A week on from the operation and the bruising and swelling is going down. I’m still looking pretty battered but I have been able to remove the protective dressings.
I’ve got steri-strip over the two wounds though, so I haven’t seen the extent of things, but I’m absolutely staggered that they both look so small.
My tumour was very high on my breast, almost over the bone, so I’d fully expected a prominent and visible scar. However, that isn’t the case! They’re very discreet about these things these days and, instead, they actually cut round the nipple and go in under the skin. It all looks very neat and tidy.
I have another incision at the side under my arm. This was where they did the biopsy to test my lymph node. Because of its position, this one is actually far more uncomfortable than the lumpectomy and has made my armpit and the underside of my upper arm really hurt. I’ve got painkillers though, and stretches to do, so I’m hoping this improves soon.
In the meantime, I also need to wear (and sleep in) really comfortable bras. And by comfortable, yes, I do mean soft, padded and not that attractive. I didn’t actually own any non-underwired bras so, before the operation, Mr P. had to go out and buy me some. Bless him, it’s the first time he’s bought me underwear and I’m not sure it’s what either of us would have had in mind ...
And so now I’m just killing time until Friday, when I’ll find out if they think they got everything. Fingers crossed!
Wednesday 18 July 2012
Wednesday 11 July 2012
Goodbye and good riddance!
Yesterday, I finally saw the back of my tumour – at least, what was
left of it!
It was an early start at the hospital but it was good to
know that I was second in theatre and so wouldn’t be kept hanging around. By 8.30am, I had already seen the anaesthetist, the surgical
team, signed my consent form and had things written and drawn on me in felt-tip
pen. (See pic. below)
I then got sent for an ultrasound scan and a ‘localisation
wire’. I had thought that this would be like the marker that had been inserted
previously but, no, it really was a piece of wire. A long piece inserted in my chest and left
dangling in a 6 inch coil in front of my tit. I have no idea why it had to be
so long and hang externally but there you go ...
They also had a little scribble on me in felt-tip pen and sent
me for a mammogram. Now, mammograms aren’t that comfortable at the best of
times but imagine having one with a piece of blood-covered wire sticking out
your chest. It was an experience.
In the thick of all this, was Mr P. He watched as they
inserted the wire, vociferously corrected them when they called him my ‘husband’(!)
and then – bizarrely – helped the mammogram operator work the machine. He came
away very pleased with himself.
By the time I got back to the ward and got my gown on, they
had called me to theatre. This was the point when I started to shake.
Mr P. came down with me and wanted to stay as they put me to
sleep but this wasn’t allowed. So as I lay on the trolley, I could feel my legs
trembling. The anaesthetist was very nice though and after I explained (and he
saw) how damaged my veins have been from the chemotherapy he inserted a small
children’s cannula instead of the usual size. And that’s one of the last things
I remember ...
About 2.5 hours later, I woke up in recovery. I lay there
for about an hour and then got wheeled back up to the ward where Mr P. and my
lunch were waiting for me. I have never been so grateful for a ham sandwich and
a cup of tea! In fact, I think I knocked back about four cups before being
escorted, with wobbly anaesthetic legs, to the bathroom.
At this point, I still wasn’t sure the extent of the
surgery. I knew that they were doing a biopsy of my lymph node but I had no
idea if anything had been found and if they had taken more than one node.
However, the ward nurses were able to confirm that it was good news: the lymph
node tested contained no cancer. Either it had never spread or the chemo had
seen it off.
This was such good news that Mr P. and I did get a bit emotional. Obviously, I can’t be sure that I’m
out of the woods until next Friday (20th) when I’ll hear whether the
‘margins’ around the tissue taken were clear, but we’re remaining hopeful.
I have to say, that all the medical staff at the ‘Marsden
were lovely. It’s obviously a really well-resourced hospital which I know isn’t
the case for all NHS facilities. I knew I was in good hands.
And, as always, I’m really grateful to Mr P. for supporting
me at every stage. Even though he does
get up to ridiculous mischief – like putting surgical socks on his head – it
really does help to lighten the mood.
