
<br />
I am off to the hospital on Wednesday ... and I will admit I am not looking forward to it. I am returning to the Breast Care Unit where Dr Jordan, my breast surgeon, hangs out. It was there, exactly six months ago, that he told me that I had breast cancer. I am not really sure what will happen at the appointment but I am assuming that he will once again send me for an ultrasound so we can see for sure what effect the chemo has had on Yukky Lump. We know it has shrunk dramatically since diagnosis – going from 6cm to something that couldn’t be felt after chemo number 2 – and that was well before Killer Chemo went in on the attack - but I am still feeling nervous. I am not expecting it to have disappeared totally ... and ironically if it has then that in itself causes problems with the surgery. However, if it has reduced in such a way that I can have the lumpectomy that I so desperately want, rather than a mastectomy, then that would be good news. Maybe down to a cm or so. Now that's what I would call cancer in moderation.Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-52189665421825121872010-01-31T20:03:00.023+00:002010-02-03T14:06:44.351+00:00Climb every mountain“<em>Right, we are going to go down here. Walk across the field. Then we are going to climb up over there</em>”, I said in a rather bossy manner. Our eyes gazed over at the enormous hill in the distance, with a steep diagonal path carved out of its side. “<em>But don’t expect me to converse at the same time</em>”, I laughed. <br />
<br />
I was talking to my friend Peaches. Now ... to say that she and I chatter is an understatement. We wouldn’t talk the hind leg off a donkey ... we would decapitate it. On Thursday she arrived at my house at half ten ... we managed to scrape ourselves off my squidgy sofa by about half twelve. What did we talk about? Absolutely no idea. <br />
<br />
We were going to go for a walk up on the moors but it was a grey old day so I suggested that we go down to the coast instead. Once I found out that she had never been to <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/reallyreallyrosie/2351357229/">Bantham </a>then my mind was made up ... and we jumped in the car and headed south.<br />
<br />
We popped into The Sloop, as is customary when I go down to <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/reallyreallyrosie/2508590641/">Bantham</a> with friends. We arrived just after one and for a weekday lunchtime it was very busy, which gave the place a nice atmosphere. We decided to have mushroom (super food!) soup served with some chunky bread ... and kept talking. At about half two I looked up and realised the pub was totally empty and suggested that we had better make a move ... after all this was our fourth attempt at going for a walk ... and this was the day that I felt we should fulfil our intentions ... rather than natter all afternoon ... drinking endless pots of tea ... nice as it is. I wanted to get some fresh air and exercise ... <br />
<br />
We walked down the track adjacent to the pub and crossed the field. Things started off well ... until we hit the swampy corner ... which we needed to contend to reach the bottom of the hill. Now this might surprise you ... but I do actually own a pair of walking boots ... OK so they are red ... but I can assure you that I don’t mind getting them dirty. Which was just as well as the mud was thick and gloopy and we ended up getting stuck ... laughing hysterically more like four year olds, whose mum had momentarily turned her back, rather than 40 year olds who really should have known better.<br />
<br />
We eventually reached the base of the steep incline and started climbing at a steady pace. We only made it about of a third of the way up and I had to admit to Peaches that I needed to stop. I had flippantly said that I wouldn’t be able to talk whilst walking up the hill but in fact I was joking. Normally I can walk and talk up there ... though perhaps a bit puffy. My infamous 'cocktail parties' may have come to an end ... but up until that point I really hadn’t taken on board the warnings that the effects of Killer Chemo could last for up to nine months. Yeah ... you heard right ... I went to see the lovely Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ley on Wednesday and he said no more chemo.<br />
<br />
