Night Nurse on Elm Street - Part 10

Daytime television is rubbish.

You would think that given no choice, and having to lie in bed not able to go anywhere or do anything then having a television in my hospital room would be fantastic, it really isn't. There are only so many property, antique and cooking programmes you can watch before your brain is freeze dried. Not to mention the gladiatorial monstrosity that is the Jeremy Kyle Show, how on earth is that man still on television? He's like an insincere Spitting Image puppet with a microphone and a license to patronise.


It's the second day in hospital and I'm feeling so much better, I know I'm not going home yet although I keep testing them, apparently they are sure, I'm in for a third night, and then it will depend on whether my blood tests show a huge improvement in my white blood cell count. I can deal with this because I am definitely feeling brighter, the nurses are making me laugh and my hair is fixed into place until I can do something about it at home. Good job too that I have so many lovely visitors coming in to cheer me up and keep me smiling. One friend who felt as if she may have a cold coming but was unwilling to let me down came to see me anyway to wave through the window and leave me some magazines, fabulous and really appreciated. I'm allowed magazines, I'm not allowed grapes, blueberries or anything which can't be peeled (risk of infection...I'm not even joking) now I know The Boyfriend is good but even he draws the line at peeling grapes for me.

Another day and another stomach injection, but that wasn't phasing me today, a splendid friend was coming, she had given up her day off to spend it with me in my hospital bubble and I couldn't wait to see her. She's one of those friends who totally throws herself into every new situation with absolute gusto so when she arrived in the ward to see me she took it all very seriously, acting like an extra from Casualty she adopted an immediate sense of self importance by walking around wearing a plastic apron and latex gloves, smoothing down the apron and pulling on the tips of the gloves. It was the laugh I desperately needed and I responded by scratching the back of my head and pulling out a chunk of hair...much to her horror.

Aaaahhhh....good times.

I continued with this general feeling of good humour when The Boyfriend came in to visit. I taught him the no-teeth-name-game, if you have never played it I thoroughly recommend it, seriously it is brilliantly funny. We fell about laughing, I didn't literally fall because I was attached to a drip, but I never let a small thing like a medical reality get in the way of having a good time and we were in hysterics when my favourite junior doctor came in, we told him about the game but his professionalism stopped him joining in although I have a feeling he really wanted to have a go.

We discussed my symptoms and although my throat was better I had been experiencing severe shooting pains up the back of my head, and no, not because I was pulling my hair out, I only did that once. The doctor thought that the pains were down to the infection I had, it was probably in my ear, he promised that the liquid paracetamol would soon be arriving on the drugs trolley and that would help. So a good day all round, the doctor left, The Boyfriend left, I ate my dinner and lay down waiting for my meds so I could sleep.

The severity of the shooting pain was definitely worsening, I tried to settle but couldn't, whichever way I lay it hurt, badly. I called the nurse to see when the meds were arriving. She came in, switched off the call button and reassured me that they were on their way.

"It really hurts" I said, pressing down that side my head trying to subdue the sharp throb I could feel.

"I know and I can't do anything but I promise they are doing the rounds" she said, and left me to my headache.

Three hours later and I was still waiting, I had used the call button a couple more times but the poor nurse could do nothing, they had to wait for those qualified to give medication before anything could be done. It was now so bad that I could not do anything except walk around the room holding onto the side of my head trying to squash it and make it stop. It didn't work. By now I was in tears, it was almost six hours since the junior doctor had told me the meds were on their way, I was in agony.
Someone must have heard me crying, I opened up my blind and looked out onto the reception area, I must have looked a state, distressed teary face, sticky-up hair, my hand clamped to the side of my face.  I was, to put it mildly, going slightly mad with the pain.

Within ten minutes a different male nurse came in to the room. No apology no explanation just a very abrupt 'Can you sit on the bed please?' I went to lie on the bed and I asked if he was going to give me liquid paracetamol, he didn't reply. I asked again because I was desperate for the painkiller, I knew the other medicine would be the antibiotics to fight the infection but it was the liquid paracetamol which would help the pain and I needed it, actually I had needed it six hours ago.

