Well, here I am over 5 years on. I'm 56 now. Sometimes I feel like I'm getting on a bit, other days I feel like a teenager. I'm no oil painting and definitely on the curvy side of fat. But I like clothes and I like looking after my skin.
There are many things that have got me through this last 5 years. The most part of them are love and friendship, but also self-determination and a will to enjoy life and to look after myself.
To that end, I'm continuing the process of moving on. I'll still be flagging up issues about cancer that might interest you lovely readers. There have been many advances even in 5 years. We are talking about blood tests to detect cancer, vaccinations that destroy tumors, pills that destroy or at least shrink significantly tumors. I'm still interested and aware of how lucky I am to be here writing this with my two (now) teenagers asleep upstairs.
Something else that really helps and has helped me get through the days is self care. I'm a firm believer that cosmetics and lotions are really magic and can cheer one up no end. They can't hold back the years but they can make aging feel easier and can give you a 'face' to confront the world when you're really not feeling up to it. Choose your clothes carefully, have clean skin, touch of lippie, and you're ready for anything.
I've always looked after my skin, starting at 18 with the Clinique 3-step method and I still do the same. I receive boxes of cosmetics twice a month - Glossybox and Birchbox - and I really look forward to receiving them, as I did when I was ill and down - what a treat to look forward to.
I'm going to be sharing some of my finds with you for fun and for sharing. Please leave comments and share your tricks and treats. We are 50 but we count and we deserve to look good!
Love xx
Monday, 18 February 2019
Finding my element
Thanks to J for the title!
I was a great swimmer when I was young. I swam up to 3 times a day. I was quite successful and swimming brought me a lot in terms of developing my confidence, my personality, my perseverance, some travel with the British team and all over the UK, a little fame (but no fortune - swimming was purely an amateur sport when I was young).
Throughout my adult life, I've come back to swimming time and time again, for sport, for relaxation, for stress relief, for fun, for feeling okay in myself.
I chose the hospital where I gave birth to my children because they had a little pool and pre-birth swimming classes. Floating in the water feeling like a whale was such a wonderful feeling and such a lightness and a high.
In the years just before cancer, I tried to get fit by swimming and I never succeeded because after a few lengths, my shoulders were agonising afterwards with stiff neck and I often had a frozen shoulder. I think this might have been something to do with the cancer developing in my breast - sometimes a sign of bc is frequent frozen shoulders - this I found out from Dr House, and sadly not my dr - he could've saved me time if he had ordered a mammogram when I had frozen shoulders. This inablility to swim was so frustrating because I loved being in the water, I felt good, in my element, at ease, elegant and powerful.
After being operated on, I found it impossible to put on my swimming costume and go to the pool - I was so ashamed of my lop-sided, strangely-breasted, muffin top body. I went to the beach and put in my jelly breast to make me look what I thought of as 'normal'. But when my kids wanted me to swim in the sea I couldn't because I had my false breast in. Their faces were disappointed but understanding.
This reluctance to show my body in a swimsuit continued for several years. I refused to go swimming with my children (even though they were great swimmers and loved being in the water - like me, especially on holiday - like me before). I never told them why, I just said no. I refused invitations to go to the pool, to join in keep fit classes in the pool, to go in friends' pools. It was all 'no'. Much to my enormous regret and frustration. I just couldn't get past this. I didn't want anyone ot see my horrible strange chest and look at me, stare, make fun of me, talk about me, point at me.
No use telling me that people had other things to worry about than my chest and that everyone had their own hang ups. The potential for embarrassment was too great to take the chance, partly fuelled because the guards at my local pool knew I'd been ill and I curiosity to look is great when you know someone's lost their breast. I didn't want the stares.
I tried once, going to a pool where I wasn't known and walking onto the poolside (the worst bit) with a towel wrapped round my top. I was stopped just after the footbaths and told I wasn't allowed to enter the pool with a towel. I begged to be allowed, exaplained my case - first time after the op and all - but no pity was given and I was told to go back to the changing rooms and come on the poolside without the towel. It was harsh but I did it and felt hugely uncomfortable. I virtually shuffled over double to the changing rooms with my arms crossed over my chest.