The afternoon didn’t start off so well. Just before leaving to go to the hospital I went in to the garden to put some flowers into the recycling bin. As I turned around I saw a flash of black and white ... and there on my lawn was a magpie. Typical ... where is his partner ... one for sorrow ... two for joy ... but there was no wifey in sight. I dismissed it ... until it happened again ... on the way to the hospital ... a second single magpie flew in front of the car. Once more I saluted my feathered friend and wished him a good afternoon ... and tried to shrug off any thought of a jinx ... Until I got to the entrance of the hospital and a third, single magpie flew across my path. By this time I was really fed up. Instead of wishing him a good day I said something rather naughty which began with an ‘<em>f</em>’ and ended in an ‘<em>f</em>’ and instead of tapping my cap I gave him a two finger salute. I wasn’t in the mood for three dollops of bad luck.<br />
<br />
As it turned out the afternoon went swimmingly. The waiting room was surprising empty and I was called to see Dr O punctually. He walked in to the consulting room and smiled and said: “<em>Last chemo then</em>.” I looked at him quizzically. “<em>Do you mean that I have had my last chemo, or that I will be having my last chemo tomorrow?</em>” He shook his head and said: “<em>No, that’s it. I am cancelling the chemo tomorrow.”</em> He went on to explain that he was now going to refer me back to my breast surgeon, Dr Jordan, who would arrange an ultrasound so as to determine what kind of surgery will be necessary.<br />
<br />
“<em>I know you want a lumpectomy, and that is of course what we will aim for if we can</em>”, said Dr O. “<em>But if that isn’t possible then we will be looking at a</em> <em>mastectomy.”</em> I nodded and replied “<em>Mmm ... I think that is where me and Dr Jordan might have words ...”</em> It was Dr O’s turn to look inquisitive. I went on to explain “<em>Well, if I have a mastectomy then I want immediate reconstruction but I know that there are clinical reasons for not going for this option. But psychologically I couldn’t handle only having one breast ... you see I am rather big busted ... it would be a significant issue for me ...</em>” I looked up at Dr O and he was nodding ... I tailed off .... I realised I was trying to convince somebody who knew full well that I am rather well endowed ... after all he has firsthand experience ... <br />
<br />
“<em>Actually,</em>” he interrupted, “<em>it</em> <em>is us oncologists who tend to be against immediate reconstruction. But ... Dr Jordan makes a very good case for doing it ... and if he recommends that for you, then I will support it, as long as you are aware of the consequences of taking that option.”</em> I smiled at him appreciatively ... and thought how lucky I have been to have such a luv-ver-ley oncologist.<br />
<br />
As I walked out of the hospital and into the car park I cried. Not hysterically, just little tears of relief. The pressure and the worry of another round of chemo had been swept away. I could now recuperate. My white blood count will now have chance to come back up so I will no longer be at risk of infection. No more steroids ...so my bloaty moon face can deflate. My hair, brows and lashes will return. I will start to look normal again. There are three stages to my care pathway trek ... chemo, surgery, radiotherapy ... I had finally completed the first and most arduous part. One gargantuan mountain down ... two to go ... Dr O had been so upbeat with my progress that his positivity had rubbed off ... as I got into the car I felt optimistic and buoyant.<br />
<br />
Peaches and I eventually made it to the top of the hill ... slowly and steadily ... and as is often the case with challenges that face us and which we overcome ... the reward made it well worth it. “<em>Wow, look at that <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/reallyreallyrosie/3225686887/">view</a></em>!” she gasped. I nodded, glad that she appreciated it as much as me. I have stood and looked at that beautiful seascape 100s of times and it has never failed to impress me. Making me stop and stand back and acknowledge that I am so lucky to live where I live.<br />
<br />
Or should that be <em>I am so lucky to live</em> ...<br />
<br />
Alive to take on my next challenge ... <br />
<br />
Twin Peaks ...Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-3654799401456879122010-01-24T17:50:00.005+00:002010-01-24T19:44:49.657+00:00One man’s ....OK ... I am a bit late with my blog ... and you may be thinking that I have gone away for a few days ... I wish. In fact it is the opposite, since Christmas, which I can’t believe is already a month ago, I have been in self imposed exile. I can count the number of days I have left the house on one hand – and on two of those occasions it was to see a GP and another was to go to the hospital for what was hopefully my last Killer Chemo. <br />
