Goodbye 2012

I know, I know, I know, I haven't written for ages but what with travelling to Oxford every day and still trying to be normal in between (a feat in itself for me I know you will agree) I have run out of time regularly - as the late book at school will show, but that is a completely different story for another day.

The radiotherapy is finished.  I have had twenty five doses, travelled 1400 miles and acquired some pretty horrific radiation burns.  Thankfully, a week after finishing the radiotherapy these are beginning to heal but they are still very sore and generally not much fun!  I have to recommend Sue at our surgery as a fantastic bandage applier - at least I get some sleep once she has dressed them as otherwise the duvet rubs on them and makes them worse, not to mention the need to change the bedding every other day as they have soaked into the sheets!  Lovely.

Ian has once again been fabulous.  He has allowed me extra lie ins as the tiredness accumulated and is now a pro at the school run, which he relishes doing in shorts and a t-shirt even in the coldest weather.  I am looking forward to hopefully being able to be back up to full speed for all the Mummy duties next term which thankfully doesn't start until the 8th January. 

In the meantime the farm is still not making any progress, the weather is still a problem and the fields are, as a result, still bare.  I can see that the whole farm is going to have to be put down to Spring sown crops this time but that will only ever happen if it stops raining by then. 

Now I do have a little time to reflect I have been reminded of something a friend said before I even started on this journey.  She had realised that being diagnosed with cancer has the unenviable task of making you realise exactly who your friends are.  This is something Ian and I have discovered too.  We have been overwhelmed with support from so many people, some of whom were most unexpected but we have been so grateful for even the smallest of kindnesses.  I am not going to list the people or their actions but you know who you are and I know he will join me in saying thank you. 

This is not to say that anyone should feel they haven't done anything or think they haven't helped in any way.  Believe me, the very fact you are even reading this has helped me through my treatment which has had its many highs and lows.  OK.  Lots of lows, not too many highs.  OK.  No highs really.  Apart from it ending which was quite a rush! 

Although having said that, it feels like I'm on my own now.  I know I'm not but it does feel like I am now once again solely responsible for noticing anything that isn't going right or has changed.  Every single twinge or ache is internally monitored and assessed.  I feel like I am some enormous computer constantly running system checks and making sure that the mechanisms are still working correctly with no error codes coming up. 

So.  If I don't get another chance to sit down and update before Christmas and New Year then I will take this opportunity to wish you all a Very Merry Christmas and join me in a toast to a new healthy and happy new year in 2013. 

I've got a cold - yippee!!!!

Well I feel like I'm knocking through the radiotherapy like there's nothing to it.  Which is true really!  I have already completed 8 sessions and only have 17 more to do.  By the end of this week there will only be 13 left and that means I'll be halfway through.  See?  It's easy!!!!!

However, ever since I started my course I have had a stinking cold.  Really heavy.  The funny thing is, I have almost enjoyed having it.  Now I know this sounds strange, even for me, but it's not really when you think about it - a cold, not something to get worried about, normally.  Since starting my chemo on 18 June a cold was something to be feared.  I was terrified that it would develop into something that would affect my bloods and therefore delay treatment or worse, snowball into an infection that could potentially, if not caught in time, kill me.  It sounds dramatic but it is true.  I distinctly remember being told when I went in for my "chemo chat"  that people do die on chemo.  Not from the disease being treated or from the chemo itself but from an infection picked up and not treated quickly enough.  This rang in my ears very loudly whenever I felt under the weather during chemo (and no, I don't mean from the chemo itself although ,as you all already know that was a challenge in itself).

Having said all of the above, I have now had enough of this cold.  Everything runs its course and I would like to be healthy and well now thank you. 

I feel it would be a novelty!!

Re-growth

So it's been a long time since I wrote - to be honest I have been enjoying the break from treatment although this brings with it the fear that I am not doing anything pro-active to ensure I am as well as possible. 

Having said that I have been doing something - I have started my course of five years of Tamoxifen.  I just need to try and remember that it is designed to starve and therefore kill any rogue cells that could have somehow managed to escape the chemo.  How the hell anything could have got round that I do not know but I know it does happen. 

I have been listening with interest to Mix 96s broadcasts this week in relation to the Cancer Care and Haematology Unit.  The Monday broadcast reduced me to tears.  I know I am not alone in this - I spoke to two other people the next day who had heard it and their reaction had been the same.  A heart wrenching story of Becky being diagnosed 2 days before her thirtieth birthday, going through the chemo (she had much the same reaction to it that I did), following it with radiotherapy, then a year to the day from her original diagnosis finding a new lump (whilst on holiday abroad) and on return to the UK having it confirmed that the cancer has now reoccurred in her liver, pelvis and spine.  This time it is management of the tumours, not cure that is hoping to be achieved. 

A horrifying reality check for everyone but without a doubt I know that everyone who has heard the broadcasts this week joins me in wishing Becky all the best and that the CCHU are able to control this for years to come.

In the meantime, my hair is growing back properly at last.  The overwhelming colour is still skin so no reveal for a while yet but at least I feel that it is making progress. 

The stupid thing is, for some reason I appear to be surprised that not only the hair on my head is growing.  On getting undressed the other day I thought things felt a bit breezy round my calves but put this down to the lower temperature that day.  Apparently not.  The particularly annoying part is that the hair on my legs is now longer than that on my head.  How is that right?  Or fair?  It will be easily remedied though...

I think that is possibly enough personal revelations for now. 

I have started my radiotherapy today.  I had a mini wobble about it last night as I had been planning on going alone but was suddenly overcome by fear of it hurting.  Stupid I know.  X-rays do not hurt unless they are of something that is already broken, in which case that is a rational fear.  But I have an inbuilt fear of a new treatment now - not knowing quite what to expect has not really helped in the past (memories of the first dose fly back to my mind) so I also felt nervous like I was heading off for my first day at a new school or in a new job.  That fear of the unknown.  Thankfully my big brave hubby came with me so I was able to be a lot braver!  I feel I can manage to go on my own a bit now as I know where I am going and more importantly what to expect once I get into the room.

So.  Easy peasy.  How nice to have a treatment that means you just lie there and can't feel any side effects!! 

Yet.

Exposure

No.  Not that sort!!

It has just occurred to me that two of the most dangerous causes of cancer are exposure to harsh chemicals and radiation.  Bizarrely both of these are used to cure it too! 

Random thought.  Sorry.

What I was actually going to write about was radiotherapy...

I have now had my planning meeting and have my list of appointments.  As well as three new tattoos!  They are barely visible, in fact many of my moles are bigger than them.  They are in a laser guided line across my chest - one down on the left side of my ribcage, one on my breastbone (ouch) and one on the right side of my ribcage. 

SO.  The radiotherapy starts on 8th November and is Monday to Friday until 12th December and all bar one appointment are within 15 minutes of 11am.  Done by Christmas.  So the journey will have taken eight months and two days from the date of diagnosis on 10th April. 

That is not quite the end - five years of tablets follow but hey, I can live with that. 