But you know, time passes and things change. We were due to take a holiday in the mountains in the summer a couple of years ago and I was really looking forward to it. It was a beautiful resort and the lovely modern residence has a swimming pool. Here's the building in winter
Les Fermes de Chatel, Haute Savoie
and here is the swimming pool
and the view in winter
and here's one part of the local public swimming pool complex - that view - it's real!
So, I gave myself a talking to and figured that nobody would know me on holiday, I would never see those people again, never. So what if I looked weird? I just had to get from towel to pool and you'd have to be really staring at me if you wanted to see the weirdness in all its glory. In fact, most people would look at me because I was overweight and not lopsided. So, I decided that I would enjoy the pools and I would swim when I wanted to. And I did! and I had a great time. First time was difficult, but after that I started not to care. How can you not love swimming in this pool with such a beautiful view?
I think this new attitude also came with the fact that I'd restarted meditating. More of that in another post........
So I re-found my element - water! I've signed up for aquagym for two years now and I swim when I want. It's a wonderful feeling. I'm so grateful to have it back.
I was a great swimmer when I was young. I swam up to 3 times a day. I was quite successful and swimming brought me a lot in terms of developing my confidence, my personality, my perseverance, some travel with the British team and all over the UK, a little fame (but no fortune - swimming was purely an amateur sport when I was young).
Throughout my adult life, I've come back to swimming time and time again, for sport, for relaxation, for stress relief, for fun, for feeling okay in myself.
I chose the hospital where I gave birth to my children because they had a little pool and pre-birth swimming classes. Floating in the water feeling like a whale was such a wonderful feeling and such a lightness and a high.
In the years just before cancer, I tried to get fit by swimming and I never succeeded because after a few lengths, my shoulders were agonising afterwards with stiff neck and I often had a frozen shoulder. I think this might have been something to do with the cancer developing in my breast - sometimes a sign of bc is frequent frozen shoulders - this I found out from Dr House, and sadly not my dr - he could've saved me time if he had ordered a mammogram when I had frozen shoulders. This inablility to swim was so frustrating because I loved being in the water, I felt good, in my element, at ease, elegant and powerful.
After being operated on, I found it impossible to put on my swimming costume and go to the pool - I was so ashamed of my lop-sided, strangely-breasted, muffin top body. I went to the beach and put in my jelly breast to make me look what I thought of as 'normal'. But when my kids wanted me to swim in the sea I couldn't because I had my false breast in. Their faces were disappointed but understanding.
This reluctance to show my body in a swimsuit continued for several years. I refused to go swimming with my children (even though they were great swimmers and loved being in the water - like me, especially on holiday - like me before). I never told them why, I just said no. I refused invitations to go to the pool, to join in keep fit classes in the pool, to go in friends' pools. It was all 'no'. Much to my enormous regret and frustration. I just couldn't get past this. I didn't want anyone ot see my horrible strange chest and look at me, stare, make fun of me, talk about me, point at me.
No use telling me that people had other things to worry about than my chest and that everyone had their own hang ups. The potential for embarrassment was too great to take the chance, partly fuelled because the guards at my local pool knew I'd been ill and I curiosity to look is great when you know someone's lost their breast. I didn't want the stares.
I tried once, going to a pool where I wasn't known and walking onto the poolside (the worst bit) with a towel wrapped round my top. I was stopped just after the footbaths and told I wasn't allowed to enter the pool with a towel. I begged to be allowed, exaplained my case - first time after the op and all - but no pity was given and I was told to go back to the changing rooms and come on the poolside without the towel. It was harsh but I did it and felt hugely uncomfortable. I virtually shuffled over double to the changing rooms with my arms crossed over my chest.
But you know, time passes and things change. We were due to take a holiday in the mountains in the summer a couple of years ago and I was really looking forward to it. It was a beautiful resort and the lovely modern residence has a swimming pool. Here's the building in winter
Les Fermes de Chatel, Haute Savoie
and here is the swimming pool
and the view in winter
and here's one part of the local public swimming pool complex - that view - it's real!
So, I gave myself a talking to and figured that nobody would know me on holiday, I would never see those people again, never. So what if I looked weird? I just had to get from towel to pool and you'd have to be really staring at me if you wanted to see the weirdness in all its glory. In fact, most people would look at me because I was overweight and not lopsided. So, I decided that I would enjoy the pools and I would swim when I wanted to. And I did! and I had a great time. First time was difficult, but after that I started not to care. How can you not love swimming in this pool with such a beautiful view?