<br />
I want to go away. I love holidays and travelling. I am still really miffed that the discovery of the Yukky Lump meant that I had to cancel my trip down to the south of France, way back in August. So where do I want to go? Well ... anywhere really. You could blind fold me, whizz me round and ask me to put a pin into a globe and I would pack my bags accordingly ... except one place ...<br />
<br />
I have these friends. Almost-life-long friends. And I guess that we are almost-life-long friends as we have quite a lot in common. We have comparable backgrounds, share similar interests, values and beliefs. We can sit for hours ... putting the world to rights over a leisurely meal, washed down with wine ... here or in France ... yes, they are one of the couples from the <a href="http://redshoesgreenpeppers.blogspot.com/2009/09/eeny-meeny-miney-mo.html">Pigeon Poo story</a>. But despite all this ... there is one thing that we just don’t agree on ... <br />
<br />
Many years ago, before kids, my almost-life-long-friends use to go to Disneyland. They went three or four times and loved it. And, over the last decade, have talked about returning, once their children were old enough ... and have tried to persuade me and my family to go along too. Now, I joked in my very first blog that I don’t like roller coasters ... and it is true. Literally. I have never been to a theme park in this country. I have not been to Alton Towers ... or Thorpe Park ... it is just not me. So I ain't the least bit inclined to get on a plane and fly thousands of miles half way around the world to visit one. Lots of people, not just my almost-life-long friends, have said I should give Disney a go. Some have said that they didn’t think they would like it ... but the Disney magic is just irresistible ... that it would win me over if I gave it a chance. But I am digging my little red heels in ... and accepting that me and my almost-life-long friends are similar ... but not the same. And ... in a few months time they will be off on their much talked about and longed for holiday ... with some friends ... but it ain’t me. I obviously hope that they have really lovely and enjoyable time. But if it was a toss up between going to Disney and having surgery then obviously Mickey would win. But only just.<br />
<br />
I have just finished a book – <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Anticancer-New-Life-David-Servan-Schreiber/dp/0718154290/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1264330040&sr=8-1">Anticancer: A New Way of Life</a> – written by Dr David Servan-Schreiber, who does quite literally believe that “One man’s meat is another man’s poison.”<br />
<br />
David Servan-Schreiber is a clinical professor of psychiatry at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine. He is in a position to talk about cancer because he has had it. Twice. He was diagnosed the first time sixteen years ago, finding out by accident. He and some colleagues were doing some research which included observing brain function using magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), something that was relatively new back then. One day, one of the student ‘guinea pigs’ who was assisting with the research failed to attend and so David volunteered to take their place – to jump on the MRI and have his brain scanned. The process started. And then it stopped. He called out to his colleagues – asking what the problem was. And their response was “We can’t do the experiment. There’s something in your brain.” By accident they had discovered a brain tumour. It was operated on, and David was fine for a while, but routine checks a few years on showed that it had reappeared. It was at that point David decided to pull together research to identify what he could do stop the cancer from returning again and this is what he talks about in his book.<br />
<br />