Obviously aggrieved at being questioned, he looked at me and said "I tell you what, do you want to check the sheet and see what medicine you should be having, then you can tell me what I need to give you" He then shoved the form towards my face.

"I just need the liquid paracetamol" I replied, but I was pretty shocked.

He grabbed my hand so he could put the drip into the cannula, he adjusted the reading light above my bed to see better. Thinking it would be better if he put the overhead light on I asked if he wanted the light on, the truth was my poor arm had really been through it and I was afraid the cannula would come out or even worse the painkillers wouldn't go in. He didn't like that.

"I CAN SEE what I'm doing" he almost yelled at me. "I can see." he said and carried on.

I was now too scared to say much else, he adjusted the drip and I then remembered the other drug.

"How long will this take?" I asked.

"About ten minutes" He replied, then, as if he read my mind about the second drip he continued almost smirking, "To change that one and put the antibiotics in you will just have to call someone else." He walked out and he didn't wash his hands then either. Rude, scary and unhygenic...

I fell asleep immediately through sheer exhaustion, but an hour later the nurse who had been to see me previously came in and the door made a squeaking noise as she walked in and woke me up, I sat bolt upright in bed and was shaking, I was really terrified he was back in the room again. She calmed me down and checked the drip, it had fallen out, no surprise there then. She put it back in and I made her promise me that he would not be coming back, she apologised over and over again that the meds had taken so long, she had thought they had been given to me hours before.

I don't want to bang on about this, one bad experience does not make the NHS, this had definitely been an exception, I was in a pretty bad way the next day, and it was only by having a chat to one of the lovely nurses who had been there on my first night that I discovered he was in fact an agency nurse, and not a regular member of staff. She was appalled and I was told to make an official complaint. To close this particular episode I can say that yes, I have made a complaint, but I also made it perfectly clear in my letter and my thank you card just how wonderful everyone else was in that place, because this is the really sad thing, they all do a really tough job, it is only when you are treated badly by one that you realise what an astounding bunch of people the rest of them are.

I left the hospital that day, I had been given the almost all clear, I was much better and they could see I was on pins because I was so desperate to leave. Sometimes there really is no place like home.

Once back home I had the longest shower of my life and used shampoo for one last time. See? Every cloud and all that, putting away the shampoo and expensive matching conditioner will save me a fortune, not to mention the savings I am making on razors.

Having no hair is weird, I have a lot more sympathy for bald men now. If you bang your head on something it hurts, a lot, more than you would think. If it's cold outside it is really cold, and there is no getting away from the fact that you look like a grown up baby unless you add lashings of mascara, and I don't know many blokes who could do that. People's reactions in general have been interesting, most have been utterly lovely, I, apparently have a good head, 'have' I said...so that helps. I was fitted out for a wig and yes it does look okay, but I don't feel like me in it and it itches my forehead like nothing else on earth so I only wear it if I feel I have to, and always under a beanie with the fringe part popping out.
We went out for lunch one Sunday to a lovely restaurant, I was either feeling brave or stupid, or in fact just warm, so I took my beanies off while we there. I had given the waitress a heads up that I would be doing that and she was lovely.  However, I wasn't prepared for one woman who was unable to get a proper look at me as she was facing away from our table, and having been told by her son / toyboy that there was a baldy in the vicinity she spent the entire meal craning her neck or turning in her chair to look at something  behind me so she could check me out. That was uncomfortable and a bit sad for someone who really should have known better.

My advice to anyone who sees a female baldy (and it is obvious that we haven't chosen to look like this) is to give them a big smile, tell them they are being brave, seriously, even a sympathetic look works because it takes so much courage to just go out there trying to be normal, no wonder you don't see us around much.

One lovely friend who has a huge heart but not always the best way with words saw me a few days after my second chemotherapy session. I wasn't feeling brilliant, so I didn't have my usual slap on, I warned her I didn't have any hair and asked if it was okay if I took my beanie off and promptly whipped it off. She stared at me for a few seconds and then said:

"OH, have you seen Breaking Bad?"