I think this new attitude also came with the fact that I'd restarted meditating. More of that in another post........
So I re-found my element - water! I've signed up for aquagym for two years now and I swim when I want. It's a wonderful feeling. I'm so grateful to have it back.
Monday, 30 April 2018
The sweetest video ever
http://www.bbc.com/news/av/uk-england-suffolk-43910706/bra-tattoo-changed-woman-s-life-after-breast-cancer
I came across this video by accident. It's a woman who had a mastectomy after a breast cancer diagnosis and subsequently had a 'bra' tattoo over her reconstruction.
The emotion is high. She is so very grateful and sweet and I was very touched by her supportive husband.
Heartwarming
I came across this video by accident. It's a woman who had a mastectomy after a breast cancer diagnosis and subsequently had a 'bra' tattoo over her reconstruction.
The emotion is high. She is so very grateful and sweet and I was very touched by her supportive husband.
Heartwarming
Thursday, 22 March 2018
Am I a survivor?
Am I survivor?
survivor
səˈvʌɪvə/
noun
noun: survivor; plural noun: survivors
A person who survives, especially a person remaining alive after an event in which others have died.
- the remainder of a group of people or things.
"a survivor from last year's team" - a person who copes well with difficulties in their life.
"she is a born survivor"
I received a mail from the Support Services of an excellent association of anglophones in Paris, asking me if I'd be happy to be put in contact with 'a breast cancer survivor'. Of course, I was more than willing to be put in contact with someone who was looking for support in an area that I'd had experience.
But I was shocked by the use of the word 'survivor' and I'm not sure why I had that reaction; it made me reflect on what the term meant to me and to others and whether it was appropriate and meaningful for my experience with breast cancer. In fact, the person who was seeking support used that very term about herself.
So I did some research.
Even finding an image for this post was revealing - type in 'survivor, image' into Google and you mostly get images of the TV show 'Survivor' with women in bikinis or mud baths, hunky guys with developed chests and determined expression on desert islands. The image I settled on is one for suicide survivors in Canada.There's a very passionate discussion on the scn.cancer.org started by someone who considers she had 'an easy ride' and was uncomfortable with the term survivor. I really identified with her. However, many responders were slightly miffed by her use of the term 'easy ride' and considered themselves as survivors in the real sense that they were people who remained alive after an event in which others had died. Many of them had gone through truly onerous, heavy and extensive treatments, relapses, several surgeries, chemo, and to be honest, I think they had every reason to consider themselves survivors.But for me and my case, I still don't feel it's an appropriate term. Maybe I feel like I've had 'an easy ride' and in some ways, compared to others, I genuinely feel that I have, but I think that my main beef with the term 'survivor' implies that the situation that one has survived has finished.And let me tell you, it's NEVER finished! I'm coming to the end of my Tamoxifen days - in January my hormone-therapy (Tamoxifen) will be finished as I will have been taking it for 5 years. But the main thing that's never finished for me is that I cannot consider myself as 'done' with cancer. At a risk of sounding like a downer (which is not my intention and doesn't reflect my state of mind at all), the worry about cancer coming back is always somewhere in the back of my mind. There is always the possibility, unfortunately. There are also the constant reminders - scars, changed body shape, side effects of the medication, pain in the scars, stabbling pains from the radiation go on for years (mine have anyway), fat necrosis in my right breast has left a large-ish palpable lump - which has gone down a little over the 4 years but causes anxiety for mammograms and ultrasounds. I'll be in considerable pain if I forget and carry something heavy with my left arm, I am weakened and cannot do as much as before with my body. And of course, there is the psychological effects and the memories of what I went through and what my friends and family also went through - they could also be classified as cancer survivors, I think, as their experience was not negligible.I think classifying myself as a 'survivor' is also presumptous - it will be an excellent feeling to get to the 5-year survival, which is a real milestone after this illness and I'll be considered as 'in remission' afterwards, but maybe I consider it's a superstition or tempting fate to call myself a survivor but in the same way, I am thankfully not living 'with cancer' but maybe I am 'post cancer', but I'm not convinced that's an appropriate term either. Me, I consider myself maybe in the 3rd definition of the term - 'someone who copes well with difficulties in her life'. I think I do and I'm proud of that.Some of the alternative terms are fighters, winners, troopers, heroes, pink sisters, kindred spirits, breast cancer patient, muscle girl, iron woman but one post did resonate - "isn't the term survivor better than the alternative of 'cancer victim'. Well, now you mention it, yes! So maybe I am a survivor?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTYLf6uWZ6M
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mTERZZoEu9k
Friday, 9 March 2018
Live and let live
January came around so quickly and with a host of strange weather - floods, storms,snow, ice, much much rain, together with a series of problems for us - repairs on a roof after tiles fell and leaks, car broke down twice in a week, central heating broke twice - all in one month. I'm not superstitious I think, but I must be, a bit, as I hesitated with this roll-call of bad stuff happening, to make an appointment for a mammo, not wanting that to be part of the general disastrous-ness of January.