A lot of what he suggests is common sense (to see a summary of the book click <a href="http://www.penguin.co.uk/static/cs/uk/0/downloadextracts/Anticancerleaflet.pdf">here</a>). Eat well ... organic food where possible ... meat where the animals have been grass fed as they were years ago ... little dairy products ... lots of fruit and vegetables ... oily fish. Reduce the amount of white carbohydrates you consume. Drink only one glass of red wine a day. Take regular exercise. But he also talks about very specific things which can prevent cancer from appearing or reappearing – the power of turmeric, pomegranate juice and green tea. Mushrooms ... in Japan they actually give medication produced from mushroom extract to patients receiving chemotherapy. <br />
<br />
David goes on to say how psychological wellbeing is vital in conquering cancer. How support, both mental and practical support, has a direct impact on a person’s health and recovery. That friendship plays a major role, in terms of positive impact on both morale and physical, biological condition. For example, an American study has shown that women with breast cancer who could name ten friends were four times more likely to survive their illness than those who could not. I am sooooo glad I can name at least ten friends … whether they would call me a friend is another matter…<br />
<br />
David also stresses the importance of positivity ... removing stress and anger … relaxing … doing things that you enjoy … how these help you in the fight against cancer and could help prevent recurrance.<br />
<br />
So back to that holiday ... ‘cos let’s face it … that is what the doctor has ordered. Yeah … I could do the States … I haven’t been before … I don’t think an hour at Maine airport for a fuel stop really counts. But where? When I want time-out … to relax … and think positive thoughts … what am I dreaming of ? <br />
<br />
Well, the sun is shining … I am healthy … and fit (in more ways than one). I have hair, lashes and brows … and two boobs. Obviously my camera is in my hand. I am cycling alongside a long stretch of golden sandy beaches. I am sitting at a seafood restaurant and looking out on the blue ocean. Or swimming, boarding, sailing … or whale watching. Cape Cod. That is where I want to go. And … touch wood … one day I will. It won’t be this year, and possibly not even next … but one day …<br />
<br />
Disney. <br />
<br />
Cape Cod. <br />
<br />
One man’s mouse is another man’s fish …Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-22950021060883284982010-01-14T19:14:00.023+00:002010-01-15T10:38:16.522+00:00Love to hate youJuliet: <em>Banoffee pie?</em> <br />
Mark: <em>No, thanks. </em><br />
Juliet: <em>Thank God. You would've broken my heart if you'd said yes.</em> <br />
Mark: <em>Oh, right. Well, lucky you.</em><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a0WkpA_zGns&feature=related"><em>Love Actually</em> - 2003</a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div>Now for those of you who tune in on a regular basis, and there are a few (special warm wishes my friends), then you will be more than familiar with Dr O, so can I just ask you to bear with me for a moment whilst I get any newbies up to speed – thanks.<br />
<br />
Now, for those who don’t know, Dr O is my Oncologist – my cancer-chemo-chap. I call him Dr O, not ‘O’ because he is my 'O'ncologist, but because he is Dr Oh-so-luv-ver-ly. Now, I should point out that this is not just solely my opinion but lots of others too ... though admittedly ... most of these are women ... And I should confess ... I luu-urve my Dr O. No ... no ... not in <em>that </em>kind of way ... but in a healthy-professional-Health Professional-Patient kind of way. I luu-urve him because he is kind and compassionate. He is really interested in your wellbeing, your concerns ... he listens ... and is just a jolly nice kind of guy.<br />
<br />
But ... having said all that ... if Dr O was lying here ... right now ... alongside me in my sick bed ... <em>obviously </em>in a healthy-professional-Health Professional-Patient kind of way ... I am not sure what I would be sorely tempted do to him. Would I pick up one of those accumulating bottles of medication, which seem to have magically mushroomed on my bedside cabinet over the last few weeks, and bop it over his head? Or ... would I take a stick and pin a Kleenex to it ('cos health professionals recommend you use disposable tissues these days rather than cotton hankies) and declare “<em>I am a Cancer Patient ... get me out of here.”</em> Yeah ... you’ve got my drift ... I am fed up ... I don’t wanna play ball no more ... and if I could I would pick it up and stomp off home ... except I can’t ... ‘cos I am already at home. And besides I wouldn’t have the energy to pick up the ball ... let alone stomp.<br />