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow... Part 9

Feeling well and actually being well are two very different things, something I was to find out very quickly. It's a very steep learning curve this whole business, sometimes you pick it up quickly, other times it takes quite a while to sink in, it's terribly exhausting, a bit like a new job only without the benefits.

Three days after the first treatment and I was literally sick of lying around feeling weak and looking pathetic. I was up for going into town, looking at shops seeing people, anything for a normal life...The Boyfriend agreed only if I wrapped up warmer than a polar bear and we didn't stay too long. It didn't take too long to realise that I was not as alright as I thought I felt, a decided lack of interest in any of the sales items should have been a major warning sign but I persevered as I loved being out.
Even my appetite came back, much to The Boyfriend's delight I wolfed down a sausage in a baguette, the first thing I had eaten in days, I'm not sure which was better, the food or his delighted face as I finally ate something, just as good as retail therapy. I was on the road to recovery I was sure of it, I was going to be fine.

The following day taking a trip to see my Dad and finish off some Christmas shopping all seemed like such a good idea, driving for two hours? No problem...shopping, wrapping presents, working, eating, everything was starting to feel a bit more normal and I was delighted, a bit wobbly, but delighted nonetheless, I had no more chemo until the new year and just a routine pic line to be fitted after Christmas and I was feeling more than good, healthy even.

I woke up one morning with a bit of a sore throat but I thought nothing of it, it was that time of the year...everyone was coming down with something or other. But later that evening when my temperature started to climb I wondered if I should call the number on my special Heat Card.

I don't have a donor card, I'm not sure anyone would want my organs, the state they are in at the moment, but I do have a Heat Card, I have to carry this around with me, it was drilled into me at the first oncology appointment and also at the first chemotherapy session that this needed to be carried everywhere. I was given so much information that I am surprised anything stuck but this did. It has seriously fierce designs on the card, fire and brimstone and scary stop signs.  It's all to do with spotting the signs of Neutropenic Shock, this is what happens when your body cannot cope with a run of the mill infection, it sort of stops working properly due to immune levels post chemo - told you it was a learning curve.

The simplified non technical explanation goes something like this: while I am feeling sicky and rubbish just after each treatment my immune system takes a spectacular nose dive making me totally susceptible to catching anything from anywhere which isn't clinically clean. For you that would be fine, you have legions of healthy white cells battling away in your body protecting you from all manner of bacterial evil. My legions of good cells have been zapped away by the chemo on it's own mission to rid my body of, well pretty much anything...
Immediately after treatment I can't really move about much so no harm done. Then I gradually start to feel better and I behave in a normalish fashion going about my daily beeswax like leaving the house. This is not good, in fact this is very very bad. Going to the supermarket for example is a death trap, I'm not kidding, think of pushing a trolley and how many people have pushed that thing before you start your shopping? Have they all been spotlessly clean? I doubt it...But remember that I was told that I should feel better after a few days and that it was more than possible to carry on my usual routine, so I grabbed life and carried on regardless.

With a rising temperature I decided not to risk anything and I called the number and said I had a bit of a sore throat, and a temperature. They ran through some questions and advised me to take my temperature again, it was on the up so the nurse told me that she would call my local A&E and tell them to expect me. She also told me to pack a bag, which prompted my total lack of taking this seriously, I almost laughed out loud 'an overnight bag' surely not? I wasn't that sick. She persuaded me to pack one in the event they kept me in overnight, she knew what she was talking about.

Five hours later I was lying in a bed linked up to a drip and with an oxygen mask firmly in place, we were none the wiser as to what was happening or going to happen. The Boyfriend was struggling to stay awake but struggling even more with the idea of going home without me. I was being filled with fluids as I was badly dehydrated so very soon I was desperate for the loo, but no one had passed by for ages and as I wasn't allowed to go to the main toilet in the corridor (too many germs) I had to wait instead to ask a nurse, but only a nurse who was dealing with my case for help. That help involved a commode, yep I had to ask for a portaloo to be brought to the room. If that wasn't embarrassing enough it took nearly an hour before we were able to flag down anyone who could help, by which time I would have happily risked all manner of infection in the main toilet if only I had known how to unhook myself from all the wires.