So for now, I’m back at his house where he’s taking very good
care of me. My chest is obviously very
sore and swollen but not nearly as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. I’ve
got exercises to do too, which I have started, and a substantial supply of
painkillers.
It’s really just a case of resting and being patient. I’ll
know the full picture soon enough, but it’s looking positive.
 |
| Not entirely sure why this was necessary ... ?! |
Monday 9 July 2012
Get ready, get set ...
Blimey. Can't believe we're nearly there. Tomorrow I'll finally have my operation.
I'm really very nervous. I've never had an operation before but the hospital has provided a lot of information to prepare me.
On Friday, Mr P. and I went for a 'pre-surgery assessment'. I had some blood taken, had my weight and height measured and met with the physiotherapist who gave me lots of information and exercises to get the strength back in my pectoral and shoulder muscle post op.
We also saw the 'day ward' where I'll be for much of tomorrow. That is, before and after having a 'marker' put in my chest - yes, another one! - and being sent off for surgery. And, of course, while we waited for the nurse, Mr P. was up to his old tricks; rummaging under the bed for latex gloves and performing a Marcel Marceau mime routine behind the curtain ...
Then today, we were back for the dye injection. It's not really dye at all but a clear radioactive fluid that they inject into the lymphatic system to allow them to x-ray and see which lymph nodes they want to test. So, apart from a sharp needle in the nipple and having to lie still for 15 minutes, it was quite straightforward. I've had so many painful procedures and scans that it felt pretty routine.
From there, my boob and I were free to go. Free to have its last supper (by 12 midnight) and its last drink (by 6.30am). We've got to be at the hospital at 7.30am, so it's an early start. It's a day procedure so I'll be prepped and chipped by 10am and hopefully operated on by lunchtime.
Because it's general anaesthetic though, I'm not allowed to leave on my own and must be supervised for 24 hours by a 'responsible' adult ... I'm not sure I know many of those, so Mr P. please step forward! ;-)
I'm really very nervous. I've never had an operation before but the hospital has provided a lot of information to prepare me.
On Friday, Mr P. and I went for a 'pre-surgery assessment'. I had some blood taken, had my weight and height measured and met with the physiotherapist who gave me lots of information and exercises to get the strength back in my pectoral and shoulder muscle post op.
We also saw the 'day ward' where I'll be for much of tomorrow. That is, before and after having a 'marker' put in my chest - yes, another one! - and being sent off for surgery. And, of course, while we waited for the nurse, Mr P. was up to his old tricks; rummaging under the bed for latex gloves and performing a Marcel Marceau mime routine behind the curtain ...
Then today, we were back for the dye injection. It's not really dye at all but a clear radioactive fluid that they inject into the lymphatic system to allow them to x-ray and see which lymph nodes they want to test. So, apart from a sharp needle in the nipple and having to lie still for 15 minutes, it was quite straightforward. I've had so many painful procedures and scans that it felt pretty routine.
From there, my boob and I were free to go. Free to have its last supper (by 12 midnight) and its last drink (by 6.30am). We've got to be at the hospital at 7.30am, so it's an early start. It's a day procedure so I'll be prepped and chipped by 10am and hopefully operated on by lunchtime.
Because it's general anaesthetic though, I'm not allowed to leave on my own and must be supervised for 24 hours by a 'responsible' adult ... I'm not sure I know many of those, so Mr P. please step forward! ;-)
Thursday 5 July 2012
The write stuff
Got a letter today from the ‘Marsden. It’s a copy of one that they’ve
sent to my GP, which I requested as part of the (innovatively named) ‘Copying
Letters to Patients’ initiative.
It’s always weird seeing the hospital letters; reading what someone else has said about you to another third party. The medical parlance can also be a bit confusing.
The one from Charing Cross last week though was pretty positive and said that my tumour reduction from chemotherapy represented ‘an excellent clinical response’.
The ‘Marsden letter was a follow on from that. It said that I had ‘responded well to primary chemotherapy’ and that there is no lump ‘where the tumour site was originally’. However, there are some ‘residual abnormal areas’, so these are the bits that will be chopped out and tested. (Along with any node tests/surgery that needs to be done)
It did unsettle me a bit seeing it all in writing; reading detailed information about ‘sentinel node biopsy’ and ‘axillary dissection’ and knowing that it was all about what they were going to do to me. I found myself getting a bit teary.