<br />
Chemo number seven went ahead last Thursday. Yes ... before you ask ... another new chemo nurse ... CN H. Very nice chap ... talked about his cholesterol issues and poppy vein problem. After he had 'dripped' me up I went into the lounge and spent my hour reading my magazine and half listening to the ‘professional blood transfusion crew’ chit chatting. It was all quite upbeat and cheerful actually. And, as I sat there, I obviously mulled over whether it would be my last chemo session – when I see Dr O in a couple of weeks would he follow through his earlier suggestion of knocking the last treatment on the head? Part of me concluded he will ... surely he wouldn’t cruelly get my hopes up ... but then again he might not. And ... whatever he suggests ... I will go along with it. <br />
<br />
Yes, unbelievably as I sit here moving from the usual wave one of side effects – the achy joints, tiredness, grotty eyes, steroid rage – to the second wave of hacking cough, swollen throat, horrific internal and external chemo chemical burns – I will totally accept whatever he recommends. So is it true love after all? No. No, although all this gruelling treatment is an extreme endurance, which would push the limits of the physically and mentally fittest athlete, reality dictates that if Dr O believes there is still a single little iddy diddy cancer cell remaining in my body, only one, which could be paralysed by that final treatment, which would prevent the tumour returning to my breast, or even worse allowing a new one to sprout up elsewhere, then I will grit my teeth and sweetly nod my little head at him.<br />
<br />
OK ... so you can probably tell ... things do feel a bit grotty at the moment ... but on a positive note ... every cloud and all that ... literally ... the weather over the last week has been so totally dire I haven’t felt too resentful about holing myself in bed with my books, iPod, computer and TV. I have consoled myself by imagining how torturous it would be if it was summer ... sunny, warm and balmy ... daytrippers taking to the beach, friends merrily flitting off on holiday ... the smokey odours of bar-b-qs drifting through my bedroom window. Nah! Let's face it, I think a lot of people, given the choice ,would have done the same and tucked themselves in bed with a nice cuppa and a hot water bottle. The difference is that I have a full-blown guilt-free pass to do so. Which is probably just as well as the 'pitty' outburst might have been really embarrassing if I was out in public. “<em>Err ... the pitty outburst ....?</em>”<br />
<br />
Yep, it is official. The hair is on the way back!! Yes, yes, yes! Now, once more I don’t want you to get too excited about this ... when I say 'hair' ... I am talking about a ... err ... presence. On the one hand it is not a lot to write home about .... but then again girls you wouldn’t want this tufty stubble stuck to your thighs. The little prickles have been joined by a definite dark five o’clock shadow. Actually ... the prickles are now more wiggles ... it looks like it might be coming back curly. Not sure where this leaves my desire for the return of the little urchin-pixie-crop-thing which I had before it fell out. I might end up with a very dodgy Kevin Keegan 70’s permed style barnet ... not what I really had in mind ... but heck at the moment I am grateful for anything ... even pit hair. <br />
<br />
Yep ... you heard ... pit hair! That is why I am so confident that it is growing back. My arm pit hair was the first thing to cleanly evaporate and has not made an appearance since ... until a few days ago. There I was, sat in the bath ... as you do ... doing things you need to do ... and something caught my eye ... a hair ... no two ... maybe three! Yes! It must be coming back ... I have pit hair ... hurrah! How ironic, one of things that I used to hate ... a bain in my life ... became a cause for celebration. I now need to apologise to all those people who had misfortunate of being in the wrong place at the wrong time ... i.e. at my house ... and had to witness me whizzing down the stairs, semi cloaked in a slightly wrapped towel, and had to endure the vision of my underarms within two inches of their faces ... and pretend they could fully appreciate my hysterical euphoria of three little pit hairs ... all I can say is that you can get away with quite a lot when you are having treatment for cancer.<br />
<br />