A&E in crisis before Christmas? Yep, they weren't making that up.

The male nurse assigned to me, with a bare minimum of English was unable to tell us what was going on and could only repeat that the doctor who could help us would be along shortly, yes,the results of my blood tests were back but he could not tell us what they were, only the doctor could tell us and he would be along soon but they were having to deal with an emergency.
By 1.50am having heard the same reason yet again and having been very patient (no pun intended) I had had enough and I asked yet again how long we could be expected to wait to find out what on earth was happening. I knew they were busy but there are only so many hours you can wait with no new information whatsoever, and listening to someone tell you in very broken English for the umpteenth time that 'someone was coming' before disappearing for another forty five minutes you start to ever so slightly lose it. I was annoyed, tired and fed up, not to mention the fact I didn't feel too great and so, to my eternal shame I spoke loudly and slowly and made it clear that I wouldn't accept what he was telling me because I simply did not understand.  It was enough to alert the attention of a passing staff nurse, she understood the situation immediately and came in to see me.

"I have seen your results, your white blood cell count is dangerously low, and you have very low blood pressure" She continued, "I am heading home now but I can tell you that your chest x ray was clear so you do not have a chest infection but they need to find out what is causing the infection so you will be admitted to the Acute Medical Unit and you will be in for at least one night, probably two."

She then smiled kindly and said someone would be along shortly to take me to the unit where a bed was waiting for me and yes The Boyfriend should definitely go home.

Hallelujah!! Okay, I know it was not good news but information is key, and having been in the dark for hours it seems it does not always pay to be super polite, occasionally very occasionally it does pay to question the crib sheet lines you are being repeatedly fed. The Boyfriend didn't like leaving me but at that time in the early hours I think he was pretty relieved to be heading home and so was I for his sake. Within minutes I was being wheeled down corridors towards the unit where they had a quiet dark room and a bed waiting for me, I was fast asleep within minutes.

I was in an isolated room, no one was allowed in, without wearing gloves and an apron, I wasn't allowed out. I had a window to the ward so I could see people pass by and could see them looking in at me, I was hooked up to a drip to keep me pain free and hydrated and still I didn't really know what had happened except that I was pretty sick, my temperature was being kept at bay but I had all sorts wrong and a very sore throat. However my brain was telling me that there was also something else not right but I couldn't quite figure out what it was...yet.

It's early rise in hospital, the first round of medication is given between 5 and 6 am so no chance of a lie in, then you have breakfast and the doctors come round to give their prognosis. I still wasn't well (turns out that it takes a bit longer than a few hours to recover) my white blood cell count had hit rock bottom, and here comes the fun bit, I was going to need a stomach injection every day to build my white blood cells back up, that's what the man said, a stomach injection every day. When they tell me things like that I always say something along the lines of 'Are you sure?' or 'Really, do I really need that?' just in case they have somehow made a mistake. They never have so far but it doesn't stop me checking.
I was also told I would also need daily blood tests to monitor the count before they let me out, at this stage I wasn't seeing stars just needles, loads of needles. The infection was thrush in my throat, who knew? I swear I have not licked a supermarket trolley. Apparently there was no fight left in my poor body after the chemotherapy so I had picked up a bacteria from somewhere and it had knocked me for six. And I wasn't going anywhere for at least another 24 hours they said.

"Really?" I questioned them, "Maybe I will feel better later" I said hoping they would double check their notes and realise they should have released me first thing.

They shook their heads and backed out of the room leaving me alone.

So after all that good news and a piece of wholemeal toast I lay back in the bed thinking I could really do with a shower, and that's when I noticed the thing that my brain had picked up on before. Hair, my hair, loads of it, on the bed, on the pillows, on the floor, everywhere, and not just a few hairs which come out naturally, and not actual clumps, but way more than should be falling out, and a whole lot more than I wanted to lose from an already cropped haircut.

It's not as if I didn't know it was coming, I just didn't expect it to happen when I was on my own in hospital and feeling so unwell. It was a horrible moment, I can't dress it up or make it funny because it wasn't, it was seriously awful. I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, my hair was sticking up in tufts at the back, I gingerly smoothed it down and then tugged at a bit, it came out in my hand and I just stared at it in shock. If I could have stuck it back on I would have done.