And that is what I intend to do.  Live.

Coming through

Tomorrow marks the beginning of my lowest immunity spell following chemo. 

It also hopefully marks the last immunity boosting jab I have to inflict on myself.   

That's right.

The complete needle phobic, who has been known to feel faint at the sight of a needle on screen, has survived her way through 41 of the required 42 immunity boosting injections that she has had to carry out on herself. 

This is as big an achievement as getting through the chemo.  Not to mention the 7 canullas that have been inserted in veins (ouch), the endless blood withdrawals (some more painful than others), injections (never fun) and sundry other needles (not dismissing the anaesthetic at the beginning - ooh no, that was another canulla) that have been wafted around in my vicinity for the past five months... 

Yes.  The more on the ball ones of you will have realised that I had 6 cycles of chemo but 7 canullas.  Let's not forget the one they put in to rehydrate me after the infamous, near-pickling, first cycle of chemo.

I have, in an act of pure rebellion, today stripped off the dark nail varnish and replaced it with sparkly pink.  I did apply three coats though so it will hopefully still act as a light block if it is still needed - I tried to check with the Breast Nurse but I think she possibly has more important things to do than advise me on the colour of my nail varnish...

I am hoping that this coming week end will signify the return to my diet of all the things I have missed recently.  Any sort of take away, a nice rare steak, various cheeses, soft white ice cream from an ice cream van (although the weather is not making that one quite so appealing) and strangely, one of the things I have missed the most is a nice crisp salad. I never thought I would say it but there have been times when I have positively craved a bowl of lettuce with things as mundane as tomato and cucumber in it.  With a compromised immune system these have been forbidden items - and as anyone knows, the minute something is off limits, it just makes you want it more!

So my celebration supper will probably be deep fried camembert followed by a rare steak with salad, and then some ice cream.

If I can find a van.

Done

The last dose went in today. 

Having completely freaked out last time I went to the chemo suite I am please to say that the lorazepam worked this time - I only had a minute wobble when sitting alone in the chair whilst Jeraldine parked the car but the rescue remedy helped with that. 

Plus they gave me my favourite nurse who is a legend with a needle - so careful and gentle that although not a pleasant experience it was eminently more bearable than last time.

Thankfully no-one in the room I was in ordered lunch so that was not an issue this time - all in all a much better visit.

No desire to go back though so let's keep our fingers crossed on that one.

Am seriously hoping that this last dose does not take away the rapidly darkening fluff that is now re-appearing on my head and that it continues to grow and thicken.

Grow.  Let's just focus on that.  And I would like some eyebrows and eyelashes back please? 

I'm happy not having the rest of the hair  elsewhere back, I have saved no end on razor blades over the last four months - hardly a momentous bonus to it all but it has given my left arm pit a longer chance to get back to normal without having to be attacked by a razor - bit scary as it has minimal sensation and is a very odd shape having had most of its contents removed.  Oh well.  At least I can put my arm above my head now!

Right.  I can feel a cup of tea calling.

Amazing that two hours after chemo I can face a cup of tea.  At exactly this time on the first dose the full horror was setting in - overwhelming nausea , tight skin all over my head shoulders and stomach, whoozyness and generally feeling as though I would honestly die from the chemo that was supposed to be saving my life.

Woooooooooooooooooooooooooo hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!  :-) :-) :-) very happy girl signing off for now xxx

The sun'll come out tomorrow....!

Even if it is a torrential downpour with tornadoes, thunder and lightening (very very frightening) it will still be sunny in my world (with a light breeze to roll the tumbleweed along).

The reason?

Tomorrow is the last one.

(Hopefully).

Round 6. 

Back in June it seemed so far away, so unobtainable.  Especially when the first dose of FEC proved to be so horrendous.  I remember on the Friday after the first dose weeping to a friend who had been through it herself that I couldn't make it to October if it was like that all the time.  Thankfully, by the next week I was feeling human again but each dose has taken its toll in some way. 

I am seriously hoping we can get through the last one without having to go to A&E but having said that, I would rather go in and get checked if things don't seem right, than run the risk of an infection taking hold.

I may just have mentioned before how wonderful the Breast Care Nurses at the hospital have been.  Without fail, their kindness, patience and care has been boundless.  Although they are employed by the NHS their wages and the funding comes from MacMillan Cancer Support.

Time to put something back.

The coffee morning I held as part of MacMillan's Biggest Coffee Morning was, it has to be admitted, a runaway success.  I was completely overwhelmed by people's generosity of time and donations - whether they were edible, monetary or raffle prizes. 

I felt genuinely humbled by how many people turned up in support.  I never ever in my wildest dreams thought we would raise as much as we did - I had an aspiration to raise between £200 and £300. 

To have raised over £800 made me so proud of everyone for their generosity and effort.

In a rare flash of organisation I have even managed to go into Aylesbury and pay the money in today so that it is not hanging around for two weeks while I go through the chemical effects and the infection window.  It is the sort of thing that could get lost or, heaven forbid, stolen plus I would like MacMillan to have it as soon as possible. 

Yes it was an amazing effort by all concerned but for a wholly amazing charity that sadly so many people have a need to use at some point. 

So.  Thank you all x x

Life is a rollercoaster...

...you've just got to ride it!!

Up, down, up, down, swing one way, then the other, do a loop the loop, then a massive plummet, before climbing again.  And that's just my emotions.

I am pretty certain that I never used to be this erratic.  Others may (probably will) disagree.

From feeling quite positive prior to my latest dose of chemo I had an almighty meltdown in the room once attached to my drip.  How humiliating.   I cannot really explain what or why it happened except that 3 large doses of steroids, no sleep, an uncomfortable canulla, the two men next to me both receiving blood transfusions and ordering lunches (which are a known bad trigger - I now take my own lunch) and the chemo nurse suddenly remembering to give me anti nausea as an afterthought (I think just the mention of nausea was enough to not help) and then the type of anti nausea given (which I have previous experience of and it has caused rather than stopped nausea, albeit briefly) possibly all added together. 

Thankfully I was rescued by my amazing friend Sally, a lovely nurse and a fabulous doctor who I had been lucky enough to meet the week before and between them they persuaded me to have a small dose of Lorazepam.

Which promptly knocked me out for over half an hour.  What a relief, and not just for me - everyone else in the room must have been grateful for the cessation of snot and tears.  What an idiot. 

This was followed by a very sleepy day on Wednesday, good days on Thursday and Friday then a disastrous day on Saturday that started at 2.00am when I woke up feeling rather average, proceeded to Stoke Mandeville at 6.00am, home at 8.30am and bed for the day before having another major snot and tears session at about 5.00pm before getting up and feeling absolutely fine all evening. 

I woke up on Sunday full of the joys of Spring (yes, I do know it is actually September) and set to on a bake-athon as well as hoovering the kitchen and generally running around like a mad thing all day. 

It seems to be a lucky dip of how I will feel when I wake up in the morning which can be slightly disconcerting.

Which turn of the rollercoaster will be next?