But then if you have to put up with cardboard mouth then probably anything is forgivable. “<em>Cardboard mouth?</em>” Yeah, cardboard mouth. Of all the side effects I think it is the one I that detest the most. It comes on just a day or so after chemo and lasts about ten days. Basically your tongue is really sensitive and sore – waxy - the first time I got ulcers too – and your palate is just well and truly buggered. Everything tastes weird, or nasty ... or of nothing. And of course the ironic thing is that you are pumping all these ruddy steroids ... to prevent the horrific side effects from the chemo (well, that is the idea) ... and this ... along with the boredom factor ... and comfort eating factor ... gives you this incredible urge to eat.<br />
<br />
Now, I ain’t a 'sweetie'. I can’t remember the last time that I indulged in a Victoria Sandwich, or wrapped my chops around a <em>Hob Nob</em>. Me? I am totally and uttterly savoury bird. A pure carbohydrate kind of girl. Pasta, potatoes, pizza, olives, bread, cheese, risotto. Ooooooooh ... myyyyyyyy ... God ... yes, yes, yes! Cheesy risotto ... mmm ... think ...<em> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-bsf2x-aeE">When Harry met Sally</a></em> ... in the restaurant ... no, not the hot/cold apple pie and hot/cold custard bit ... the more 'expressive' scene ... ten minutes later. Ooooh ... that is what cheesy risotto does for me ...<br />
<br />
I can hear you saying: “<em>Oh well, at least you are losing those few pounds that you have been moaning about for ages</em>?” But ... err ... well ... sadly, probably not. Because I have gone over to the dark side. “<em>The dark side?</em>” Err ... yes. The one thing that I have found I can eat ... issssssss ... my sister’s banoffee pie. Can you believe it? No, not that it was made by sister and that I like it ... but that my new unabashed-can't-get-enough-of-it craving is sickly sweet, creamy caramel, crunchy bottomed banoffee pie. And you should be forewarned ...woe betide anyone who comes between me and my pie ... <br />
<br />
I can safely say that if Dr O was lying here ... right now ... in my sick bed next to me ... obviously in a healthy-professional-Health Professional-Patient kind of way ... his dessert fork heading towards my bowl of yummy banoffee would certainly disappear pretty rapidly ... in a very <strong>NON</strong>-healthy-professional Health Professional-Patient kind of way ...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQkOa52MHaHiYE8T3aBDnznvQyLbChyphenhypheny_D4CFLKuAZwUz2NFv1Bev0cMUvnHRc-uHrzXOaOuOLRGVRUw6oKXIKh_L2OizhzlyLITXGF0QpsbhDBqJW4XWBr3jYdEhKSJgF83B07mgN77JR/s1600-h/very-fat-woman-eating-261x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQkOa52MHaHiYE8T3aBDnznvQyLbChyphenhypheny_D4CFLKuAZwUz2NFv1Bev0cMUvnHRc-uHrzXOaOuOLRGVRUw6oKXIKh_L2OizhzlyLITXGF0QpsbhDBqJW4XWBr3jYdEhKSJgF83B07mgN77JR/s320/very-fat-woman-eating-261x300.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
OK, so this ain’t me ... but I am thinking of printing it out and pinning it to the fridge door. <br />
<br />
Food for thought.Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4440502937506283281.post-41824638797508013782010-01-07T22:04:00.017+00:002010-03-15T18:29:03.417+00:00Can’t buy me love ... or trust ...<em>To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.</em> <br />
<div style="text-align: left;">George MacDonald</div><br />
“<em>So how’s it going?”</em><br />
<br />
“<em>Totally crap</em>”.<br />
<br />
Yes, it is that time again. The third week. Bloods with my GP on the Tuesday, to check that all is OK to have the chemo on the Thursday. I had to wait, as always, ‘cos my doctor runs this “open surgery” thing where you turn up without an appointment and wait to be seen. I didn’t mind too much this week as I am still feeling quite upbeat and OK. I sat in my favourite seat in the corner and rummaged through the magazines. Ooh, <em>Psychologies</em>, I like that one. I got nice and comfy and started browsing through it. I read a couple of articles and became puzzled ... when was this published? I flicked back to the front page to check ... mmm .... August 2005. Now, I know we are pretty laid back in Funky Town ... but a four year old magazine?! I continued reading it and an article lit up as I turned the pages. The title was something along lines of “<em>I was told I had cancer ... then heard even more shocking news</em>.” Of course, I was glued ... oh God if they call me now I am going to have to put the magazine in my bag ... I know that is a bit naughty but it has been there for four years ... surely anyone who has wanted to read it has done so by now ... <br />