I climbed back into bed, but before I did I brushed down the sheets shaking and staring in disbelief as the floor started to resemble a hair salon after a haircut. I sat in bed in shock and disbelief, not here, not now, my brain was screaming I simply wasn't prepared for this to happen so quickly.

Two nurses came into my room to change the bed, I started to apologise for the hairy mess on the floor and started crying as I explained:

"So sorry" I snivelled, "My hair started falling out, I just wasn't expecting that just yet, not here in hospital, I don't know why I'm surprised, it's not like I didn't know it was going to happen" I said through tears.

The lovely nurses were so upset seeing my distress which I was doing a really crap job of hiding. Sympathetic and caring they reassured me, went to fetch stuff so I could have a shower and said if I wanted to talk about it they were there for me. Kindness is a buggar when you are already upset, I just shook my head (gently though, so nothing else fell out) thanked them profusely for being so lovely, apologised over and over for the hirsute area around my bed and with tears falling down my face I went in to have the most careful shower I have ever taken in my life.

I can't explain why it hit me so hard, being ill, being in hospital, it happening so soon after the first treatment, all of those are good reasons, but actually it was the reality of it. I had a temperature during the night, my hair was stuck up at different angles when I woke and it felt different, it felt like it wasn't part of me anymore, it had stopped growing, it was on my head but it wasn't my hair anymore. I couldn't pat it down, ruffle it, or smooth it because I was scared it would come out. That made it real, really not mine. Chemo was proving to be the Heineken of chemicals, reaching the parts others could not.

It wasn't the worst of times but it was close.

My right arm was also having it's own bad hair day and was giving everyone hassle, unsurprising really, since my operation back in October I cannot use my left arm as a pin cushion so all bloods taken and drugs administered go into the right. Add into the mix the fact that the chemotherapy drugs dry you up and you can imagine the nightmare the nurses, doctors, everyone had trying to find a vein which would play ball. So when the junior doctor came in to tell me that my blood test had gone missing I wasn't over the moon, poor man / child (far too young to be a doctor as I told him) was devastated and could not apologise enough...He sat down next to me and tried to take some blood, it took three attempts  I was looking away from him while he was digging around and I was crying, it had been that sort of day, then I felt him stop and I turned and realised he had stopped because he saw I was upset.

"Sorry" I said again for the fiftieth time that day, "It's not been the best day, my hair is falling out and my veins don't work, I'm normally a lot happier than this.."

He looked so totally downcast sitting there with his syringe and so close to tears himself that I burst out laughing.

"It's fine, honestly" I said, "I'm sure we will find one that works soon".

We both then recovered enough to start laughing and talked about how rubbish the whole day had been. I told him he looked far too young to be a doctor, he admitted he was young but I said it was fine, I had noticed that he had quite a big head and that usually meant he was probably extraordinarily brainy so I trusted him. He even found a working vein in my stupid arm.

"I'm taking these directly to the laboratory" he said, clutching the test tubes, "I shall hand them over personally" he assured me, "no more blood tests for you today".

The people in this place are amazing, they care and it shows and that is incredibly important because being in hospital is no laughing matter. The nurses the junior doctor, the cleaning staff, all of them made a rubbish time more than bearable.

Which is why when someone isn't caring, but is in fact the opposite, it really stands out as the exception rather than the rule and is incredibly distressing as I was to find out...

Bad Superman - Part 8

Remember the old Superman film where he was a wrong un'? He had stubble, was aggressive and mean and snappy, and never mind saving the world he could barely raise a civil word.

Well, like Superman even fairies have bad days.

I've had quite a few recently and if you bore the brunt of my mood or short temper recently then I apologise, it's just terribly hard to be positive and 'look on the bright side' or at the 'success survival rate' or even the fact that 'it will all be over before you know it'. I am rude when I'm scared, and right now I am pretty frightened, I keep trying to be brave but it's terribly exhausting, I haven't yet started chemo but I have been sent the start date and subsequent treatment dates and that was enough to send me over the edge. On the same day I received that letter I  also received another one inviting to me a separate session called 'De-mystifying Chemo' a useful appointment which would help to allay all my fears about the upcoming treatment and explain what to expect. Shame they both happened to be on exactly the same day.