Vamping it up

This chemotherapy lark is a drag. 

I can honestly say I have never felt so bleurgh from an appearance point of view. 

Seriously. 

I am bald.  What little stubble I did have is now falling out - generally in my food.

My eyebrows are abandoning me at an alarming rate as well. 

I have ballooned in size thanks to all the steroids (so the chemotherapy weight loss plan was a complete non starter - I just wish someone had told me that at the beginning).

And then let's not forget - this whole thing started with some man lopping off  my left boob.

Can't say my self perception is at an all time high.

However - as the title suggests, I am trying to liven things up a bit.  Therefore I have started wearing rather vampish nail varnish.  Some people have already commented on it - and the reaction has been quite positive.  I have to admit that the colour is not my usual taste but there is a medical reason - the current drug has the lovely side effect of lifting your fingernails off.  Apparently one way of trying to help prevent this is to wear as dark a nail varnish as you can find to try and block out as much as light as possible as it is thought that the drug reacts with light.  Hence the rather vampish colour!

More seriously though it has occurred to me that I should not moan - I have spent the last eleven days watching the Paralympic Games.  If this has taught me nothing else, I have learnt that however hard I think this year has been, most of the side effects such as hair loss and fluctuating weight are things that will pass.  And however hard I try to find a category in the Paralympics for myself, I have failed to find one for people whose only prosthetic is on their chest!

Re-balanced

I am hoping that the negative chemical haze of yesterday has lifted - it certainly feels like it at the moment. 

I am feeling much more positive and physically better than yesterday and although the aches have not quite receded completely they now appear to be more manageable.  Thank you for bearing with me - I wish I had a more level playing field at the moment.

On the other hand, my brother who is currently staying with his family - and yes this is a good idea as it keeps my monkeys occupied and Laura is on hand to help with all things domestic - has had a hypo.  Poor chap.  I had just put some pizzas on the table for lunch when he started walking round in circles in the kitchen.  Everyone else just carried on as normal so I just ignored him as I thought "well, if they're not worried, and they live with this, then I needn't worry." 

Five minutes later I realised he was still walking round in circles but at least now Laura had left the table and was handing him some orange juice and could be heard issuing quiet but very firm instructions to "drink this". 

After several biscuits and some more drink he has recovered from his low but I have to admit that all I could do, once he had started to recover, was giggle at the sight of him wandering aimlessly in circles, fetching a glass out, putting it down, walking a few steps, stopping to stare into space then going to the cupboard to fetch a glass out, walking around in a circle, then staring into space again.

Me?  Unsympathetic? 

Now, I do not question how long Laura left him to wander but I did ask her about it as to begin with I thought I must be misreading the signs because no-one else seemed to think his behaviour was odd.  She pointed out that she can now pick the perfect moment to intervene and times it so that he is at his most pliable - if she tries to help too early he gets grumpy and denies there is anything wrong and if she were to leave it too late he could pass out.  It is a very tricky line to tread.

Hopefully now though we are now all re-balanced and the rest of the day can carry on.  I mean, if it's not one thing, it's another and if it's not me, it's my brother!

Chemo

The truth? 

I hate it.  I am sitting here sobbing as I just feel so rubbish.  I am exhausted.  I ache from head to toe.  I seem to have no control over my emotions (some would say that is no change) and I live in constant fear of getting a temperature, signifying an infection meaning hospital or neutropenia (meaning my body is not producing white cells and can be life threatening). 

And I still have to get through the rest of this session and two more.

I want my Mum to come back up from Devon so she can sit on the sofa to keep me company while I sleep/moan/cry. 

And I want someone to discover a full on vaccination against this sodding disease so that NO-ONE has to go through this ever again.

Don't pity me.  I am just really really fed up.

I am sure that I will feel better in a couple of days and post a better blog xx

"Half Way"

So here I am again.  Officially half way through and heading on the downhill slope to the projected end of this chemically enhanced episode!  

I do have to admit that there is a really irritating rebellious part of my mind that is sitting there mumbling "Only half way through?  For goodness sake - have we still got to go through all this again?" 

Needless to say, this mutinous minority is being beaten hard regularly by my optimism but it doesn't seem to stop it chattering to the part of my mind that is jittering away in nervousness at the prospect of a new drug - the effects of which on me are unknown and therefore a little petrifying.  No wonder I have had to ask to speak to the psychologist - if only to unravel the multiple conflicting thoughts in my head.  Oh and to try and sort out the nausea that hits me every time I so much as think about the next dose and/or the Cancer Unit.  These attacks hit at random, without warning and usually involves nausea, hyperventilating, shaking and rapid, hot tears.

This is all a little annoying as it has crept up on me since dose three which had gone so much better.

Although I felt rough and very tired for the week following treatment, I did not have the crash over the week end that I have had both times before. Just got to finish the low immunity week while completing details for Alfred's birthday on Sunday!!   Mum has been here for the week and been her usual brilliant self - I hope she manages to grow a new head soon as I seem to have bitten it off a couple of times which is not good but I don't seem to be in control of my head/temper/emotions to be honest.

I am looking forward to some chilling time next week with my babes in Devon.  It is a fleeting visit, Wednesday to Sunday as it has to fit in between an appointment with the oncologist and my next dose of chemo.  I miss both of them so much when I am rough and they are so good and kind and gentle when I am having my "bad medicine". Alf has perfected crawling onto our bed to give me a cuddle without the mattress moving at all, which is quite clever, and Popps likes to come and stand next to the sofa to give me a small squeeze with her hand.  

At least this time I have been able to say good night to them each night and even read the occasional bedtime story!  

In all of this it has to be remembered that I have had the perfect excuse to lie on the sofa, snoozing and watching the first week of the Olympics undisturbed. 

Just can't help but find those silver linings xx

A different perspective

Having told you all the downside the other day I have to report a different story today. 

I was loitering in the foyer of Aylesbury Theatre yesterday, waiting to collect Poppy and Alfred after they had watched Peppa Pig with their two Grannies, when a very nice girl walked up to me and, after apologising profusely for being nosey, asked if I was going through Chemo. 

She then explained that she did last year, finishing in October but is still having Herceptin through a PICC line in her chest.  To those not in the know, having to have Herceptin is, in short, a bit of a bugger.  It means your strain is more difficult to treat and the whole process is a lot longer.  However, this girl was so bright, cheerful and positive that after she had left I felt much more positive too.  In fact, I still do, nearly 36 hours later. 

It is a strange thing this disease.  It is like joining a club (oh dear, the repetition bell is ringing loudly in my head, so I apologise).  I had never set eyes on this girl before but after a brief chat in a public place surrounded by hundreds of people, a bond is formed - we are in this together - and it did not seem at all inappropriate for her to give me a hug and a peck on the cheek as she wished me luck when we parted company. 

I know that if I saw her again in the street we would both be eager to catch up on each other's progress as it is a battle we have in common.

I have no idea what her name is but I wish her every success with her treatment and would like to say a very big thank you xx.