<br />
So, what could be worse than being told that you have cancer? Now, when I was diagnosed I did think back to a friend and colleague who I worked with many years ago. Her son was about to go on holiday to France with his grandparents, but a day or so before he complained of tummy ache ... which got worse and worse ... so she took him to the doctors. It turned out that at the age of about 7 or 8 he had a cancerous tumour. But thankfully he hadn't gone to France and it had been caught just in time. And I thought about this, and although I didn’t want to have cancer, obviously, at least I could console myself that it was me and not one of my children. Me, who was bigger, stronger ... someone who had had 41 years to live a life ... do the things that I wanted to do ... though whether I had actually done them all was another matter ...<br />
<br />
“<em>Not good then?</em> <em>So what has been happening</em>?” asked Dr C. So I told him about my side effects. The fact that I get two waves. The first with the “<em>normal</em>” side effects ... the achy joints and pains and the cardboard mouth ... and then the second wave with the swollen throat, loss of voice, the hive-y rash. <em>“I know I like to feel special, but on this occasion I could really pass it up</em>”, I said. “<em>I’ll prescribe you some cream and anti-histamine. I think that might help</em>”, he replied.<br />
<br />
As he took my bloods I said: “<em>I don’t want you to take this personally but I won’t miss my little visits to see you.”</em> He chuckled softly and said “<em>I don’t want you to take this personally, but I won’t miss seeing you either</em>.” We laughed.<br />
<br />
I stepped out of the surgery and did something that I have done previously ... back in the autumn ...I walked ... Forest Gump style. And ... I did as I did before ... I strolled through the town ... out to the railway station ... along the cycle path ... to Dartington ... and up to the Gardens. One of my favourite places. It was different this time, on the first occasion it had been warmer, the canoeists were on the river, the trees were dropping their amber and yellow leaves ... and when I arrived at my resting spot, the bench on the Sunny Border, I removed my coat and I sipped my bottle of water and enjoyed the sun warming my face. This time it was cold and icy ... though the sun was still shining ... a beautiful winter’s day.<br />
<br />
As I walked I thought about the article that I read in the magazine whilst I waiting to see my GP. It was about a woman who had worked as a presenter for Channel 4. Some years ago, whilst she was still in her 30s, she had found a lump in her breast. She had been told that “<em>it probably isn’t suspicious</em>” – well a few of us have heard that – but like me nobody was complacent and she was sent for further checks. She went on to be told that in fact it was “<em>suspicious</em>” and that it was indeed malignant. Initially she had a lumpectomy, breast conserving surgery where only the lump is removed, but was later told that the cancer was more prolific than they had previously believed and that it had spread to the other breast too. So she returned to the operating theatre where she had a double mastectomy – in other words she had both of her breasts removed. This was followed by chemotherapy and radiotherapy ... no walk in the park by any means.<br />
<br />
Following her treatment she and her husband made the decision to move house to be closer to his parents, so if she should become ill again would be someone on hand to support her physically and mentally. Though this decision meant her giving up her job. She was also told that her cancer was hormone driven so she should not become pregnant again as this would massively increase the chance of the cancer returning.<br />
<br />
However, one of the cruellest things about cancer is the fact that once you have it, it lives with you forever. It never totally goes away – it is always in the back your mind that it will return, or reappear somewhere else. People talk about those who have suffered from cancer being given the<em> </em>"<em>all clear</em>" ... but there is no such thing. You can be tested ... mammograms, MRIs, ultrasounds ... and the results are only relevant for the day that you are assessed. For that day only. There is no guarantee that tomorrow ... next week ... next year ... that it won't reappear. And that is what she talked about ... the fear ... as many do ... the worry that every ache or pain could be a sign of a new tumour ... that it is back. So, what was the twist? What could be worse than being told you have cancer?<br />
