Laughter really is the best medicine

There are some people that you don’t see for months, even years, but when you do it’s like you’ve never been apart.

That’s how I feel about my old school and youth theatre friends. We’d arranged to convene in Lich-Vegas long before I’d received my diagnosis but, in medical parlance, it really was ‘just what the doctor ordered’.

Between the six of us, we’ve nearly all been touched by the ‘Big C’: parents having won (or sadly lost) the battle with cancer, as well as having had - or be fighting it - ourselves.

And for that reason, we didn’t really talk about it – well, maybe a bit – but it was all in a very matter of fact, non-emotional way.  What we did talk about though was utterly hilarious.  And, at times, completely random and surreal!  I felt like I laughed non-stop all evening.

So thank you, ladies. If laughter really is the best medicine then, with you guys around, I expect to make a full recovery!

Oh, for f*ck's sake!

God save me from officious, inept Doctors’ secretaries and receptionists.

Such was the favourable impression that Ealing Hospital had given me in those first two weeks that, on diagnosis, I promptly asked my GP to get me transferred to The Royal Marsden ASAP. 

However, a week on from her 'urgent' fax and I still hadn’t heard anything. So rather than speak to my Doctor’s receptionist, who had already failed to pass on an urgent message this week, I called the Marsden direct.

Their patient liaison officer was very nice and, after initially not being able to find me on the system, discovered that I had been allocated an appointment to see a consultant on 29^th February.  Yes, you read that right - 29^th FEBRUARY!

I couldn’t believe it. I explained that I was already diagnosed and undergoing supplementary tests which would probably result in surgery before that date – so she suggested that I call the consultant’s secretary. Good grief ...

So I called. And explained the situation AGAIN.  “I’m sorry Miss M.,” I was told “but the doctor is on holiday for February.  And it is usual to have to wait if you want a second opinion ...”

WHAT?!  (a) I didn’t ask for a second opinion – I know I’ve got bloody cancer, and (b) I wish my cancer could go on holiday for three weeks and let me put everything on hold!

So, after some deep breaths, I pointed out that the request was actually for a transfer of care not a second opinion. “Is it?” she said, and read the fax to me. (It was, albeit a little vague) “Well, Miss M. I suppose I could see if our other consultant has any other appointments ...” Oh, alright. Go on then. But only if it’s no bother ... ! Grrr.

So the up-shot is, neither Marsden consultant can see me until w/c 27 February – which is after the 31 day limit (post diagnosis) that I am supposed to have started my treatment.

Suddenly, Ealing Hospital isn’t looking so bad ... !

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Today would have been my Dad's 68th birthday. So I've decided to buy a big piece of cake and eat it for him ...

I've been thinking about my Dad a lot over the last couple of weeks and especially in the last few days. That's not to say that I've been feeling maudlin but every time I visit another depressing NHS hospital, or have a needle punched in me, it does make me realise just how strong he must have had to be during what was a 7.5 year fight with bowel cancer.

He really was a stubborn old goat and one of the most bloody-minded and tenacious people I have ever met. I remember him telling me quite categorically: "Katie, I am NOT going to die of cancer." Sadly that wasn't a promise he was able to keep but it does show the dogged determination of someone who refused to let anything, especially not cancer, get in his way.

Anyway, I didn't want this to be a depressing post, just one to mark his special day:

So here's to you, Dad! I hope your belligerent little girl is doing you proud.

I'll get by with a little help from my friends

I really feel so very lucky. Seriously, I do. I have so many wonderful people in my life to love and support me, I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to do this alone.

Clearly special thanks and love must go to Mr P. He’s been an absolute star; holding my hand on appointments, making me laugh and persistently giving me cuddles even when the emotional input of it all has got too much and I’ve completely withdrawn.  

Because, let’s be honest, I’m a stroppy cow at the best of times.  And being in close proximity to someone who’s just been diagnosed with cancer and spent a week being poked and prodded really can’t be that much fun.

But we do have AMAZING friends. (That one’s for you, Jacko!)  I’ve been truly overwhelmed and touched by the sheer volume of goodwill messages that we’ve received since I shared my news. Offers of cookies, cake, lunch, dinner - (all gratefully received, btw) – have come flooding my way, as well as lifts to appointments, opportunities to chat, and invitations to just go out and get completely ratted ... [You know me so well!]

So thank you, everyone.  I know this will be a tough old journey but it makes it so much easier to know that I won’t be making it on my own.

The human pin cushion

Well, that was fun. Not. Spent another full day in the delightful oasis of calm that is Ealing Hospital. But at least we're finally making some progress towards getting that treatment plan.

Had the obligatory chat with my Macmillan Nurse and got a whole library of literature to peruse at my leisure. To be fair, I already knew quite a lot of the stuff that she told me but the key points are that my tumour is:

• An Invasive/Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma - so has already spread from the milk duct, where it started, and into the breast issue.
• Stage 1 (probably) - in that it seems to be less than 2cm.
• Grade 2 - so growing at a moderate speed.
• Hormone responsive - and feeding on the oestrogen in my body.

We talked a lot about possible treatments too but all of that is academic until the full set of tests are done to ascertain what else, if anything, might be there.

And so we began. First with a blood test (urgh!) and then with a 30-minute MRI scan (double URGH!). The veins in both my arms are thoroughly bruised and battered. How they're going to find a free vein to stab tomorrow at my bone scan, Christ-only-knows, but if it means I can see the back of this parasitic little f*cker, so be it!

Say, WHAT?!

Last week I heard the words that no-one wants to hear. (Or at least I did once he'd repeated it about three times ... ) It was just too surreal.

I genuinely didn't think I had breast cancer. While there was always the nagging outside chance that it could be, there really wasn't any reason to think that it was. I'm only 38. I'm slim, I'm healthy, I don't smoke ... and, while I do like the odd tipple, there is absolutely NO history of breast cancer in my family.

Apart from being shocked, I was really bloody annoyed. How. Feckin'. Dare. You. Yes - YOU, you pesky little tumour. The unwanted gift. The uninvited guest ...  Who the bloody hell asked you to the party?

So that's why I've started this blog, to chronicle my belligerent one-woman battle. And I'll start as I mean to go on, by saying loud and clear:

"CANCER, you CAN F*CK right OFF!"