However, more upsetting was when I read the letter to Mr P. and happened to spot the summation of my case at the start of the letter:
Feb. 2012
3.3cm mass upper inner right breast (diagnosed at Ealing Hospital), small breast
Small breast? SMALL BREAST? Seriously, did that really need to part of my official clinical diagnosis?! Talk about adding insult to injury.
Anyway, my ‘small breast’ and I are going to the hospital tomorrow for its pre-op assessment – blood test, ECG etc and to find out more about what happens next week.
I’m also going to give some extra blood – I’m nice like that – for a clinical research trial that they’re currently undertaking. It won’t necessarily benefit me and won’t affect my treatment but if the results do show up any significant genetic factors, then I think I will get told.
Either way, I think I should help out if I can. It’s vital for them to keep investigating and testing, so that new and even better treatments can be found.
Which is why events like 'Race for Life' are so important - that I know many of you have completed, or are currently training to take part in. All that fundraising will help Cancer Research and others to develop clinical tests and trials like this one.
So well done, all of you. And good luck!
It’s always weird seeing the hospital letters; reading what someone else has said about you to another third party. The medical parlance can also be a bit confusing.
The one from Charing Cross last week though was pretty positive and said that my tumour reduction from chemotherapy represented ‘an excellent clinical response’.
The ‘Marsden letter was a follow on from that. It said that I had ‘responded well to primary chemotherapy’ and that there is no lump ‘where the tumour site was originally’. However, there are some ‘residual abnormal areas’, so these are the bits that will be chopped out and tested. (Along with any node tests/surgery that needs to be done)
It did unsettle me a bit seeing it all in writing; reading detailed information about ‘sentinel node biopsy’ and ‘axillary dissection’ and knowing that it was all about what they were going to do to me. I found myself getting a bit teary.
However, more upsetting was when I read the letter to Mr P. and happened to spot the summation of my case at the start of the letter:
Feb. 2012
3.3cm mass upper inner right breast (diagnosed at Ealing Hospital), small breast
Small breast? SMALL BREAST? Seriously, did that really need to part of my official clinical diagnosis?! Talk about adding insult to injury.
Anyway, my ‘small breast’ and I are going to the hospital tomorrow for its pre-op assessment – blood test, ECG etc and to find out more about what happens next week.
I’m also going to give some extra blood – I’m nice like that – for a clinical research trial that they’re currently undertaking. It won’t necessarily benefit me and won’t affect my treatment but if the results do show up any significant genetic factors, then I think I will get told.
Either way, I think I should help out if I can. It’s vital for them to keep investigating and testing, so that new and even better treatments can be found.
Which is why events like 'Race for Life' are so important - that I know many of you have completed, or are currently training to take part in. All that fundraising will help Cancer Research and others to develop clinical tests and trials like this one.
So well done, all of you. And good luck!
Tuesday 3 July 2012
Not long now!
A week today and I’ll (hopefully) have had my operation.
It’s been a long time coming and, much as I’m desperate for it to actually happen, I’ve realised that I’m starting to get quite apprehensive.
Weirdly, I’ve also lost a bit of hair. I thought all that had finished but woke up two days ago to find quite a lot of ‘chemo’ hair on my pillow.
You can always tell when it’s chemo-related hair loss because the ends of the strand (i.e. from the follicles) look black and burnt. My finger nails have been quite damaged too but, like the hair, they seem to be recovering and will grow back in due course.
Because ... as of today, chemo is officially FINISHED! *Whoop!* So it was good to be able to mark the occasion, as well as my birthday, on Saturday.
My twin sister came down from Hereford to join the celebrations, as did many of our friends and relatives from across London and much further afield. It was a really great night.
Special thanks, as always, must go to Mr. P. I felt thoroughly spoilt all day: presents, cooked breakfast, nice restaurant lunch, champagne in the garden ... And then, of course, there were all the fabulous gifts, flowers and baking from my friends! I really was very touched.
