Not mushroom in here... Part 7

Glass half full or half empty? I'm both and neither, depends on the week, the day, the weather, the treatment.

Reasons to be cheerful:

People: Friends, Romans and cousins. As if I hadn't been through enough... those pesky kids plot and scheme behind my back, sending a surprise fancy dancy state of the art immune enhancing juicy nutritional machine thing. Perfect strangers colluding, liaising and organising to make sure I have enough good stuff in my immune system to cope with 6 treatments of chemotherapy and one month of radiotherapy. There are no words for this, the snivelling photos of me, reduced to tears, trying to open the box are bad enough and the thought alone may set me off again. It didn't stop there either, cards and gifts and even a grocery voucher have arrived in the last couple of weeks making me feel incredibly loved, healthy and pretty special, but more importantly ready to tackle the chemo head on.

Haircut:  I decided a while back while reading leaflets about the fall out - pun totally intended - of chemotherapy that I would have my hair shorn if that was going to be my treatment. As I know all the right people (see above) I have an exceptional hair chopper on speed dial, well I have his wife which is just as good. Unlike Samson this amazing haircut seems to have given me strength and energy and as an added bonus it makes me look very pretty in dresses.

Very good reasons to be both cheerful and happy.

Of course no pleasure without pain, and there has been some of that too. After my last appointment with the wheelie good consultant I was referred for two scans, a bone and a CT scan. 'Nothing at all to worry about' I was told, 'just a precaution' they said, 'we aren't expecting to find anything'. I'm not quite sure how that works, how do you stop yourself worrying that this buggar might be lurking somewhere else in your system? Even the words bone and CT scan sound scary but I decided to ignore it all until the results were due...no point working myself up needlessly.  Instead I concentrated on making lots of 'clean food' to make myself into a virtual superhero,  no amount of cancer killing toxins were going to mess up my immune system, I would make myself invincible.

True to form I messed that up spectacularly, by giving myself food poisoning. Twice.

Yes, I know.

Something else which didn't feel quite right was the egg, this had increased and decreased on a regular basis since being drained, all part of the post op recovery, but now my left breast resembled something Katie Price would have had reduced. When I mentioned this to my nurse she recommended coming in, I was in the hospital anyway for another scan on some other part of my body so I could pop in and let them take a quick look and put my mind at rest. I did as she said and I saw my original consultant, the one who had performed my operation.

That sounds very odd...'performed my operation' did he stand there before he started, taking a bow and raising his scalpels in a flourish? Sorry, this week my imagination really is running away with me and most of the medical staff I have encountered have taken on all sorts of personas.

Anyway, he was back from leave and pleased to check up on my progress. I had been feeling a bit sick with stomach pains but nothing too worrying, I mentioned it whilst being examined. I had thought it could be down to a curry I had eaten the night before as I wasn't used to rich foods anymore. I wasn't terribly concerned but he immediately wrote out a prescription 'something for the pain and something for nausea' he said, which didn't worry me and in fact made me feel as if I was in pretty safe hands. He said he knew I would have plenty of nausea in the coming months and therefore it was a good idea to start taking the anti nausea tablets. We took the prescription down to the hospital pharmacy and patiently waited for my medication.

I'm no expert but five bottles of liquid morphine seems somewhat excessive as a painkiller. Unless for palliative care...maybe he knows something I don't. I went home and wrote everything down and what time I should be taking it and when. I'm nothing if not obedient and despite my faith in the medical profession having been tested somewhat in the last seven months I was still playing nicely with them.

That evening I unwittingly ate some more toxic mushrooms and lentils, I wanted to make sure I had eaten something reasonably healthy with all the meds I was on, shame then that I chose the one dish in the fridge which had already given me mild stomach cramps and should have been binned days before. In my defence I did not realise it was that which had been causing the problems otherwise I wouldn't have touched anymore, honestly. To describe the next nine hours as difficult would be a teeny tiny understatement, with the morphine acting as a stopper for one end and the anti nausea tablets plugging up the other, I was in absolute agony, with no idea why.

I didn't make the connection until the following day, the relief that I had poisoned myself rather than the onset of anything more sinister had me up and both the boyfriend and I practically dancing around the flat. It took about a week for the cramps to subside, I haven't touched the morphine since and I'm off mushrooms for life.

Meanwhile I had my meeting with my oncologist lined up, the results of my scans were due in and hopefully I would have any questions / fears answered about chemotherapy and we could just get on with everything.