<br />
Well ... some years on she had been for some routine check ups ... and then called back to the hospital to hear the results. She described how she walked into the room and came face to face with “lots of important people”. Consultants and managers. Her heart dropped ... it must be very bad news ... they must have found something terrible. But they hadn’t. She was in fact told she had did not have cancer... and that she never had. That the locum that she had seen had been investigated for misconduct and that she, and a number of other women, had been misdiagnosed.<br />
<br />
She described her immediate reaction and the feelings that followed in the days after. She talked about the fact that she wanted to feel pleased, that she knew that thousands of women who have, or have had suffered, from breast cancer would be elated to receive such news. And of course she was pleased in some ways ... but felt bitter about having to go through the physical and mental gruel of treatment, and the aftermath. The removal of her breasts, giving up her job, the constant worry that it might return. She didn’t talk about compensation but I am sure that there would have been some. Maybe, running to 5, probably 6 figures. Enough to pay for some beautiful new cosmetic breasts ... but of course, money doesn’t buy everything. She went on to have the little girl that she had always wanted, but grieved that she couldn’t breastfeed her daughter as she had her sons.<br />
<br />
As I stood and admired the tranquil view - the river with the delicate cold mist hovering over its surface – I wondered how I would feel if was to be told such news. If I was called to the hospital and told that there had been a mistake ... that I don’t and have never had cancer. There would be no doubt that I would be pretty cheesed off. Robbed of several months ... or even years ... of a normal life ... having to endure the chemo and the painful side effects, surgery which could never be reversed. But to have this shadow ... the permanent shadow that I will have to endure for the rest of my life ... the threat of cancer returning to my body to be magically erased .... money can’t buy everything ....<br />
<br />
As I got up to put my coat on Dr C said “<em>I see from your notes that Dr O says he saw you before Christmas and is really pleased with the apparent impact the chemo has had on your tumour.”</em> I nodded, “<em>Yes, so much so he is talking about cancelling the final treatment</em>". “<em>That would be brilliant</em>”, he said. “<em>Yeah, it all sounds pretty positive, except they are still talking about a mastectomy, when I had my hopes on a lumpectomy.”</em> He was surprised and shocked. “<em>That is a blow. I thought the whole point of neo-adjuvant surgery was so you could have breast conserving surgery</em>”. I went on to explain what Dr O had said to me. That the priority was to get rid of the lump ... that chemo, surgery and rads are all I have available to me. That in the long term there are no meds for me to fall back on.<br />
<br />
“<em>At the end of the day I know that Dr O and Dr Jordan are going to recommend what is clinically best for me. They are not going to do surgery which is not necessary. More drastic surgery is additional time and expense with greater chance of complications and long-term care. Minimal surgery is better for them as well as me. If they can do a lumpectomy then they will ... if my longer term prospects are better if they do a mastectomy then they will recommend that ... and I will go with what they say ... I trust them</em>.”<br />
<br />
I pulled my coat off the back of the chair and put it on. As I turned back to say goodbye to Dr C I closed the conversation by explaining: “<em>I just have to accept that I have to patiently sit and wait to hear what is the best way to go forward ... my life ... and my boobs ... are in their hands ....”</em><br />
<br />
As I opened the door and left the consulting room I heard Dr C let out a loud hearty guffaw. I know that he wants me back on the road to recovery too - which is why he made the comment about how he will be pleased not to see me - but I am pretty sure he is going to miss my little visits.Paulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08407207567115422315noreply@blogger.com3