So thank you, everyone. You made me, and my sister, feel very special. x
It’s been a long time coming and, much as I’m desperate for it to actually happen, I’ve realised that I’m starting to get quite apprehensive.
Weirdly, I’ve also lost a bit of hair. I thought all that had finished but woke up two days ago to find quite a lot of ‘chemo’ hair on my pillow.
You can always tell when it’s chemo-related hair loss because the ends of the strand (i.e. from the follicles) look black and burnt. My finger nails have been quite damaged too but, like the hair, they seem to be recovering and will grow back in due course.
Because ... as of today, chemo is officially FINISHED! *Whoop!* So it was good to be able to mark the occasion, as well as my birthday, on Saturday.
My twin sister came down from Hereford to join the celebrations, as did many of our friends and relatives from across London and much further afield. It was a really great night.
Special thanks, as always, must go to Mr. P. I felt thoroughly spoilt all day: presents, cooked breakfast, nice restaurant lunch, champagne in the garden ... And then, of course, there were all the fabulous gifts, flowers and baking from my friends! I really was very touched.
So thank you, everyone. You made me, and my sister, feel very special. x
 |
| Wonderful friends and wonderful cakes* ... provided by Neil, Diana and Angela (Starlight Cake Design). *Not forgetting Craig's delicious muffins. Not pictured. ;-) |
 |
| Me and my lovely Mr P. |
Thursday 28 June 2012
What the world doesn't see ...
I'd
like to think that, generally speaking, I'm a quite positive person. More of a
realist than an optimist but I do try to make the best of things.
But I also have my down days; my introspective, tear-filled, sad days. Fortunately they’re not very often but they’re there all the same.
Normally though, it’s just Mr P. that sees me like that. And that’s deliberate. I don’t want people to feel bad for me, or sorry for me, because I’m really not unique in what I’m experiencing.
However, that doesn’t make it less difficult. As a woman, it’s very hard to have every aspect of your femininity, and how you view yourself, taken away. Everything from your short-term cosmetic appearance - your hair, eyebrows and eyelashes – through to the possible permanent loss of your breast(s) and fertility.
I’ve deliberately only taken one photo of me without my hair and that was before I lost my eyebrows and lashes. I know I’ll never forget how I look but I don’t need or want a photographic reminder. In fact, apart from Mr P., only my Mum has seen me in a full state of unadorned baldness.
However, that stage is passing. I do now have hair growing on my head and I’m really hoping that it won’t be long before I can go wig and scarf free. And not before time! The chemo-induced hot flushes are doing me in.
Honestly, I would kill for a good night’s sleep right now. Every night I sleep in one hour bursts, alternately waking up in sweats or chills as I throw off the duvet or pull it back up in some kind of cruel nocturnal Hokey-Cokey.
But through it all, I have never once thought ‘Why me?’
After all, ‘Why not me?’ If 1 in 8 UK women are going to get hit with breast cancer, then sadly some of us will need to bite that bullet. And all that it brings ...
But I also have my down days; my introspective, tear-filled, sad days. Fortunately they’re not very often but they’re there all the same.
Normally though, it’s just Mr P. that sees me like that. And that’s deliberate. I don’t want people to feel bad for me, or sorry for me, because I’m really not unique in what I’m experiencing.
However, that doesn’t make it less difficult. As a woman, it’s very hard to have every aspect of your femininity, and how you view yourself, taken away. Everything from your short-term cosmetic appearance - your hair, eyebrows and eyelashes – through to the possible permanent loss of your breast(s) and fertility.
I’ve deliberately only taken one photo of me without my hair and that was before I lost my eyebrows and lashes. I know I’ll never forget how I look but I don’t need or want a photographic reminder. In fact, apart from Mr P., only my Mum has seen me in a full state of unadorned baldness.
However, that stage is passing. I do now have hair growing on my head and I’m really hoping that it won’t be long before I can go wig and scarf free. And not before time! The chemo-induced hot flushes are doing me in.
Honestly, I would kill for a good night’s sleep right now. Every night I sleep in one hour bursts, alternately waking up in sweats or chills as I throw off the duvet or pull it back up in some kind of cruel nocturnal Hokey-Cokey.