When I went in to sign my consent form I did manage to have a very civilised argument / discussion with my oncologist . I brought up the fact that she had gone on leave and I just mentioned that it would have been good to know as I had been very worried, it was a lot like lighting touch paper. If there is one thing the medical profession do not like it is being questioned, happy to have every part of your life dissected it doesn't work quite the same when it's the other way round. The 'conversation' went something like this.

Me: "It would have been good to know that you were going on leave for a week as I had no idea what was happening"

Oncologist: "I'm sorry but what has my personal leave to do with you?"

Me: "Well aside from the fact I was waiting on results which you felt were not clear, and my treatment depended and whether or not further investigation would be needed, the last thing I had heard from you was on Friday night at 7.30pm that you were not entirely convinced by the findings from the other hospital."

Onclogist: "I still do not understand why I need to let you know when I am taking personal leave, it is not your business"

Me: "Well it becomes my business when I have been pushed from one professional pillar to post, the fact that I had a pretty big scare due to an incorrect analysis of results only to be told that the one person I had come to rely on, the one person I thought I could trust was off on leave without letting me know what was going to happen next."

Onclogist: "There are a whole team of people here who could help you, I deal with hundreds of patients, my personal leave is not something I discuss with any of my patients."

Me: "I have only met you, and been given the number of your secretary, I have met no one else in your team and had no idea I had any other point of contact except for yourself or your secretary. Your secretary was unable to tell me of any results."

Oncologist: "I cannot be expected to let every patient of mine know when I am taking leave."

Me: "I totally agree, I have no need to know where you are going, how long for or if you have had a nice time, I am just one of those hundreds of patients and I just wanted to know what was happening with me and when. I was treated pretty badly over the last set results and was left waiting to see if my chemotherapy could even start".

Oncologist "We only found out today what the results were, so me going on leave had nothing to do with you being able to find out or not"

In fact I had been so worried about the results and the fact that anything negative could delay the chemotherapy that during the week I had called up the other hospital and had finally spoken to someone who had been able to find out the results (off the record) and reassure me that everything was fine. At what point is it justified that the patient has to turn detective to find out something because the right person to ask is on holiday?

I now felt so frustrated and fed up with the entire discussion I just wanted it to stop so I could sign the consent form and get it over with, so I did what all sensible women in the same situation would do, I started crying. I felt no guilt, although she did look slightly alarmed. Used to dealing just with cancer perhaps she appeared surprised there might be a heart function too. She did agree that I had been messed around with and the atmosphere between us started to thaw somewhat although there was definitely an underlying feeling that I should never have crossed the 'personal' line.

In the end we were friendly-ish, I signed the form and we discussed the effects of chemotherapy. Honestly this lot could win awards in sitting on the fence, I was told I probably would be very nauseous, but then again I might not be that bad, I may have mouth ulcers, but I might not, I might lose my hair but maybe not. She made it very clear that I should try and lead as normal a life as possible. I asked if I could carry on teaching my Spanish classes. She didn't see that as a problem, in all likelihood that would be fine, just be aware of any infections the children might have. That seemed like quite a big ask as there are 60 of them and they don't tend to carry warning signs...still, she was the expert.

I felt quite positive leaving her office, it wasn't going to be all bad this chemo beeswax, I should be able to just get on and deal with it, her reassurance that most people lead very normal lives seemed incredibly positive and in complete contrast to the horror stories I had heard. That's the trouble with me, if you say it can be done then I will do it. Regardless of the consequences.

So with term ending for Christmas, most of the orders already out for the coffee I tried calming down. Unfortunately Bad Superman crossed with The Mean Reds and with the first chemo looming things were not looking good, mainly for The Boyfriend who really did demonstrate the patience of a saint despite me spitting frightened fury at him at every opportunity. The first chemo was two weeks before Christmas and the next one after New Year, with a decent break in between to allow me to at least try and forget about it all before the first three months of the year were swallowed up by treatments.