No such luck.

I went down to Portsmouth with my Dad, first of all we had the explanation as to why I was being offered chemotherapy...yes offered.

'A dose of chemo Madam?'
'Oooohhh I don't mind if I do'.

Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit but it's working for me right now.

Apparently my cancer is triple negative, it has no hormone receptors attached to it, this means it doesn't respond to any hormone treatments, a tough little cookie this one, only not quite so sweet. I also found out that this type of cancer normally occurs in women under 40... like I said I do have my glass half full moments.

The rest of the appointment came as a surprise and not in a good way. My ever increasing left breast was examined and she spoke of her fears that it was not liquid and that in fact the cancer may have returned to my breast. I was shocked beyond belief.

"Returned?" I asked, "I didn't know it could return there, it was removed".

Well I was wrong, a rogue cell could have escaped and started it all off again. While we were reeling from this new piece of information there was something else, she was concerned about the mass in my abdomen, 'Was there cancer cells in it? Had it been checked out? Had I had a biopsy on it?' Although I explained it was a fibroid and definitely non-malignant she wasn't convinced and wanted it checked out, properly and as soon as possible. That and the swelling, all needed double checking.

She didn't exactly shove us out of the door but the urgency was clear. It was back home to wait for a call from the local hospital so we could go back in to have everything double checked. We kept looking at the positive in all of this, the oncologist was being very thorough, ruling out any possibility that anything may have been missed, and while that possibility was very frightening it was good to know it was being dealt with. That sounds very brave doesn't it? The truth is both my Dad and I were in shock, we couldn't quite believe this was happening, and for me personally the idea of more surgery was appalling.

We were called into the local hospital where I expected to undergo all sorts of tests, be needled and analaysed. I really should stop with the expectations as they never quite pan out.

Remember those horror films where everyone looks normal and the main character is being pointed at and laughed at as he or she tries to make sense of something?  Everyone is slightly distorted and fairground music is playing in the background? A cross between Rosemary's Baby and A Clockwork Orange. That is what I felt like in the subsequent appointment with the nurses and the Wheelie Consultant.

"Definitely just a fibroid Martina" They smiled kindly.

"You know it's fluid in your breast, we told you that already" The consultant grinned. "And I aspirated you the last time you were here, you were very lucky I did that," He inclined his head as if he had indulged me and expected me to break into spontaneous applause at his goodwill gesture.

"No need for anything else, no biopsy, no scan, nothing, you are absolutely fine."

His tone was breezy, loose and familiar. I was being looked at as if I was the one who needed to be reassured, as if I had stirred this all up. I had all the information, what a silly woman I was going back in when I knew what was wrong with me. I looked from one to the other and could not make sense of anything they were saying, it was hard to get a word in edgeways, but eventually I did.

"Why then have we been told by the oncologist to come back here to have all of this checked again?" I asked, utterly bewildered by the Hall of Mirrors scene unfolding.

"Why would she tell us that there were all these risks and chances of things being even worse than we had thought if everything is actually fine?" I asked this because I was genuinely confused.

The consultant wheeled his chair forward, nice and close and smiled and finally explained that the scan had been checked by an inexperienced radiologist who had not checked my previous notes at all and had sent the scan results to the oncologist with what he perceived were problems he noted on the scan. A bit like an administrative error only much worse. I wasn't scared anymore, I wasn't even relieved, I was just really angry, but faced with so many 'concerned' and smiling faces it was hard to keep a grip on reality.

"And the fibroid, that is definitely fine too? No need to do anything else?" I asked, although I could feel any vestige of confidence slipping away. I already felt faintly ridiculous for being there.

As if to hammer home his response, the consultant immediately started dictating a letter to the fibroid consultant asking her to confirm what had already been stated. He wheeled back and forth while completing his dictation loudly, enunciating every word very carefully and looking at me pointedly during this so I was fully aware that everything was being done that should be.

I very much felt like I was caught in the middle of lots of points of being made. It wasn't terribly comfortable.

At the end of that particular day, although having been subjected to a rollercoaster of emotions we did feel that at least the oncologist was very thorough, it was good to know that someone was very much looking out for us. The following week I called to find out if the results of the fibroid had been confirmed and when my chemotherapy would be starting. Her secretary knew nothing at all, had been left with no instructions but did let me know that my oncologist is apparently away on leave for ten days.

Even Pollyanna would have had a hard time being positive through all of this.