Then in a fit of efficiency and not wanting to put things off any longer, I made an appointment at the dentist and for a mammo. Getting the dentist took much longer than getting a mammo appointment and it was all scheduled rather quickly.
I worked on the day, to keep my mind occupied and pitched up a bit early. The receptionists are really very efficient and business-like and I was called pretty much at the time of my appointment. This is still such a change from the previous cabinet that I suffered for so, too, long. Every time I go, I wonder why I didn't change earlier. Anyway, mammo lady was lovely, didn't want to hurt me (although it did, just a bit) and the clichés were taken very quickly. The tricky bit is the time in between the mammo and ultrasound for me. It involves waiting in a nice comfortable cubicle with piped music but over that I was just listening to the nurses whispering between themselves. We always think that it's about us and that they are whispering because they have bad news to tell. At least that 's how I feel and it's agony and dreadful to wait, every time, because the truth is out there, to be read by someone who knows how to interpret these things and you have yet to discover it.
Anyway, after what seemed like an age, I was called by the ultrasound operator who very quickly got me lying down and straight to the heart of the matter. She asked me the usual questions and told me quite quickly that she didn't see anything that caused her concern. Ouf! She was very pleasant and I mentioned that she must see so many people in such vulnerable circumstances. She said 'yes we are all vulnerable'.
Drying the slithery cold gel off my 'breasts', I crept into the cubicle to sit down and take a big breath. Checking out, my results were ready in a few minutes (really, the efficiency is great), got all my papers and envelopes back and walked without paying one single centime. Again, praising the fabulous French system that allows me to undertake these expensive exams and not worrying about the cost.
I got a sandwich and a coffee and chilled in the posh patissiere next day and made my way home. That's when my knees and legs starting shaking and I wanted to cry. I was so relieved and the reaction was delayed but I was so relieved. Another year to live, another year before I have to do it again, hopefully. I am so grateful.
L and I shared a bottle of champage that evening.
Then in a fit of efficiency and not wanting to put things off any longer, I made an appointment at the dentist and for a mammo. Getting the dentist took much longer than getting a mammo appointment and it was all scheduled rather quickly.
I worked on the day, to keep my mind occupied and pitched up a bit early. The receptionists are really very efficient and business-like and I was called pretty much at the time of my appointment. This is still such a change from the previous cabinet that I suffered for so, too, long. Every time I go, I wonder why I didn't change earlier. Anyway, mammo lady was lovely, didn't want to hurt me (although it did, just a bit) and the clichés were taken very quickly. The tricky bit is the time in between the mammo and ultrasound for me. It involves waiting in a nice comfortable cubicle with piped music but over that I was just listening to the nurses whispering between themselves. We always think that it's about us and that they are whispering because they have bad news to tell. At least that 's how I feel and it's agony and dreadful to wait, every time, because the truth is out there, to be read by someone who knows how to interpret these things and you have yet to discover it.
Anyway, after what seemed like an age, I was called by the ultrasound operator who very quickly got me lying down and straight to the heart of the matter. She asked me the usual questions and told me quite quickly that she didn't see anything that caused her concern. Ouf! She was very pleasant and I mentioned that she must see so many people in such vulnerable circumstances. She said 'yes we are all vulnerable'.
Drying the slithery cold gel off my 'breasts', I crept into the cubicle to sit down and take a big breath. Checking out, my results were ready in a few minutes (really, the efficiency is great), got all my papers and envelopes back and walked without paying one single centime. Again, praising the fabulous French system that allows me to undertake these expensive exams and not worrying about the cost.