Just a quick one

I have been reading through my own blogs in the last couple of days and have realised how often I repeat myself.  I am so sorry.  I am so sorry.  Ha ha ha ha ha ha...

But I am, honest.

On a slightly less funny note - and I mean this.

My inspiration, my confidante, and most importantly, my friend, who dealt with what I am dealing with now, this time last year has had some horrendous news this week. 

She has some 'spots' on her liver. 

I am devastated for her.  She is one of the world's beautiful people.  She does not deserve this.  Neither do her family, who are all wonderful and kind people too.

I am not an overly religious person.  I have a healthy respect and belief in whoever controls our lives and destinies.  However.  Whoever or whatever you send a missive up to in times if need, I would ask you to spare a thought for her and her family as they once again face hell. 

Thank you.

Silver linings

So I am back.  Again.  Thank goodness. 

It has taken me this long to post another blog as I struggle a bit emotionally when I think about how ill I felt during the last bout of chemical hell. I felt so ill I couldn't even manage to say good night to the small people each evening. Bad enough that I couldn't go to  tuck them in and read their stories, but I was so blown sideways that they couldn't even come in to see me. 

On talking to the, as ever, wonderful breast care nurses it would appear I suffer quite badly from the toxicity that comes with the chemo.  It is quite rare (oh lucky me) but it affects ALL my senses - any smell is unbearable, a person talking in the same room as me is too loud, no sitting or lying position is comfortable and so it goes on. 
Another trip to hospital, this time to check my cell counts on Sunday evening, as I was still bed ridden five days after my chemo and developing a sore throat and sore glands.

Having berated the NHS in a previous post thanks to some slightly dodgy treatment I have to say that the treatment we, yes we, received this time was second to none.  A very attentive doctor who knew why I was there, and had already spoken to Oxford's 24 hour oncology line to get up to speed.  Very speedy attention from two nurses both of whom were kind, calm and brilliant at their jobs - one in particular who is so good at taking blood I did not feel a thing and it would appear she certainly took enough - at least 7 vials. 

When I say we received amazing treatment, once it had been ascertained in the short term that I was NOT suffering from a life threateningly low level of white cells etc, the doctor was as concerned that Ian was ok as me, the patient.  He repeatedly turned to Ian and asked "How are you?" or "Are you ok?" And when he came to give us the results of my blood tests he was all smiles, cheerful and even slapped Ian on the back as we were leaving!!  A silver lining to having to spend a Sunday evening in A&E.

I am now on the countdown to the third and final dose of this blend of drugs, with three doses of a new drug to come after that.  Once I have got over the side effects from this upcoming dose I really am on the countdown - the number of doses remaining no longer being higher than the number I have completed. 

Having seen the oncologist this morning he has decided to modify the doses of two of the drugs I am to receive but leaving the horrid drug at full strength.  This is out of necessity as it is THE drug of choice that is the most effective.  However, reducing the other two may well lessen the side effects although he lacked conviction when saying this so fingers crossed.

Having been dreadfully negative at the beginning of this post - for which I apologise profusely - I am now feeling alot better having shared the horror. Therapeutic for me. Rubbish for you, the reader. Sorry.  Revisiting the awfulness has made it have slightly less impact. Perhaps that is the other silver lining?

Thank you for bearing with me x

A quick addendum

I have heard through the grapevine that the big BIG BIG bonus of this hair loss is that the grey hair doesn't come back.

Although I have to admit it is a pretty extreme way to get rid of them. 

Surely dyeing it would be easier?

It's chilly!

I am sitting here with a woolly hat on.  That's it, the hair is all gone - most of it has fallen out and the rest?  Well let's just say that the clippers have had an outing.  There is only so much patchiness I can put up with!  Plus, whenever I put a hat on it pulled the hair in so many directions it was almost like having needles sticking into my head.  Feels so much better now.
I have been worried about losing my hair, not just from the point of not having any but also because it going will highlight the fact that I have a rather large scar on the right side of my head (which used to be my biggest scar, now overtaken by the one on my chest, obviously) and I thought it would be really obvious.  It turns out, now I can see it, that it is not so bad after all.  Plus I do feel I will never again worry about it showing through my hair (when it grows back).
Poppy keeps wanting me to show everyone that my hair has fallen out - I may as well not be wearing a hat!  No.  That would be too chilly...
Having decreed that I was not going to wear scarves and preferred the idea of a range of funky hats I have had to realise that hats are all well and good when you have hair to bulk them out and hold them in place.  Nowadays they just slide down over my eyes constantly causing minor issues when carrying out everyday tasks.  Such as driving.  Tricky!
I have found a wonderful website thanks to a recommendation from the friend of a friend who went through this last year.  Ana Bandanna.  Started up through necessity when a family member went through chemotherapy hair loss and couldn't find any reasonably priced scarves on the market.  Once again, it would appear that the instant you put an unavoidable need such as disability in front of something the majority of suppliers take it as an opportunity to double the price.  My point?  If one firm can produce bandannas and scarves for £5-£7 a time why does another firm feel the need to charge £15-£20 for a similar item?  Yes, I know, quality of material etc etc will make a difference but for goodness' sake!  The same goes for disability aids.  With this, yes I appreciate the research and development that has to go into these things but if they made things more affordable they would sell more of them and make the same amount of money.  This method of thinking is why I will never be an entrepreneur and make millions.
Apologies for the rant.  Am feeling cross with social services for constantly moving the goal posts and only running Poppy's carers one month at a time meaning we have to have constant meetings with people over whether the care will continue to run beyond this month and whether we will be left high and dry with no help during chemo. 
Oh well.  Will have to wait and see what they say when they ring back this time...
In the meantime I am going to go and seek out a nice woolly hat to wear.  The one that came with the new tractor seems comfy so apologies to the fashionistas if you see me walking around with a beanie with a picture of a tractor on the front but comfort before vanity at the moment I'm afraid!

Side effects

I am now feeling normal again.  It took about 9 days but I woke up last Wednesday and actually felt mainly human.  I have improved steadily since then and even hazarded a glass of wine on Sunday and Monday.  I have not however felt the need to carry on with the glasses of wine as it just don't taste the same anymore!  Can only do me good, I suppose...

Sadly, this Sunday didn't just herald the return of the vino it also heralded the beginning of the end for my hair.  Sudden hair loss?  Definitely.  In the space of one day I lost half my hair.  Obviously Poppy sitting on my lap pulling it out in great handfuls whilst gurgling with laughter did speed up the process somewhat but it is now Wednesday and having had my hair cut very short on Monday I have had to resort to the clippers today to bring it down to a Grade 2 as there are now more gaps than patches of hair.  I am hoping that it will now be a bit more comfortable when wearing a hat as so far it has been rather sore when the hat moves the hair as the skin is very sensitive. 