The week before it all started was like a ticking bomb, just waiting and wishing the time away and yet hoping that every hour would drag by. I went to the nurse to have the dressing on my leg changed, she asked if I had had a flu jab. Nope, that one had passed me by, apparently I should have been vaccinated two weeks before the treatment started to give the vaccine a chance to work. Apparently I was going to be very prone to infections and viruses and needed this jab almost as much as I needed....oh I don't know, meditation? Who should have told me that? Where was that written down? Which manual?
She jabbed me and said I may feel some discomfort. Boy did she hold back on the truth there, I felt nothing for a few hours but soon enough my arm felt as if it had been held in between revolving doors, I was in agony and couldn't move it properly for 24 hours. Still, it briefly took my mind off the impending nightmare...


I have to have blood tests first before each treatment, this is to check your white blood cell count, your red cells, stuff and more medical stuff.  Then you are back a few hours later to have the treatment itself, that means you have three hours to find something to do, that's three hours of pretending. We tried Asda to pick up a few bits and then Sainsburys for a coffee, neither place was doing it for me, I walked up and down the aisles picking stuff up and putting it back all the while feeling like I had an illuminated neon arrow above my head screaming "Chemo Chemo Chemo". We eventually gave up and headed back to the hospital.

The room itself is open plan, several open plan rooms, all with armchairs and chairs lined up against the wall where all the sockets are. Lots of very smiley nursing staff running around being helpful and busy, lots of  not quite so smiley looking people hooked up to IV's all with their arms resting on white pillows. Machines bleep in continuation as they need to be re-set or their batteries fail...kidding just kidding.

We were given our seats, and to our left and right there were two men both hooked up to their IV's. The man to my right pretended we weren't there and avoided saying anything to us directly, this was quite hard as we were so close we were practically sharing a socket. I was unaware of the etiquette so I said hello to his wife. She managed a smile and a hello while simultaneously continuing to read her newspaper and avoiding all eye contact which was quite disconcerting. In the subsequent hours there she managed to cover The Mail, The Mirror and The Express from cover to cover she also did every quiz, crossword and Soduku inside the papers and and barely raised her head to drink a cup of milky tea. He husband was less than impressed when we spoke Italian as he was then unable to follow our conversation, I began to realise why his wife had brought so much reading material.

On our left was another man who seemed nice enough, he smiled at us and then just carried on minding his own business, reading his paper and absorbing his poisons.

The nurses were fabulous, there is no other word for them, all different nationalities and all wanting to make everyone feel as if this was a day out not a slice of horror. My nurse was called Blanchita, she was from the Philippines and was lovely, she had a super strong accent and I kept wanting to call her Margherita Pracatan (from an ancient Clive James show years ago) however out of respect I refrained, although in my head I did keep saying it 'Blankeeeta Practaaaan' over and over again for my own amusement.

All of the nurses were sweetly very curious about us and came over to chat to The Boyfriend about Italy and wanting to know how I could speak Italian, this did not impress the man to our right as he was evidently not used to new people being the centre of attention, he was the expert, an old hand at chemo and familiar with the treatment, the nurses and the tea lady. This man had bought the t.shirt having been there seen and done it all, he knew all there was to know about everything it seemed, except languages.

As we were talking about names Mr.T.Shirt said loudly and rudely to no one in particular "I can't do names I can never remember them all so I just call them all Love or Darlin'".

The lovely Blanchita practically reared up and pointed to a sign on her meds trolley and said politely but through gritted teeth: "My name is Blanchita, see here B L A N C H I T A very easy, I like to be called by my own name, thank you"

First rule of chemotherapy, never ever upset the nurses.