I got a sandwich and a coffee and chilled in the posh patissiere next day and made my way home. That's when my knees and legs starting shaking and I wanted to cry. I was so relieved and the reaction was delayed but I was so relieved. Another year to live, another year before I have to do it again, hopefully. I am so grateful.
L and I shared a bottle of champage that evening.
Tuesday, 29 August 2017
4 years on
This time 4 years ago was one of the most scary, sad and terrible times of my life. I still can't look forward to my Birthday on 26th September, as that was the day after I lost my breasts and this whole thing really kicked off - reality struck that day.
If you're going through cancer right now, I'm so sorry that you're in this position. If you want to know how it might pan out over time, well.....
HOWEVER, that time has passed, I have moved on in many ways. There are positives and negatives:-
Positive
I am much more assertive and will suffer fools less gladly.
I seize the day and find joy in many more things than before - small or large. I know, cliché, but real.
I have found out who my friends really are, and have been surprised at the number of real, caring people that I have in my life.
I am doing something that I love whereas I was doing something I didn't like before.
I hug my children even more
I am more understanding, compassionate and caring (in my opinion!)
I have come into contact with great new people through the illness.
I have just started to believe that I am nevertheless lucky for what I have (this has taken time).
I am less hung up about going in a swimming pool since these summer holidays and I have re-found the joy I have for swimming (I didn't swim for over a year because I was ashamed of showing my chest area) I hope that I'll be able to continue this now I'm not on holiday any longer (harder).
I know people now who don't know that I have had cancer.
I'm not a 'survivor' but I'm also not a victim.
Negatives
I feel life's precariousness every more keenly, I have had a layer of insouciance stripped from me forever and it is scary and sometimes my emotional skin feels paper thin.
I still feel the disappointment at the lack of emotional support given to me by my husband and some members of my family.
I don't like sex any more (my breasts have gone, they were important)
My body is still misshapen and ugly. I lost a lot of weight; thought that would help, but it didn't, so I put it all back on and realised that I still felt the same about my body whether I was fat or less fat. It's just out of proportion without breasts, but maybe, recently, I give less of a shit about it (this should be in positives)
I still haven't found the guts to re-explore a reconstruction operation and this hangs over me.
Like everyone, I fear my yearly mammographs and have put it off this year.
I have remember to go to the chemists to get my Tamoxifen every month and taking that pill every day reminds me.
I am very scared that it will come back.
The memories of this time 4 years ago are clear but it is part of my past now. It could become part of my present again, but I have packaged that period into 'the past'. Although the threat is always present, I have learnt to live with it to an extent that it doesn't handicap me mentally. And sometimes, I forget!
If you're going through cancer right now, I'm so sorry that you're in this position. If you want to know how it might pan out over time, well.....
HOWEVER, that time has passed, I have moved on in many ways. There are positives and negatives:-
Positive
I am much more assertive and will suffer fools less gladly.
I seize the day and find joy in many more things than before - small or large. I know, cliché, but real.
I have found out who my friends really are, and have been surprised at the number of real, caring people that I have in my life.
I am doing something that I love whereas I was doing something I didn't like before.
I hug my children even more
I am more understanding, compassionate and caring (in my opinion!)
I have come into contact with great new people through the illness.
I have just started to believe that I am nevertheless lucky for what I have (this has taken time).
I am less hung up about going in a swimming pool since these summer holidays and I have re-found the joy I have for swimming (I didn't swim for over a year because I was ashamed of showing my chest area) I hope that I'll be able to continue this now I'm not on holiday any longer (harder).
I know people now who don't know that I have had cancer.
I'm not a 'survivor' but I'm also not a victim.
Negatives
I feel life's precariousness every more keenly, I have had a layer of insouciance stripped from me forever and it is scary and sometimes my emotional skin feels paper thin.
I still feel the disappointment at the lack of emotional support given to me by my husband and some members of my family.
I don't like sex any more (my breasts have gone, they were important)
My body is still misshapen and ugly. I lost a lot of weight; thought that would help, but it didn't, so I put it all back on and realised that I still felt the same about my body whether I was fat or less fat. It's just out of proportion without breasts, but maybe, recently, I give less of a shit about it (this should be in positives)
I still haven't found the guts to re-explore a reconstruction operation and this hangs over me.
Like everyone, I fear my yearly mammographs and have put it off this year.
I have remember to go to the chemists to get my Tamoxifen every month and taking that pill every day reminds me.