As for any other side effects I appear to be, and my fingers are firmly crossed here, quite lucky.  I had a very dry mouth for ten days so drank loads of water to counteract it and my gums are a little sensitive but not SORE like they could be.  As for bruising and bleeding, anaemia, diarrhoea, kidney problems, numbness and tingling, gritty eyes and the other endless side effects listed in the information leaflets I seem to have avoided the main horrors.  As I say, fingers crossed.

So.  I am now bald and have some hearing loss (more than normal) but apart from that, the horror of a fortnight ago seems slightly unreal. 

We saw the oncologist yesterday who was appalled to hear how badly the first dose had affected me and said he would prescribe the mega anti sickness drug for me that is only licenced to be used on patients for whom all other drugs have failed.  Did I think I qualified? My lovely husband jumped in at this point and said that he had taken to placing buckets strategically round the house so yes, he did think I qualified.  The consultant agreed and went to put it on my prescription but then saw that it had already been put there by another doctor when I was rehydrated!

I am approaching next Tuesday with a mixture of terror, as I now know how horrible it can be, a small bit of confidence that they will give me the right anti nausea drugs so it won't be as bad as last time and more than a shred of excitement (still?  have I not learnt?) because it will be two down, four to go.  Each one done is one closer to the end of them. 

And I defy anyone not to get excited about that!!

And so it starts...

I know I said in a previous post that I thought my impending chemo was a bit like childbirth in that you approach it with trepidation, a little nervousness and dare I say it, a tiny bit of excitement (yes I know that sounds mental but at least it felt like I was making progress and fighting off any nasty invaders). 

Well I was right. 

I had no idea what to expect.

NOTHING could have prepared me for what was to come which is just as well or I may never have turned up.

My appointment was booked for 11.00am.  We arrived in the car park ten minutes early.  I was happy to sit there.  Not until my allotted time.  I would have just sat there.

Luckily Jeraldine decided it was far better to head inside.  Face up to it.  Meet it head on.  So we did.

They are so welcoming in the Chemo suite, rather anonymously named Room 10.  Greet you by name, or your preferred name, whichever you elected to be called on the copious sheets you fill in prior to treatment and say "take a seat" as if inviting you in for a cuppa and a chat, which in a way I suppose it is! 

The only difference is, and this could only be me, after all I have led quite a sheltered life, but generally when I turn up at a chum's house for tea and a chat someone doesn't walk up to you with a needle and insert it into a vein.  Call me naive if you like but it was about here the similarity ended.

Don't get me wrong.  The wonderful volunteers bring endless cups of tea/coffee/water/cup-a-soup and if you are unfortunate enough to be in there over lunchtime, that is provided too.  And there are biscuits too, but the fact that you are tethered to your chair by an IV takes away the sitting room feel a little bit...

Firstly I was hooked up to a saline IV to ensure the line was in correctly and running smoothly.  At this point I was approached and warned that unfortunately the pharmacy were running a bit behind and my drugs wouldn't be up until after lunch.  Pardon?  I had a momentary flash of annoyance - my time slot was booked, it was my first dose so why couldn't it be ready for me?  I then very quickly remembered that the drugs have to be made up as and when the patient arrives in a fit state to receive them as each dose costs several thousand pounds and only has a short shelf life.  But still.  Two hours?  We had nowhere to go so decided to stay put and chat.

I ordered and ate my lunch.  Jeraldine set off to the canteen, bought then consumed what she declared to be a delicious sandwich.  Although her enthusiasm seemed slightly out of ratio with that usually reserved for a two bits of bread encompassing a dollop of chicken mayonnaise, she explained that she so rarely ate sandwiches that it was a treat.

Lunch was followed by some anti nausea drugs sent down the IV then by more saline.  Finally at half past two my chemo drugs arrived.  A blue tray was brought to me for me to check that my name and the drug name were correct on each one and so my chemo nurse started to inject them.  No.  My chemo nurse does not, as it would appear, enjoy inflicting misery on her patients.  She is lovely.  Apart from the whole injecting thing of course.

I felt absolutely fine.  Even took a picture of the drugs going in.  Once again, not really something I thought I would be doing but hey, I don't have a hold on what is "normal" anymore. 

At the end, we ran through the anti nausea drugs they gave me, I wrote it all down meticulously and we set off home.  I felt absolutely fine.  Almost an anti climax.

And then it changed.  In the drop of a hat.  I went from sitting on the sofa feeling absolutely fine to all of a sudden feeling the skin on my face become tight, a pounding headache start and the most gut wrenching, tearing, frighteningly out of control nausea I have ever had the misfortune to experience.  I simultaneously felt paralytic and hungover.  So badly hungover that I should have been in The Priory.  Hot flushes.  Skin feeling like it was creeping off my head.  Mouth like the bottom of the aviary at Whipsnade.  In constant, unceasing, never ending waves. 

I can honestly say I have never felt so ill in my life. 

Somehow I did sleep a bit that night although it was restless and so uncomfortable.  The dawn however brought no respite in fact the birds have never tweeted so loudly and they started at 3.46am!

Tuesday was a day of horror.  I can't write about it yet.  Maybe, many years from now I may be able to describe it but for now let's just say the hell never ended.  I spoke to the chemo nurses at the Wooden Spoon several times.  They got prescription after prescription made up for me but unfortunately 3 out of the 4 items they asked for were out of stock at my surgery and at the chemist.  By the end of the day they had said I should come in at 9 o'clock the next morning and they would try and help. 

I had another horrendous night and started Wednesday in much the same way (with my head down the loo).  As soon as Ian got back from taking the monkeys to school he scooped me up and drove SO carefully to the hospital.  I was greeted by name by the nurse who I had spoken to the day before - I looked THAT bad. 

I was swiftly hooked up to an IV to rehydrate me, given an IV of anti nausea and handed a suppository to deal with (oh the indignity, but if I couldn't keep anything down, I suppose it was another way of getting drugs into me) and then left in a side room of the suite to sleep.  And boy.  Did I sleep!

By 2 o'clock, when they needed the room for someone else I was feeling more normal but was sent home with loads more drugs and told to take them.  Take them all!!!

I have also had to overcome my needle phobia as I have had to inject myself every day - Ian keeps on offering but I have so far managed to self medicate rather than run the risk of being a practise heifer!

There have been lots of tears this week.  The drugs (I blame them, not me, obviously) have sent me on a roller coaster of emotions including tiredness, panic and depression but also waves of determination that wash on the shore and fade but, thankfully, like waves, they too come back. 

One major low this week was the news from Kathryn that her beloved Mum, who has battled with the disease for nearly two decades, has sadly lost her fight and passed peacefully away at home.  Obviously my main concern is for Kathryn and her family as they deal with their loss.  Although I would be lying if I said it didn't scare me a bit.

I do now know that the nausea can be managed.  I also know that I can get through it and feel human again.  I have also been promised that they will not let that level of nausea happen again, even if it means they have to load me with so many drugs that I sleep for five days, I will not feel like that again. 

So.  Fingers crossed.

And Rest In Peace, Christine.

