It's been a while.....

Some violas in pots in my garden. I love their diminutive faces

I have been a bit mute lately, tiredness is to blame. The infection last week floored me and I took to my bed. If sleeping were an Olympic sport, I think I stand a reasonable chance of winning a time trial. Come Sunday we were supposed to be in celebratory mood, it was my iGit's birthday. Unfortunately I wasn't up to doing much more than directing everyone else how to make Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pud, followed by an Apple crumble. Cooking by committee may catch on, I even ate a little. I hadn't made a birthday cake, so No1Son kindly brought one home, only to discover that LittleBird had to be kept at a safe distance from it; it's carton carried the ubiquitous nut allergy disclaimer.

On Friday despite feeling pretty grotty still, the swelling had subsided significantly, and I was given the go ahead to start Radiotherapy treatment in Southampton. On Tuesday I duly waited as I had been instructed for a hospital car to arrive, I waited and waited. My appointment was at 2.30, and it was well past 2pm by the time a car arrived, after a few phone calls to the hospital. They told me a car had been dispatched some time ago. To where I wondered, were the hoards in Outer Mongolia now being approached by a man in a Mondeo? The receptionist at the Oncology centre told me, they were a law unto themselves, and there had been some speculation that they in fact resided in an alternative time dimension. I nodded my agreement, just concerned that I would be seriously late, and that this would somehow effect my treatment. I was reassured that they were used to the flexible attitude towards time of the hospital cars, and that I would be treated regardless of what time I got there. The best way to deal with this was to forget the time, and just be ready each day at the appointed time. They would arrive; eventually.

So I am now 4 days into my treatment, and killing time waiting for a car to collect me; any time after 12 0'clock, so far its been 2.15 , 12.55 and 13.30. Sometimes there are other patients in the car, and we do a detour around parts of Hampshire I haven't visited before, it's not unlike a magical mystery tour, getting in a strange vehicle with various persons unknown, the only thing I can be sure of is my destination, how we get there, and who I get there with is kismet!

The system of checking in for appointments is very clever, we are issued with a barcode specific to us as a patient, I worried I might loose mine, I am prone to loosing bits of paper. It had occurred to me that they could have tattooed me with it when they tattooed my dots, and then all I would need to do is scan my belly. There wouldnt be any risk of loosing that, and believe me, I have tried!

Each day the radiographers ask how you are, they have some very strict do's and dont's about skin care, especially in the area you are being treated. No soap except Simple Soap. No Deodorants or Antiperspirants . No Perfume, no make up, no baths, no bras, you get the picture. Cool showers are allowed, but you are not allowed to scratch or drag the skin, and must try and pat yourself completely dry after. They are also keen that you cover the area being treated in Aqueous cream once or twice a each day. They give these instructions to try and ameliorate the long list of side effects Radiotherapy has. It ranges from skin irritation and burns to Lymphodema, and several unpleasant things in between.

Each day they ask you how you feel , any swelling, any soreness. Yesterday I had to answer, 'Yes'. When I had been drying myself after a shower that morning, I had noticed that my right breast was considerably larger than usual. I showed my iGit, he just smiled that inane smile men do when presented with a naked body, and agreed, yes it was larger. I mentioned this to the radiographers, and that the area was again tender and sore. Initially they said, not to worry about it, and settled me into the position I need to be in on the couch for the treatment. They zapped me as per usual, but when they returned told me they had called an Oncology Registrar, they thought I should be given the once over. I toddled off to find said Dr. and was examined again. The verdict? More antibiotics; deep joy, I have only just finished a course on Wednesday, and they aren't exactly gentle on the stomach.

So by the end of today, I will have completed 4 treatments, and have 21 more to go. Good news is, they agreed to let me have my 50th birthday off, lets hope the weather is as good and I can go for a nice walk somewhere beautiful! Yay!

Things that go 'Lump' in the night

I had a good old moan yesterday didn't I? Well here is an update; last night I ended up at the District Hospital with a lump the size of a Grapefruit underneath the scar where they had removed my lymph nodes. Combined a temperature of 102ºF despite taking Paracetamol to reduce it, and a fair bit of pain I really felt sorry for myself, and thought I had better speak to a Doctor. I gave the out of hours service a call, they wanted to see me, and confirmed my suspicions about the swelling that had been bothering me the past 4 weeks was what now making me feel like I had the Flu, and causing the swelling. He said he thought it was either an infected haematoma or an abscess, and I may need to spend a day or two back in hospital. He gave me some high dose antibiotics straight away and a prescription for more, and urged me to see my own Doctor first thing in the morning as I needed an urgent referral back to the Breast Surgeon.