I am very scared that it will come back.
The memories of this time 4 years ago are clear but it is part of my past now. It could become part of my present again, but I have packaged that period into 'the past'. Although the threat is always present, I have learnt to live with it to an extent that it doesn't handicap me mentally. And sometimes, I forget!
Tuesday, 31 January 2017
A good day
After a sleepless night I made my way to the posh radiology centre in Paris. I was shown straight through and a smiling (!!) receptionist got me to fill in various forms because we wouldn't be in France if we didn't do a bit of paperwork, would we?
I have to admit that I had forgotten to get the prescription filled for the fluid that's injected into your arm during the MRI. They had efficiently sent it to me and I did have time to do it, but I 'forgot' (mabye I just didn't want to acknowledge that the test was coming up). I told them I hadn't had time and the receptionist was lovely saying that some pharmacies are out of stock too, so they had stocked up themselves. I could use their supply and fill the prescription after the test and let them have the prescription fluid back. Very cool!
I seem to remember having an MRI and a receptionist tutting and moaning because I didn't have the fluid, which I didn't even know about beforehand. Today was different.
One of the radiologists came straight along and collected me with a smile (this so makes a difference) and put me in a little room with the gown, the strange dinner-lady hat and little blue slippers. She came back and injected me with the catheter which didn't hurt much, considering how tense I was. She was just so nice and showed that she was familiar with my case, saying, okay, we'll inject you on the right not the left and we'll use a small needle this time as your veins are so bad.
Then into the machine and another person also puts me into position. I must admit the tunnel was a bit tighter than I'd been used to. I don't think I'd put on that much weight! I had my ball to press to stop the world if I wanted to get off in one hand and a large pair of headphones playing jazz were put on my ears. I think this is the first time I remember listening to music during an MRI. I used my friend's trick and tried to count backwards from 500. I didn't even get to 400 and it was over. Lots of unpleasant noise and a cold trickling feeling when the liquid was injected, but I'm used to that and it was ok. I kept my eyes firmly closed during the exam as I didn't want to realise how hemmed into a little tunnel I was. I think if I'd have opened them, I would have freaked out and got all claustrophobic. Some things are better left unseen.
It was finally over and I was helped out. My needle entry point had bled a lot and the machine was quite bloody, as was my arm, but honestly I didn't feel it.
Then the wait..........if you remember, dear reader (and you are a dear reader bothering to read this), I needed to do a biopsy if the breast (s) was classified as ACR3. The glamourous head radiologist - you can tell the one in charge, they don't wear white coats, and this one was wearing Chanel, called me into her office. We sat down and she showed me the results on the screen. She told me she'd betted her colleagues that I had been operated on the right hand side too. I explained that they'd done a drastic reduction at the same time as the left and under the nipple is a large bruise, which feels like a ball. She said 'ha, voila! I knew it!' She showed me the ball and the scar tissue on that side.
And then she announced the good news I had not even imagined I'd get: she was classifying both breasts as ACR2 because she could not see any reason to do a biopsy, nothing suspicious, only scar tissue. I had NOT expected this. I had not expected to be able to walk out without the biopsy and the waiting afterwards for the results. I really had not expected this. I was thrilled and once I was outside I burst into tears and my legs went all wobbly.
I really feel like I can start to move on now. Enough with this tense, uncertain time. My next test is July for my annual mammo. I have been strung up tight for months and months. I hadn't realised how bad I was, but started to when I didn't want to leave the house except for work and when I realised that I had been stuffing my face with crisps and cake, to ease the pain. And crying at the drop of a hat.
I can move on now! Do you hear that, world? I'm going to dare to bring up reconstruction again at the next appointment, but for the moment, I want to move on with less stress and sadness in my life.
Tis a terrible thing, this cancer thing. You think you're out of the woods, but then you're not and if anything goes wrong again, the stakes are very very high - higher than they were in the first place really.
I'm gonna have a rest from thinking about this now. Dear husband has been feeling my pain, but not helped me because I don't think he knows how to and he's so caught up in his own work mess. But I could hear the relief when I told him. He's brought a bottle to celebrate tonight, which is kind.
And my few friends that I've shared this new challenge with, thank you to you for listening and being there and sending me texts and emails and Watsapps. Your continued kindness and thoughtfulness is very much appreciated. And by the way, if any medical professional is reading this - see how far a smile and a bit of kindness and calm can do to help your patient. It worked a treat today.