Job satisafaction

Where to start today?  Do I just ignore that niggly little butterfly in my stomach and carry on like normal?  Everything is carrying on as normal around me.  Ian is working flat out - no staff on to help this week end (WHY?) and the children are completely oblivious which is obviously a good thing although perhaps I should sit down with them at some point today to warn them that Mummy may not be feeling 100% this week.  Mind you, judging by how "well" Poppy took the news that my hair is going to fall out, maybe not...

Or do I admit that I am a little bit nervous? 

It is hardly a good selling point that they list 101 possible side effects, none of which would be a symptom of choice.  Or that before they even start infusing the chemo drugs they give you half an hour of anti nausea drugs.  Or that they threaten you regularly with making sure you never ignore a temperature of 37.5C or above.  I never take my temperature.  I know when I feel rough through illness.  I do take the children's temperature if I think they feel a bit hot or are not very well and sometimes even when they are grumpy and irritable to see if it could be an explanation!  Apparently it is too late once I start feeling rough - I need to make sure I catch it sooner than that.  Easy.

I think the two members of the family who are going to take it the hardest are Bovril and Bisto.  They are used to being able to cuddle me pretty much when they feel like it and they usually follow me EVERYWHERE!  At times Bisto is like a toddler who will never let you out of his sight.  If I am standing at the kitchen unit he lies on my feet.  I leave the kitchen to go to the loo and before I am even seated he has pushed the door open, sits down and watches, leaving only once I am fully clothed again and walking out.  I honestly thought that now Popps and Alf had grown out of this stage, I may once again be able to do things on my own again.  But, no. 

I think I have touched on the subject of treatment for cancer being like pregnancy before.  If not, here goes: everyone has some knowledge of it or they know someone who has been treated for it, whether it was someone very close to them or their Great Aunt's sister-in-law's dog-sitter's brother-in-law's third wife's sixth ex-husband.  Sadly most people are not so lucky as to have only ever had such a distant contact with this horrifically common disease but you get my drift.  Anyway, back to the point I was making - everyone thinks they have the right to tell you the side effects suffered by themselves or their contact with loads of helpful hints on how to deal with them (some of which are quite frankly ludicrous) but most of which are taken on board and stored away, for example, eat strong mints to take away the revolting taste of the drugs (no, they are not oral but believe me, if the dye for the CT scan was anything to go by the taste enters your mouth instantly!)  And when I was initially struggling with the concept of having poisonous chemicals injected into my bloodstream, a fellow survivor (of 19 years) said she visualised it as Pacman whizzing round her body eating up any rogue cancer cells.  What a star.  I don't think she will ever realise how much that one comment helped me start to deal with my fear. 

The interesting part will be later this week when I have to inject myself every day with immunity boosting drugs which will stimulate my bone marrow to make more white cells.  I am a self confessed needle phobe.  It is very comforting how many people, either with or without any medical expertise, have offered to come and inject me.  Or maybe not!It depends on how kindly the offer was made and how much gleam was in the offerors eyes!  Ian offered but was turned down.  I have seen how the average cow is injected, you give it a good slap on the arse then stab the needle in.  Enough said. 

One cow who deserves a good injection is Daniel.  Typical that my last chance of helping with the stock checking was hampered by an all out search round all the local roads and fields and even along the canal tow path for a bull that had vanished from his field, only for him to reappear half an hour later.  Not a very satisfying job.

Do you know what?  Even if I am nervous, it is essential that I do this because I intend to be here for loads more years.  In fact I celebrate every time Poppy tells me I am annoying her.  I feel I am doing my job properly and spurs me on to fight through this and carry on annoying her for many years to come.

That is job satisfaction.

Impending Doom... or is it?

So, I'll admit it.  The nerves are setting in about Monday.  It is worse than impending childbirth the first time round when everyone has bombarded you with advice and how they got on with it and what happened to them and what they would have done differently, plus there are all the other side effects or things that could happen that you can't help but think about and worry about (just a little bit).  Yet you have no idea how it is going to affect you or how your body is going to react to it so you feel completely out of control of the situation. 
I have therefore decided with Ian that come Monday, a friend of ours who has been through exactly this twice is going to take me for my first chemo session.  The main reason is that she will have a better idea of what is going on, what the routine is and what to expect.  The other reason, although this should probably be the main one, is that I am less likely to shout at her than I am Ian.  I hate to admit it but nerves make me shout.  At Ian. 
In the meantime, I feel like I should be running around like a mad thing preparing frantically for immobility, nausea and impending doom. Either I can't face up to it and am in serious denial that I am going to feel bad or my fore thoughts are correct and life is just going to carry on, with tired days.  Nice idea.  Let's keep the fingers crossed on that one.
I have had my hair cut to less than one inch in length in an attempt to prepare myself for having no hair.  When Ian asked the oncologist if anyone ever kept their hair without the cold cap he shook his head.  Refusing to believe this Ian queried him again - ever the optimist - but was quickly set straight as the doctor pointed out that in 9.9 of 10 cases the patient loses their hair.  The 0.1 is there as the "medical get out clause" caused by randomness.  On a no hair theme - the TV is on as I type and there is yet another advert running for the "no-no hair removal system".  Not sure I'll be wasting any money on that for a while...  But seriously, it's negative advertising calling your product No-no, surely? Why would you buy something that told you not to?  Quite apart from it sounding like a type of torture.  It plucks your hair out!!  How is that less painful than waxing???  As I say, not a problem for me for the rest of this year!  I may miss my eyebrows but that is a small price to pay for not having to shave my legs or anywhere else for that matter.  I can always draw them on if I become that bothered.  My eyebrows, that is.

oopsy daisy

So we have made some headway today - finally a phone call from a chemotherapy nurse making an appointment for me to have my information chat about chemotherapy.  AND not only that, finally, a date to start treatment.  It is beginning to sound, even to me, that I am looking forward to this.  I am not but I feel I need to take the first step in the journey in order to be closer to the end of it. 


One piece of advice I have received from my nurse is that I should count the treatment down in cycles rather than weeks as there are only 6 cycles but they cover at least 18 weeks.  Seems reasonable! 


Other than that, the scar continues to heal, the puffiness is less everyday although I have to admit today it has felt a little swollen and the prosthetic has felt slightly less comfortable than yesterday.  I thought this was simply due to the me starting the massage therapy on the scar last night.  Seemed highly plausible that the scar would feel a bit different having had a good old rubbing yesterday.  The prosthesis (New Boob - NB) felt so heavy earlier that I ended up taking it out for ten minutes to give myself a rest. 


It was only when I came to put it back in that I discovered the reason for my discomfort. 


I had been wearing it upside down.

Clear!!