I saw my own GP who faxed the required referral to the Hospital and suggested that I phone the Breast Care Nurses and 'make a nuisance of myself' so that I was seen today. I did as instructed, and was called back quite promptly telling me to get myself there as quickly as I could: a Registrar would see me when I got there. Thankfully the threat of admission was dispelled, and the Registrar using what looked like a syringe you might use on a horse, had a couple of attempts at draining the swelling. They said it is called a Seratoma, but I can't find a reference to this on the Internet. She said this would be sent off for analysis. She dressed the area, and I have to go back on Friday and Monday. They will review how well it is clearing up before they postpone my Radiotherapy treatment. The hope is that I will be well enough to start this on Tuesday next week as planned.

Thanks for the helpful and thoughtful comments yesterday, I think finding a project that requires research will be my best bet at the moment, being a bit of a one armed bandit!

Not so Angelic ...

Could this be me sulking? You bet!

It's been a week since I last blogged, and I think its fair to say a few chickens have been coming home to roost. It's been difficult to maintain a positive attitude, as the pain under my arm persists and boredom sets in because of the enforced rest. Too much time and not enough to do, and I am not quite sure how to remedy it. It is a pretty destructive combination. I will admit to being weepy and feeling very low, I am not quite sure why, I suspect its just part the natural process in part as reality sinks in, and the rest maybe the Tamoxifen as it alters my hormone levels to prevent cancer cells reproducing. I saw the BCN again last Friday to check the swelling, she says in effect I need to be more realistic with myself, and that it's only 3 weeks since the surgery and I need at least 6 weeks to be anywhere near healing fully from the surgery. Ho Hum.

I was distracted soon enough though. When we got back home from the Hospital, I received a very confused call from Little Bird, she had bought a Ready-Meal from the Co-op; Chicken Tikka Masala, and was feeling unwell. My first thought was maybe food poisoning, but as she described her symptoms it became apparent it was an allergic reaction of some kind. She felt nauseous, her lips were swollen, and she said her asthma was getting worse. I told her to take an antihistamine, but she didn't have any. I then suggested she walk the short distance in to town and ask to speak to a Pharmacist in Boots, not realising just how ill and how quickly she was going to be. Thankfully the Pharmacist recognised her symptoms straight away; and called for an Ambulance. By the time she reached Boots she was struggling to breathe, the swelling on her face was very pronounced, and she was covered in a rash, that resembled large raised welts. By the time she got to hospital she was loosing consciousness, and was administered adrenalin, antihistamines and steroids. She had gone into Anaphylactic Shock. She was stabilised and came home a few hours later, I felt awful, I wasn't there for her, and initially she was all on her own. Her brother who is at the same Uni went to be with her as soon as he was able, and brought her back to her new home in a taxi, neither of them drive and it's a long walk home, especially after such a medical emergency. It wasn't until Monday that Little Bird realised what a close call she had had. Some of the drugs the hospital had sent her home with were making her feel really unwell and as if she was 'speeding'. She needed to see a GP anyway to arrange the skin tests the hospital had told her to get organised to determine exactly what she was severely allergic too; peanuts and cashews are the rogues suspected. Her part time job in Covent Garden had been giving her a pretty hard time about not working on Sunday too, she was effectively bullied into going in. She worked until lunchtime and then asked to go home, as she felt so rough. They continued to pressurise her to stay, completely dismissing what a serious thing had happened to her only 36 hours earlier. She told the GP about this and asked if it was possible to have a sick note for work so they had an official explanation of why she was ill. He was horrified and wrote a terrific letter for her, stating she had suffered a life threatening allergic reaction, and had been seriously ill, and that the drugs she was currently on are entirely likely to make her unfit for work. He has also prescribed her with an Epipen which she must carry with her at all times. He told her that next time this happens, its likely to be much more severe reaction, and she will need to stab the pen into her leg (it administers adrenalin) and get herself to a Casualty department pronto. She came home last night, poor lamb is worn out, and is sleeping it all off.