Here's a picture of the cake and coffee that I treated myself to after the exam (a mandarine éclair - just yummy) and here's the result I hadn't even imagined was possible today.
I have to admit that I had forgotten to get the prescription filled for the fluid that's injected into your arm during the MRI. They had efficiently sent it to me and I did have time to do it, but I 'forgot' (mabye I just didn't want to acknowledge that the test was coming up). I told them I hadn't had time and the receptionist was lovely saying that some pharmacies are out of stock too, so they had stocked up themselves. I could use their supply and fill the prescription after the test and let them have the prescription fluid back. Very cool!
I seem to remember having an MRI and a receptionist tutting and moaning because I didn't have the fluid, which I didn't even know about beforehand. Today was different.
One of the radiologists came straight along and collected me with a smile (this so makes a difference) and put me in a little room with the gown, the strange dinner-lady hat and little blue slippers. She came back and injected me with the catheter which didn't hurt much, considering how tense I was. She was just so nice and showed that she was familiar with my case, saying, okay, we'll inject you on the right not the left and we'll use a small needle this time as your veins are so bad.
Then into the machine and another person also puts me into position. I must admit the tunnel was a bit tighter than I'd been used to. I don't think I'd put on that much weight! I had my ball to press to stop the world if I wanted to get off in one hand and a large pair of headphones playing jazz were put on my ears. I think this is the first time I remember listening to music during an MRI. I used my friend's trick and tried to count backwards from 500. I didn't even get to 400 and it was over. Lots of unpleasant noise and a cold trickling feeling when the liquid was injected, but I'm used to that and it was ok. I kept my eyes firmly closed during the exam as I didn't want to realise how hemmed into a little tunnel I was. I think if I'd have opened them, I would have freaked out and got all claustrophobic. Some things are better left unseen.
It was finally over and I was helped out. My needle entry point had bled a lot and the machine was quite bloody, as was my arm, but honestly I didn't feel it.
Then the wait..........if you remember, dear reader (and you are a dear reader bothering to read this), I needed to do a biopsy if the breast (s) was classified as ACR3. The glamourous head radiologist - you can tell the one in charge, they don't wear white coats, and this one was wearing Chanel, called me into her office. We sat down and she showed me the results on the screen. She told me she'd betted her colleagues that I had been operated on the right hand side too. I explained that they'd done a drastic reduction at the same time as the left and under the nipple is a large bruise, which feels like a ball. She said 'ha, voila! I knew it!' She showed me the ball and the scar tissue on that side.
And then she announced the good news I had not even imagined I'd get: she was classifying both breasts as ACR2 because she could not see any reason to do a biopsy, nothing suspicious, only scar tissue. I had NOT expected this. I had not expected to be able to walk out without the biopsy and the waiting afterwards for the results. I really had not expected this. I was thrilled and once I was outside I burst into tears and my legs went all wobbly.
I really feel like I can start to move on now. Enough with this tense, uncertain time. My next test is July for my annual mammo. I have been strung up tight for months and months. I hadn't realised how bad I was, but started to when I didn't want to leave the house except for work and when I realised that I had been stuffing my face with crisps and cake, to ease the pain. And crying at the drop of a hat.
I can move on now! Do you hear that, world? I'm going to dare to bring up reconstruction again at the next appointment, but for the moment, I want to move on with less stress and sadness in my life.
Tis a terrible thing, this cancer thing. You think you're out of the woods, but then you're not and if anything goes wrong again, the stakes are very very high - higher than they were in the first place really.
I'm gonna have a rest from thinking about this now. Dear husband has been feeling my pain, but not helped me because I don't think he knows how to and he's so caught up in his own work mess. But I could hear the relief when I told him. He's brought a bottle to celebrate tonight, which is kind.
And my few friends that I've shared this new challenge with, thank you to you for listening and being there and sending me texts and emails and Watsapps. Your continued kindness and thoughtfulness is very much appreciated. And by the way, if any medical professional is reading this - see how far a smile and a bit of kindness and calm can do to help your patient. It worked a treat today.
Here's a picture of the cake and coffee that I treated myself to after the exam (a mandarine éclair - just yummy) and here's the result I hadn't even imagined was possible today.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)