If you are reading this then you've probably already heard the good news.  Both the CT and bone scan have come back clear - excellent!! This means that there is no sign that the naughty cancer has spread beyond my boob and settled anywhere else in my body.  However, chemo is still needed - to ensure that any rogue cancer cells that may have escaped around my body are sought out and destroyed by the avenging chemo drugs.
I will be having FEC-T chemotherapy treatment.  This will be 3 cycles of FEC, followed by 3 cycles of T.  Sounds quite simple really! 
Each cycle is 3 weeks long, starting with the dose of chemo drugs on day 1.  On about day 15 I have to attend the clinic to check my blood levels etc with a view to repeating the process once we get to day 22 (or day 1 of the next cycle).
The other news?  The decision has been made - no cold cap.  As Ian pointed out to the registrar, ice cream gives me brain freeze - I would never cope with a hat on that went down to -6C.
As I sat discussing all the side effects with the doctor he warned me the chemo would more than likely make me feel "bleurgh".  I felt compelled to ask exactly how many seminars he had attended at university to learn how to describe the effects so accurately.  He cheerfully said "Seven years of medical school and that's as good as it gets"!  It was very refreshing to have such a cheerful and positive approach to the subject by a pleasant and polite person (p-p-p) and it always makes a nice change to be actually asked by someone if they can feel my breast.  Impeccable manners!  And in someone so young.  Seriously, he didn't look quite old enough to be a doctor.  Either he is a baby genius or I am getting old...
Moving swiftly on, as I sit here typing I have looked up and there in the field in front of me is the last of this year's lambs, so small and very sweet. 
I have to crack on with my chemo so that I can watch this for many years to come. Oh OK.  Help with this for many years to come.

!!Beware - radiation!!

I am having a rather radioactive week. 
I am having scans to check nothing untoward is happening anywhere else in my body.  I have today had a body scan and on Thursday I will be having a bone scan.  To ensure that the radiographers can see everything these scans involve various dyes and radioactive isotopes being ingested or injected.  Today's scan involved drinking "orange flavoured" dye at 10 o'clock last night and 6.15 this morning. 
Now, this in itself does not sound too bad.  What you have to bear in mind though is the instructions that come with the dye.
Each drink contains 10ml of the dye.  This has to be diluted in 400mls of water.  Who in their right mind drinks three quarters of a pint just before getting into bed? 
The other slightly worrying instruction is:  We strongly recommend that you add fruit squash to improve the taste.  That's not a good sign. 
So, I have been a good girl.  I had drink 1 at 10pm last night and thankfully made it through the night until the alarm went off at 6.15 this morning when I had drink 2 - another 400ml of squash.  My stomach was screaming out for a nice cuppa but I wasn't allowed any breakfast - thank goodness the scan was so early!!!
Now.  I am not saying the drinks were the most delicious beverage I have ever drunk - in my mind that is the Long Island Iced Tea I drank sitting in a small bar in Manly - but it wasn't that bad.  It may have been if I had unpinched my nose but I'm not that daft.
In addition to the drinks, I had the joy of a pump of drugs attached to me.  Not so bad if you ignore the warm sensation in the groin that honestly make you feel like you have lost control of your body and inadvertently peed whilst suffering a blip in concentration.  I had been warned about this by several people and had even been to the loo just before lying on the scanner bed - this did not stop me clenching hard when the warm sensation started!
So.  One down.  One to go. 
Got to go.  Bisto has just leapt into the paddling pool!

Good news

I am aware that I haven't written for ages - I have had my wonderful Mum staying for a week which has been brilliant and a huge thank you to my brother, his wife and their youngest for bringing her up last Saturday!  I really am grateful for Mum coming up each time I have an appointment - there are just some conversations you cannot have over the phone!  Thank you Dad for coming up to collect her and it was lovely to see you.
I had my results appointment on Tuesday which, to my mind, went well or as well as these things can.  Apparently I have the type of cancer that has a negative response to Herceptin which is good as it means it is slightly less aggressive.  Other tests show that it is very sensitive to Tamoxifen, which is also very good as this is the drug of choice for me to take for five years after the chemotherapy and radiotherapy has finished.  To those in the know, my cancer scored 7 out of 8 in sensitivity to Tamoxifen.  1 short of perfect!!!!!
The other side of all this good news is of course not quite so good, some would say bad but I refuse to be bowed.  The histology showed that of the 22 lymph nodes removed, a mere 21 showed signs of infection.  But hey, they are all goen now.  Disection of the tissue showed that the original 6mm area that had the biopsies taken from was in fact only one of many similar areas of infection spread throughout the breast with a primary area of infection 5cm across.  Scarily, because of my age (38 to clear up any doubt out there) and the denser tissue in a younger breast, it is not unusual that none of these showed up on the mammogram.  Thank goodness they found something in the ultrasound, took the biopsy and aspirated the lymph node when they did.  The consultant said that it could have started up to a year ago.
All girls out there - check yourselves and be aware of ANYTHING that looks/feels unusual and make sure that you know what IS normal for you. 
As the chemotherapy approaches I am now in two minds whether to bother with the cold cap when having my treatment.  This consists of a plastic shower type cap that is full of literally freezing water.  You have to wear it for an hour prior to treatment, during the treatment and then for two hours afterwards.  The idea is that it reduces the take up of the drug by the hair follicles.  It could work, might work or won't work and you don't know until you try it. 
Now, I know I am being pathetic about this - I know the treatments are only once every three weeks so not like I would have to wear it every day but it is not guaranteed to work and I almost feel I need to shed my hair as part of the beating cancer process to celebrate being fit and healthy again with a new crop of hair. 
What do you think?

My Bank Holiday

Having spent two hours at the NHS's pleasure on Saturday afternoon I though I had paid my dues for a while.  No.  By last night the swelling was back, bigger than before, pushing harder on the scar and making it very difficult to get comfortable at all.  The crowning glory of this was that at about half eleven I attempted to roll over in bed and felt an intensely painful ripping sensation in my lower chest below the collection of fluid.  OK.  Ian, we're off to Stoke.  He was unimpressed to say the least and tried to persuade me that I was going to be fine, could we just go in the morning and he made a bet with me that the Breast nurse would phone at 8 in the morning. 
I was not to be convinced and demanded to be taken in.  Apologies to Wina for hauling her out of bed and across the yard so she could babysit - we did get the spare room ready for you and I think if you had known you would be sitting at the kitchen table for three hours you may have taken us up on it!!!
Yes.  Three hours.
Sharing the waiting area with the usual collection of people (Ian was with me but was fast asleep - at least he got some sleep poor boy) but with the exciting addition of a man who had a bandaged hand covered in blood, with a very red face from pepper spray and sporting a very natty pair of metal bracelets!!  Now.  I know nothing of why he was in there - apart from the obvious bloody bandage - but is it no wonder there are never any policemen around when it takes two of them to sit for hours on end in A&E with one suspect.  No.  I am not in any way saying that he shouldn't get treatment and I would be the first to complain if, to save time, he was seen quickly to release the police back out but it does seem a waste of resources.  However this is not to say I can think of an alternative.
Apart from the excruciating wait to be seen - it wasn't even busy in there (well, not from what I could see) I ended up with exactly the same surgeon as I had two days previously, although this time, luckily, he was actually doing the job himself rather than letting someone else use me for target practice. 
He was definitely more confident in his approach to the subject, and more efficient.
Right up until he nicked my chest wall with the needle.
At least he had the good grace to apologise profusely and be very conciliatory. 
This did not stop him once again asking me if I could put my arm above my head.
No.  I couldn't do it two days ago and no, I still can't now.  At least this time he believed me instead of trying to lift it himself.  Maybe he is learning...  I have no intention of going back again to find out.  I am seriously hoping - although not hopeful - that it won't swell up again. Apart from the discomfort, it is boring sitting there for hours.
Even with a good book.  And time with Ian.  Even if he was asleep.  Honestly, anyone would think he suffered from a weird as yet undiscovered illness that causes the sufferer to fall deeply asleep whenever they enter a hospital.  No matter why we are there, waiting in A&E, being monitored, giving birth, he falls asleep in a chair. 
I'm just jealous.
So after only two and a half hour's sleep I am looking forward to a day of doing nothing today.
Apart from thinking of ways to apologise to my husband who, and it hurts to say this, was right. 
The Breast Nurse rang at 7.50 this morning.