Yesterday I went to Southampton Hospital for my Radiotherapy Planning session. It has to be one of the strangest experiences I have been through. I undressed, and laid on a metal couch with a device that looked like a sleeping policeman halfway down to stop me sliding off the end when it was inclined. I had my right arm in a very awkward position jutting out from my side above my head. This was very uncomfortable, and my arm went into spasm shaking uncontrollably. One of the radiographers massaged it to calm it down, the swelling under my arm is much more pronounced today, and I think I may have to endure a fair bit of discomfort over the next 5 weeks. I laid there for some 25 minutes, various people measured my body and made marks in black ink all over my chest! Once they were happy that they had the machines and me all lined up and marked properly, they made some of the marks permenant, and did some tiny tattoos, pin-pricks that look like tiny black freckles. Only one is really visible, sat at the top of my breast in the cleavage, so will be visible with some tops, the other marks are around the sides and I can't imagine anyone will ever notice them. I start the Radiotherapy on Tuesday next week, each session takes about 12 minutes under the machine in my case, plus the length of time it takes to get you in the right position. It will take me about 3 hours or more travelling though! I can't drive myself as the swelling under my arm now resembles a lemon, and driving is painful, and quite probably dangerous and illegal too. I have opted to use a Hospital Car, as it's virtually impossible for the iGit to keep taking so much time of work for so many weeks. This will mean a lot more waiting around for me, but at least it doesn't mean we end up completely borasic. We work for ourselves, and if we don't work, we don't get paid.

So if anyone has any bright ideas that will keep me occupied over the next five weeks, please tell me them, I am fast running out of ideas myself and would be grateful to hear them!

Grounded! Grrr!

I think I should have this hung around my neck, I am feeling quite volatile; boredom is setting in!

I went to see the Oncologist yesterday, and after some discussion we settled on a course of 25 sessions of Radiotherapy starting in a couple of weeks time. I will get the appointment sent from Southampton direct, so I am not exactly sure when. I mentioned that I was quite uncomfortable under my arm, and in my shoulder. I had a full range of movement, but there was visible swelling, that had initially subsided after the surgery, but had returned and was visible in my arm too. The area felt hot and hard, and I've since noticed it in my breast too. A dull ache that doesn't go away when you take Paracetamol. I was referred to the Breast Care Nurse(BCN), so waited to see her afterwards.

The BCN asked had I been resting plenty, I lied - yes! I neglected to tell her that I had washed the utility room floor and then spent an hour and a half ironing sheets and pillow cases and various other items that morning, giving up using my left arm as it was too slow and cumbersome, and using my right instead. I omitted to tell her that the previous day, I had taken myself of to the nearest large town on the train, and spent 3 hours rummaging around the shops, carrying 4 bags full; 3 books from Waterstones, a bevy of bras from M and S, and a fabulous wool blanket found in TK Maxx.

She looked at me sideways, I am not a convincing liar, and proceeded to lecture me. Upshot is, I have to rest, and she means rest, til Friday, and take pain relievers/anti-inflammatory every 4 hours, and return to see her on Friday at 2.30. If the swelling hasn't subsided, she will drain it; I hate to think what that will entail, but I have a reasonable idea.

To make matters worse, my Mother called in yesterday lunchtime, and the first thing she saw was the ironing board. Icy glare. Then she asked why was my arm puffy. I felt about 11 years old again, ready to rebel and protest. Today, my Father phoned me, and effectively read the Riot Act, albeit with humour, and told me if I didn't start being sensible he was going to phone my Consultant and tell her how stupid I was! Grassed up! Tsk! So how am I feeling? A mixture of being really cross with myself for doing too much too soon, and being arrogant enough to think I could get away with it, and mind numbing boredom. Even the new books I bought and dragged home on the train, have lost their appeal. I'd really like to go for a walk, and take some pictures of what I find in the woods near the cottage, but that will probably do more harm than good too. Moany, moany, whiny whiny me; I know!

Life's a Picnic

Yesterday, the sun shone, and we decided to head to Epsom, were both my children are now living, to see how Little Bird had settled in, and spend a day together as a family again; I was desperate for some normality, and simple pleasures. We made a picnic, not the usual fare, as I am still a bit limited in what I can and can't easily do, my arm is still sore and I have decided to let my body tell me when its OK to go full steam ahead and resume normal frenetic activity. Even so we dined on freshly baked baguettes stuffed to overflowing with Tuna and sweetcorn, Strawberries, Bananas and Grapes, Chocolate and Blueberry Muffins, and our families favourite sins; Giant Cadbury Chocolate Buttons, and Waitrose own Jelly Babies!