But through it all, I have never once thought ‘Why me?’
After all, ‘Why not me?’ If 1 in 8 UK women are going to get hit with breast cancer, then sadly some of us will need to bite that bullet. And all that it brings ...
Tuesday 26 June 2012
A week of two halves
The end of last week felt a bit crap: inconclusive meeting with my surgeon, dreadful joint and muscle pain, and don’t get me started on the England football team ...
Today though, I’m feeling good. Much perkier.
I’m finally starting to remember what it feels like to feel normal. To know that I don’t have any more chemo and actually have the physical and mental energy to get jobs done.
So I’ve been a busy bunny: getting things sorted at home, meeting up with friends and – shocker! – doing some exercise.
Mr P. and I also had a lovely little weekend break, which I’d booked months ago to mark the end of chemo. (I do LOVE a Groupon!) It was nice to get away, albeit just overnight.
In fact, it was a very English weekend: nice dinner and stay in a village coaching inn, full cooked brekkie followed by a little walk in the countryside. (I know anyone that knows Mr P. will find that hard to believe!)
We even clambered up a very steep hill to look at windmill. (Seriously) But not just any windmill. Oh no. Only the windmill from ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. Impressed? I thought so. ;-)
From there we set off to a local vineyard and brewery where we got to sample what is allegedly Prince Philip’s favourite tipple, Old Luxtors Gold Ale. Apparently the old goat likes to drink a bottle every day ... although I don't think that's how he ended up in hospital!
So lastly, after getting tipsy on real ale and damson vodka, we finished in Windsor for roast beef sandwiches at The Alma, the lovely little pub owned by Mr P’s friends. (Actually, that wasn’t the end of the day – we watched the England v. Italy game. But less said ... )
In short, normality is returning. I’m not in discomfort anymore, my hair is growing back and I’ve got lots of things to look forward to in the next two weeks before my operation, including lots of nice meals and watching some very talented friends perform on stage.
Most notable though, is my birthday / ‘Cancer can f*ck off’ drinks on Saturday. I’m very excited about this. It’s not a ‘big’ birthday (not yet!) but it does provide an opportunity to get everyone together that has supported me thus far on this journey. And that’s a lot of people!
We're going to a have a proper good English ‘knees-up’.
Today though, I’m feeling good. Much perkier.
I’m finally starting to remember what it feels like to feel normal. To know that I don’t have any more chemo and actually have the physical and mental energy to get jobs done.
So I’ve been a busy bunny: getting things sorted at home, meeting up with friends and – shocker! – doing some exercise.
Mr P. and I also had a lovely little weekend break, which I’d booked months ago to mark the end of chemo. (I do LOVE a Groupon!) It was nice to get away, albeit just overnight.
In fact, it was a very English weekend: nice dinner and stay in a village coaching inn, full cooked brekkie followed by a little walk in the countryside. (I know anyone that knows Mr P. will find that hard to believe!)
We even clambered up a very steep hill to look at windmill. (Seriously) But not just any windmill. Oh no. Only the windmill from ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. Impressed? I thought so. ;-)
From there we set off to a local vineyard and brewery where we got to sample what is allegedly Prince Philip’s favourite tipple, Old Luxtors Gold Ale. Apparently the old goat likes to drink a bottle every day ... although I don't think that's how he ended up in hospital!
So lastly, after getting tipsy on real ale and damson vodka, we finished in Windsor for roast beef sandwiches at The Alma, the lovely little pub owned by Mr P’s friends. (Actually, that wasn’t the end of the day – we watched the England v. Italy game. But less said ... )
In short, normality is returning. I’m not in discomfort anymore, my hair is growing back and I’ve got lots of things to look forward to in the next two weeks before my operation, including lots of nice meals and watching some very talented friends perform on stage.
Most notable though, is my birthday / ‘Cancer can f*ck off’ drinks on Saturday. I’m very excited about this. It’s not a ‘big’ birthday (not yet!) but it does provide an opportunity to get everyone together that has supported me thus far on this journey. And that’s a lot of people!
We're going to a have a proper good English ‘knees-up’.
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