I'm a real girl! I'm a real girl!

Meant in the style of Pinnochio.  But there the similarity ends. 
My special appendage is not made of wood, nor does it grow if I tell a lie.  Or at least I don't think so, I haven't put that to the test yet!
For anyone who hasn't quite worked out what I am on about, I have today, for the first time since I got dressed on the day of my operation, put on a bra and am wearing my fake boob, or as it is more commonly known, my "softie". 
This has been brought on by my desire to wear a shirt as opposed to a vest top as it is phenomenally easier to put on so I needed to have some way of looking "normal".  It is surprisingly comfortable, is not pressing on the scar and actually affords a teeny bit of protection from the waving hands, legs and heads of various small people.
So there you have it.  Levelled up.  Sort of...

Advice to the NHS

For the past two decades it is fair to say I have been the proud owner of quite a valley.  Ten days ago, it was transformed into a plateau with a nearby hill.  Over the last couple of days, unauthorised groundworks appear to have been taking place and a new foothill has been developing.  Today, the strain on the ley line has become too great and intervention was required. 
After a swift visit (two hours) to A&E I am once again in possession of a plateau and a hill.
Now, where to start with the advice for the NHS?
Booking in and waiting for triage were, as I expected, run of the mill, apart from being slightly offended by the triage nurse putting the BP cuff on my arm that quite clearly said 'Large Adult'.  I am not arguing that I couldn't do with losing a few pounds, who couldn't?  I am quite naughtily relying on my chemo to do that for me, but large adult?  Thankfully, he was corrected by the fact that it failed completely to pick up any sort of BP from me.  I am therefore surely meant to go to the top of the scale for immediacy of treatment as I am registering death like symptoms?  No.  The right sized cuff thankfully registered a very healthy and calm reading.
Eventually collected by an A&E doctor who was very pleasant and understanding but I am sure I still saw some moisture behind her lobes.  An examination followed that seemed to involve a lot of talking and not much examining, although apart from prodding the fluid filled area, realistically what could she do?  She wrote it all down and then announced she had no idea what to do other than draw the fluid off so was going to consult with the surgical team in case they needed a more hands on part in my treatment.  What??  Have I not had enough surgical intervention in the past fortnight? 
Advice to NHS part 1 - please teach all staff how to help a patient with a painful and non functioning arm to get undressed.  When they ask you to pull a sleeve on the opposite arm that functions perfectly, do what they ask.  Don't think you know better and try and take the cardigan down off both shoulders because THAT HURTS!!!! They are asking you to perform a task that they know will benefit them and cause the least discomfort.
Advice to the NHS part 2 - don't admit in front of the patient that you have no idea how to proceed and then run off leaving you undressed in an unlocked room. 
Advice to the NHS part 3 - when the surgical team arrives is it advisable that they do not appear to be a comedy team where no-one is sure who has what instruments or even if the instruments they do have are relevant to the procedure to be carried out.
Advice to the NHS part 4 - I do not care how senior you are, when a patient says OW, it generally implies they would quite like you to stop doing what you are doing.  In my case prodding my left under arm hard when it has just had incredibly invasive surgery performed on it and you have already been told it is the sorest point on the patient's body.  I did point out to him that I was aware he was not used to feedback from his patients as they are usually unconscious, however this one is wide awake and would he listen to her please?
Advice to the NHS part 5 - whilst the, it now appears junior, surgeon is performing the procedure it is not advisable for the senior surgeon to point out he is using the wrong sized needle.  Thank god he was, apparently he should have been using a wider one.
Advice to NHS part 6 - please teach all medical staff how to put on dressings and for goodness sake don't stand watching and then ask if they have it the right way up!!!!
Advice to the NHS part 7 - Please tell ALL doctors to turn their backs while the physically challenged patient is squirming their way back into their top by stepping into it and pulling it up in a not very dignified manner as their previously sore and non functioning arm is now excruciatingly painful because the surgeon kept prodding it.
I think that covers it. 
Anyway, I had a couple of hours' peace and quiet in which to read a book, I bought a hot chocolate and I got home in time to throw my babies into bed so I considered the outing a success.  Oh, and they relieved the pressure on my scar (ley line).
One last thing.  If your patient is honest enough to admit they have a needle phobia, please do not wave the needle and five syringes full of drawn fluid in her face...

I'm a medical miracle!!!

Or not.  In fact, definitely not.  The sudden regrowth of a boob and the regaining of a cleavage (more akin to a wrinkle) was initially exciting,  but as it just appears to be a collection point for fluid, it is more of a medical cock up and although I hate to admit it, it may be of my own doing.  

Boob III started to appear since I removed the pressure bandage on Wednesday so it has been a gradual gain which may have increased in growth speed since I took some of the steri strips off this morning.  I was just so excited to see the pale pink, impressively thin scar that I may have got a little premature about my recovery.  What?  Do I hear a chorus of "why does that not surprise us?"  I know.  Sitting still, doing nothing is not my style and I am not a natural at asking for help.  'I can do it myself' will be my epitaph! 

Having said that, I am entirely grateful to each and every person who has turned up to visit and for those people who have arrived unannounced bearing edible gifts - I am getting so fat I will definitely have to have a proper reconstruction at a later date if only so they can use my tummy to make it!!!!

So.  Lesson learned.  I will leave the housework to my wonderful cleaner, food seems to magically appear so that's another thing covered and as it seems to take the best part of an hour to have a bath and get dressed I will concentrate on speeding that up before catching up on my film viewing - several complete box sets to work my way through so I should be ok for now.

I do have to admit that I have just hoovered the playroom - with Alfred's help.  He seems to love the new hoover although it does take him a while to do any area as he will insist on only using the hose to hoover a whole room...

Here's hoping that Boob III does not increase dramatically over the bank holiday as I really really really do not want to spend my bank holiday sitting in A&E with the various drunken injuries that these long week ends seem to produce. I will hopefully last till Tuesday when I can look forward to having the liquid syringed out using a big needle (my all time favourite utensil, NOT).

Now, where did I leave that hoover....?