My Son had walked to my Daughter's place. We called in, and stayed a while, meeting some of her new housemates, and for me finally a chance to check out her garret now that she had turned it from attic to home. Although much smaller than the space she had here, it retained the quirkiness of home. Sloping walls and ceilings, the ubiquitous piles of fashion magazines, fabrics, and notebooks everywhere. My daughter is studying Fashion Journalism, and the previous day had been scouting the West End in London, and had made her way to Mayfair. She proudly showed me a bag she had blagged from the Marc Jacobs' store, essential a cotton shopper, emblazoned with the Marc Jacobs' logo that we are all being encouraged to use instead of plastic in these days of recycling. Recommended Retail Price? Seven Pounds!!

We piled into the car and headed the short distance to Epsom Downs, famous for the race course, and the Epsom Derby. We parked up near Tattenham Corner, and unloaded the boot. We lay rugs on the grass, and the wicker Optima hamper that I had won in a competition some years earlier, courtesy of The English Garden magazine. Both my children love picnics, it is something we did often when they were kids. Teatime is so much more fun when you pack a basket full of goodies and walk half a mile to sharpen the appetite to a nearby Wood.

After lunch, we went walking. Just behind where we picniced is a Public Golf Course, with fabulous views over the Thames Valley of London. The brow of the hill we stood on was about 600 feet above sea level (son has an iPhone with GPS), and I surveyed the plain as it stretched out before us. I love this view, even 17 miles out, London has a magical potency, and energy, and it is easy to understand why it draws so many people to its streets. We walked the grass paths as dozens of horses and riders appeared to be taking part in a mounted orienteering competition. Within the bounds of the race course, horse boxes disgorged horses and ponies of all shaped and sizes, from portly coloured Cobs to bright grey Welsh Mountain types. Further away in the centre of the racecourse, family groups flew huge kites in the welcome breeze. We bumped into some of my son's flatmates and chatted a while, all returning to his home to freshen up, and then consume the delights of dinner at a local Italian restaurant. After we walked Little Bird back to her new home. It was strange to say goodnight to her on a foreign step, and I learned to let go a little more. We walked back through the town to my son's and said our goodbyes too. It was strange to drive away, and leave them to their lives, having spent the whole day together as if nothing had changed since childhood. I settled down into the passenger seat of my car. Tiredness almost overwhelmed me and I fought back the tears that wanted to come, and thought to myself NO; be happy for them. And I am. I have put a couple of pictures of the amazing view from the Golf Course towards London, hopefully you can make the landmarks out.

Looking over Docklands to the East, you can make out Canary Wharf and the 'Gerkin'

To the West, you can clearly see the Arch over Wembley Stadium

The Fortune Teller .....

At 4 O'clock yesterday afternoon, I went to visit the surgeon who had removed the tumour from my right breast, and the associated lymph nodes. It had been a full week since the operation, and I have to say I was more than ready to hear the full diagnosis. I had been feeling as if I was a refugee in some alien hinterland that I didn't recognise and when I sought direction from my internal compass to navigate my way back to more comfortable waters, it just span around and around, hopelessly seeking answers that disappeared like mirages every time I approached too closely. I think the past week has been one of the most uncomfortable journeys I have ever been on. Totally lost and disorientated in a familiar landscape.

We waited in the now familiar Waiting Area and watched as Couples, Daughters and Mothers, and occasionally a woman on her own, left the Clinic having had their fortunes told. No words were necessary to understand their destiny; the smiles that lit up faces or quiet tears of despair said everything the onlooker needed to know. You couldn't help but be moved by them, and I couldn't help wonder which I would be. My Husband saw me watching and clasped my hand tightly, his eyes reflecting the fear of the unknown visible in my own.

A Breast Care Nurse(BCN) called us in, and we went into a Consulting room. I was asked to go behind the curtains, undress and pop onto the couch; Miss Stebbing would be in shortly. While we waited, the BCN smartly removed the dressings that had hidden the wounds from a week earlier. I knew I was bruised, I had seen the yellow and purple mosaic spreading out in all directions when I bathed, but I hadn't quite prepared myself for how large the incisions were and was a bit surprised by what I saw. My husband's reaction to it later when we had a proper look in the privacy of home was ' Zoë fought the Tiger and the Tiger won'.

Miss Stebbing came in, and examined her handy work, and I have to admit, despite the initial shock, I had to agree with her that it all looked remarkably healthy, was healing well and was very neat; you can't see a stitch mark, despite there being 2 wounds, one 3 inches and the other 6 inches long. Happy with her work she told me to dress and come and sit down again. It was a joy not to have the dressings on, and as the nurse helped me do up the monstrosity bra, I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before I could wear something less utilitarian again.

