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.

Little Bird flies the Nest

My Little Bird holding Wayne the Chavfinch after his run in with the French Windows

This weekend is a difficult weekend; I had planned it so scrupulously, not realising that even the best laid plans often end up in the waste bin. My daughter leaves home this weekend for University. I had spent the summer scouting around the sales, buying her bedding and pots and pans, and all the things you need to set up your first home away from home. I was totally oblivious to the circustances that were going to overtake me, I had it planned to the most minute detail, so that in my heart I knew she was well provided for and would settle into her new surroundings quickly and easily. She is renting a house along with a group of other students as Halls accommodation at her Art School is very restricted. I went through this exercise with my son a couple of years ago, and it helped me a great deal to know that he was well equipped, and comfortable in his new home. This time I can't help, all I can do is watch as they load the car and plan what's going where in her new home. I find things like this so difficult, I so want to be part of it, plump the cushions on her new bed, run a duster around at the last minute, spring a home baked cake on her as we leave; but I can't, and it fills me with a huge sadness. I feel as if I have been robbed of sharing essential part of my daughter's development from madcap teenager, to self sufficient adult. It's moments like their first words, their first steps, their first tooth, they are moments you can't repeat, and I feel robbed and bereft as I watch the last load of books and clothes disappear into the boot of my Husband's estate car, ready to transport her to her new life. I shall just wave goodbye as they disappear down the lane.

Home Again

Taken earlier this year; Roses and clove Pinks from my garden

Sorry I haven't let you know how I am sooner, I have been rather dopey and have been sleeping rather a lot! I went in for the surgery at 7.45 am on Tuesday. I was greeted in the foyer of the Diagnosis and Treatment Centre (DTC) by a Theatre Nurse, and taken to the female locker room, where I was asked to change into a theatre gown, my robe and slippers, and then to wait in the Pre-Op waiting room. I duly did as bid, and scurried off, book in hand to wait to talk to the different Doctors and Nurses who would be checking me out before I went down to Theatre.

It is all very relaxed, its a bit like sitting around in a GP's waiting room; Radio 4 was playing in the background, and around the room were doors leading to 4 small consulting rooms. First to call me in was the Anaesthetist, who went through a routine set of questions about my general health, how I got on with anaesthetics and so on. Next a Nurse came to check my pulse, BP, and all the usual signs and placed tags on my arm and leg so they remembered who I was! I was also given some very glamorous stockings to wear; I am sure they will catch on eventually! I also had a Pre-med and some anti-emetics, as I was keen to go home that day. Once all the standard procedures had been carried out, I went up to the Breast Care Unit to have the wire inserted. This was a bit uncomfortable, but once it was in place and taped down the pain went away, and it was just a dull ache.

I then returned to the waiting room; now filling up with various shapes and sizes of patients in for different procedures. I caught the eye of a lady across the room, and she mouthed silently 'Breast?' to which I nodded, and went to sit by her. We established we were both being treated by Miss Stebbing that morning for an identical set of circumstances. It was reassuring to have someone else to chat to, and we soon forgot why we were there and discussed anything but surgery. She went down to theatre before me, so I bid her well, and waited on my own, reading the novel I had taken with me. Around about 10.30 the Theatre Nurse came back to get me, and said it was my turn. We walked down to the Theatre and I hauled myself on to the table; I think they were expecting someone taller! Everyone introduced themselves and talked me through everything they were doing, and I gradually drifted off to sleep singing 'Octopus's Garden' silently to myself.

When I woke I was aware a considerable pain in my right side, and the nurses very quickly sorted that out with an infusion of Tramadol, followed by morphine. They helped me put on the monstrosity bra, and made sure all the dressings and the drain were secure. I dozed on and off for quite a while, whilst they took my BP etc and made sure I was recovering well from the anasetic. I was then taken around to the small DTC ward, where I slept for a while, and then was offered some water. I was very chuffed, it usually at this point the day goes wrong and I end up disgracing myself, meaning I cant go home. Thankfully, this time the anti-emetics did the trick, and I followed the water with a coffee, and some digestive biscuits. These ALWAYS taste so good when you have been fasting for a few hours. I slept a bit more, and was soon feeling hail and hearty ( ish) but well enough to ask to go home. I was given the once over again, and told I could go. I got myself dressed and waited for my iGit to come and get me and take me back to the luxury of my own bed. I pretty much slept the next 12 hours without interuption.

Yesterday afternoon, the District Nurse called by to remove my drain, and generally check my dressings over. They have to stay in place until Tuesday next week. How am I feeling? I am sore as you might expect, but it is manageable, and I have tablets at home to help with that. I have been doing the exercises religiously, and think this helps a great deal. I have been resting and reading lots, and because the painkillers are quite powerful, find it hard to concentrate for long, and often start dozing off to sleep like the proverbial Dormouse.

Tuesday next week I have to go back and see the Doctors, and it will be then I find out exactly what I am dealing with. The waiting is the hardest part, but I am trying hard not to think about it, and just taking each day as it comes. Thank you for all the good wishes and kind thoughts, they mean a lot to me.

Today's the day

West Wittering, 30th August 2008