Eggsactly Part 6

After the operation I was quite disappointed to find out that I was not the colour of Papa Smurf, in fact I didn't really turn blue...not entirely, I was more of a pale china grey, very fashionable in the Farrow & Ball selection of paints, more than a hint of griege with a barely affordable price attached. My left breast wasn't quite so fussy and looked entirely like a fully fledged member of the smurf party. Aside from hosting a rainbow assortment of colours across the left hand side of my body I felt pretty much okay to begin with. Then again that is the beauty of a general anaeasthetic, you feel just fine until you try to do anything...like walk.

Gradually the extreme painkillers wore off and although I looked a bit of a mess I wasn't in major pain except for one thing, I felt as if my left upper arm had been badly burned. This severe discomfort was exacerbated if it rubbed against any material, making wearing clothes difficult and wearing a bra virtually impossible. I couldn't understand how a part of my arm they hadn't actually touched felt so weirdly sore, like the worst sunburn in a really delicate area. I was given an emergency appointment to see a GP but I really wasn't holding out much hope that they would enlighten me, a hangover reaction from previous visits. How wrong could I have been?

I saw the senior partner in the surgery, I have never seen him before nor complained about him or even written him a letter but I'm sure he knows all about my complicated history, general attitude and inability to stay quiet when I'm not happy, which has been fairly often in the last six months. He was very very quiet, he diagnosed the problem quickly and efficiently and gave me a prescription to help with it. He didn't engage with me or enter into any discussion apart from what I was there for which made a pleasant change.
My 'sunburned arm' was a nerve problem he explained, apparently during the operation they had dug around in my lymph glands and disturbed the nerves and that was why my arm was all over the place, it didn't know what to feel, so it was all at odds with what the brain was telling it do. So it seems like my arm and I have more than just attachment issues in common... I was prescribed a whole bunch of epileptic tablets which would help calm down the burning and teach my brain which nerves were which. Fascinating stuff, I could not wait for it to actually start working.

The calming effect started quickly, I spent most of the first few days floating around in a cloudy dream, talking to people was especially funny, to me. I kept pausing mid conversation which looked like what I was taking great care over my response, in actual fact I kept forgetting where I was.

In the meantime I had another physical issue, apart from the obvious. I was growing an ever inflating lump in my armpit about the size of a boiled egg. Apparently, in the event of any damage your body sends liquid to the afflicted site to cushion it, I am not going to bang on about how amazing bodies are, frankly I feel a bit let down by mine although I will begrudgingly give it some credit for this. The egg continued to grow in size until it was so uncomfortable and I was sufficiently alarmed enough to mention it to the nurse who assured me that it was all perfectly normal, however if the consultant felt the need to 'aspirate' or drain it then he would when he next saw me, on the day of the results.

(I will jump forward now to say that yes I did indeed have the 'egg' drained and it was the most amazing feeling ever, they aren't keen on doing this because of the risk of infection, and the chances are it will return, but in that moment it felt truly marvellous. I had 80ml of liquid drained, the quantity of which I am absurdly proud and it has been the one and only time I was happy to see a needle.) 


My Dad came with me to the appointment, everyone says their own Dad is the best, probably true for them. I have mine and he is definitely the best for me, I'm very lucky. He's a total gentleman with an unrivalled sense of fairness, a wicked sense of humour and an air of calm. Just what you need at a time like this, but he's not available to anyone else because I am selfishly claiming all of his time and probably most of his head space.

Before the appointment we had lunch out and talked about my options, neither of us being particularly keen on the concept of an elephant in the room we bet each other a tenner on the possible treatment we thought I might be facing. Back at the hospital and it was busy, and seemed darker although that could just be me trying to add literal atmosphere. Fifty minutes later and with anxiety levels going through the roof we were called in and sat facing a consultant who definitely hadn't operated on me. This one was very different, old boys school, he was certainly one of the surgeons, just not mine, mine was apparently on leave, which was fine until I was told that they hadn't wanted me to wait any longer for my results. This created another spike in my anxiety levels as the consultant rolled forward with 'the news'.

Yes I did write that correctly he rolled forward, he had a disconcerting habit of moving around on his wheeled office chair, it felt slightly incongruous in such a serious setting. Well that and his beaming smile all made it feel a little surreal.

"The good news is we have removed the tumour and it hasn't spread into your lymph glands" he said loudly, while my heart sank, I've mentioned already that I'm picking up on the fact that so far, good news tends to be a precursor for bad.

"We have removed it all from the breast" He grinned, but I wasn't fooled.

"The bad news is..." Told you. "The bad news is that it has now moved up to a stage three cancer."

Even he had the grace to look slightly less animated at this information. What followed were explanations about what might have been if it had been a different type of tumour, what options weren't open to me because of that, which medicines wouldn't work etc. I cut him short as the suspense was no longer killing me.

"It's chemotherapy then?" I said, as matter of fact as I could, it wasn't really a question. They nodded and I looked at my Dad.

"You owe me a tenner." I said, willing him not to look upset.

It's hard to maintain a sense of humour in this situation but I did my level best. I asked about hair loss and when that would happen and the consultant explained about the gel cap which meant that I wouldn't necessarily lose it.

"There are options" he explained "to be able to keep your hair from falling out, but the downside is that a gel cap can be very cold so not great if you suffer from a cold head in the winter"

Thinking that a cold head would be the least of my worries I leaned forward this time, and asked very seriously,

"So, I would have a hairy head but a bald face?"

He wasn't really sure what the correct answer was, don't think he really knew how to take me, I've a feeling he was normally in charge of the jokes. I had been pretty sure all along that it would be chemotherapy, that thing which shall not be spoken, a bit like Voldermort, or Beetlejuice don't name it, or avoid saying it three times in case it appears. I guess that's why I bet my Dad £10  I sort of knew, not fair really, but then I'm finding out so much about this is not fair.

Such as the fact that this treatment will wipe out once and for all any chance I may have had at having a baby. Deluded I may have been at my age thinking that I stood a chance but as Journey once sang I really never did stop believin' until the moment I was told categorically at that appointment that chemotherapy doesn't just wipe out cancer cells. I cried then, same as I'm crying now, trying to find a way of writing this which won't sound too brutal or self delusional.

Me having a baby simply wasn't meant to be. Anyway, I would have probably left it in Sainsburys.