I sat down next to himself, and waited with butterflies racing around my stomach and my heart in my mouth. The last time I had sat in this chair, Miss Stebbing had told me it was 'bad news'; that I had Breast Cancer. What was she going to tell me today? She smiled. I knew the news would be good, and she started to explain what the future held. Mercifully, they hadn't found any cancer cells in the lymph nodes they had sampled, and from that they were confident there had been no spread. The tumour itself in the scheme of these things was small, and all the margins of the tissue they had removed was also clear of any cancer cells, which meant she was confident that they had removed it all; the threat of more surgery was gone. It also means that I don't have to suffer the effects of Chemotherapy, that I can continue as she initially predicted, and take Tamoxifen for the next 5 years, which is a hormone cancer therapy appropriate to the type of cancer they found in me, and Radiotherapy once the wounds are well healed.

I should start on the Tamoxifen today; my GP will phone to let me know when the prescription is ready, and I may throw all care to the wind and walk the mile into the village to collect it. I still haven't driven yet, as the area is still sore, and I don't want to push my luck and endanger other road users because of a wonky arm. I will see an Oncologist next week to discuss the follow on treatment from the surgery, Radiotherapy, and arrange when that will start and for how long.; the hospital will phone and tell me which day at sometime today. Miss Stebbing thinks 25 visits should do the trick, going along on every weekday to the Unit in Southampton for 5 weeks. That in itself is going to be quite a feat as it is an 80 mile round trip.

So it's Champagne all round! Here's a toast to you all who sent me messages of support and encouragement, kind thoughts and positive vibes; they really made a difference. XX

Some light relief

This cupboard in my bathroom is filled to overflowing with bubbles, oils and other exotic ungents

I thought I would share my comedy moment of the week; it will be these moments that stick in my memory in years to come when I discuss my personal journey with Breast Cancer; the things that made me laugh, when even laughing hurt.

There are so many little things we take for granted in everyday life, the ability to access hot water and clean ourselves when we feel the need. Little bathing rituals we acquire that help us set the world to rights, a bath, a hair wash, just feeling clean can be spiritually cleansing too. Imagine my dismay when I was told not to get the dressings wet! No showers, no baths, and washing my hair virtually impossible! I wanted a hair wash, it hadn't been washed in 3 days; I was beginning to feel like the great unwashed, it bothered me out of all proportion, despite my Husband's protestations that it looked fine, it smelt fine, and anyway who was going to see! Men don't get it.

I wash my hair every day usually, it's one of the few things I do that is any kind of concession to the usual female preening rituals, I don't wear make up, never have. I don't colour my hair, never have. I do like to feel clean, I like my hair to shine and smell fresh . I bathe every day, often having a shower in the morning and a bath in the evening. It is my way to cleanse away the ills of each day, a luxury; to feel renewed, rejuvenated; it is healing.

I had figured out that with some help from himself, I could clamber in the roll top bath, and submerge my nether regions in a couple of inches of water perfumed with my favourite bubbles and generally splash around cleaning me from the waist down. Introducing water above my belly button was problematic, it was apt to get uncomfortably close to the dressings on my breast.

A little Internet research is often my way to circumvent frustration when faced with a task that seems seemingly impossible; and my mission was to wash my hair. Despite having a bath of sorts, I still felt grimy, and unclean. Yes, I know I am totally irrational, but as I reminded my Darling husband, I am female and it is my prerogative to be totally irrational about such things, and if he valued peace, he would stop telling me I was being irrational and that my hair was fine and could wait a few more days.

They say 'Desperation is the Mother of Invention'; well I was desperate by now, and willing to consider any method to secure clean locks, regardless of how madcap it might at first appear. My Saviour appeared in the form of a roll of Clingfilm. Yes, that right, Clingfilm. I undressed, and bid my poor husband wrap me in it tightly, over the area that the dressings occupied, and above and below; this way if I got wet, it didn't matter! I have to tell you that it took us a while to accomplish this, and the subsequent mayhem that ensued as I was wrapped up like a Turkey had us both in uncontrolled fits of laughter.

It was some while before either of us calmed enough to allow him to wash my hair for me; I bent over the basin and he carefully and gently washed my hair, rinsing it as if I might break; me still trying to stifle giggles and the rid myself of the ludicrous image I made in the mirror. I shall never be able to look at Clingfilm on the shelf in Waitrose again without having to stifle a smile.