The meds trolley was wheeled over to me and 'my' medicines were unwrapped, bags and bags of comedy sized syringes the size of which needed to be seen to be believed, the first two were full of a bright red liquid, the rest were just as colourful but I stopped looking. Blanchita was very kind but even she was struggling with my veins, sitting in front of me she slowly administered each 'medicine' by feeding it into my arm, it was hard because my veins wouldn't play ball and were hiding from her, I totally sympathised and wondered if anyone would notice if I too disappeared. She persevered and wrapped my now cold stinging arm in a blanket to try and keep it warm, she also mentioned that each drug may have a special side effect, itchy bum (nope) fizzing sensation in my nose (yes) and an ice cold painful headache (yes) but these were only temporary and it killed time waiting for each one to happen.

I tried not to imagine the dreadful chemicals racing around my body, ironically on a mission to kill bad stuff which may be hiding somewhere, but at the same time destroying any good stuff which I've spent years building up. It was like a civil war raging inside me, with no one really sure who was on the winning side and me as the hosting battleground. As the drugs took effect I started to feel really strange, tired and out of it, Blanchita talked to me about fitting a Pic Line before my next session, no more needles she explained and it would make it much easier to give me the chemotherapy, it was simply a tap in my arm. I wasn't really listening, it's been a while since I've had any control over what is happening to my body, I just go along with it because the alternative tends to be worse.

Leaning my head back on the chair I tried to keep my eyes open and I saw the man on my left smiling at me, he then reassured me that a pic line was so much easier than needles for the countless blood tests as well as the chemo, I felt like I had been slowed down to the wrong speed but I managed to thank him, he then nodded at the sealed envelopes of syringes on my trolley and he said:

"If any of that spills or breaks it is considered a major hospital incident" then he went back to his crossword.

Even writing that makes me feel sick.

Leaving the hospital I was dosed up with anti-nausea tablets and anti-nausea steroids to be taken at various hours of the day mainly just after or just before meals which is a joke because the last thing you want is food, at any time of the day. Not initially though, I arrived back home early evening feeling spaced out, tired and interestingly absolutely starving. So I ate and then went to bed and although I slept for a couple of hours I soon woke and that's when it started...

My food poisoning a few weeks earlier was good practice for this, you feel sick but it's a sickness you can do nothing about, it is everywhere and nowhere in particular, it hurts but not like cramps it is a deeply unpleasant sensation which just seeps over you in waves making you groan because there is nothing you can do and no one who can do anything for you. I lay there hoping and praying it would pass or that the drugs would kick in and take the nausea away. The sickness I expected, my imagination took me by surprise, every time I closed my eyes I could visualise the stuff pumping around my body, I was back in the room with giant talking syringes and I could hear the machines bleeping. Hallucinating? Maybe. I wasn't asleep I knew that much, that didn't happen till early the next morning.

It took me about three days to start to feel normalish. I was incredibly weak but my appetite returned with a vengeance and I craved beans on toast, roast chicken dinners and fish and chips, I wasn't going to deny my body what it wanted to eat but it occurred to me that I certainly wasn't in danger of fading away on this diet if it continued like this for the next three months.

I had little energy but I was determined to feel better as soon as I could. I had been told that I was to live as normally as possible, and that is what I did. I did not feel like staying in bed all day, after all some people returned to work during chemotherapy, that's what the expert had told me and stupidly I believed her.

That'll learn me...

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.

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.

One Flew Pretty Close...Part 5

I have never really been sick. No broken bones, never been seriously ill and I can count lifetime visits to casualty on one hand. The worst accident I have had was falling through the garage roof when I was about 6 years old, everyone thought I had broken my back, I was just sitting on the floor waiting to be rescued with not a scratch on me. The lack of drama was almost disappointing.

I didn't think I was particularly lucky, I was just never ill and as a result of being stupidly healthy I had very little time or patience with those who were ill, especially vegetarians. I was especially impatient with them... I just couldn't understand how those who followed a super nutritious diet of almost exclusively vegetables had continuously pallid unhealthy complexions and suffered cold / fever / infections almost constantly. My muttered advice to 'eat a bacon sandwich' was not welcomed, and it was clear that nursing would never be a career option.

Hoisted by my own petard? Maybe. Certainly the irony of what is happening now is not lost on me.

This week I'm thinking about renting a room at the hospital I'm in and out of there more often than I'm at home and I am familiar with the different parts; I know what a nightmare the car park can be in the morning, as drivers of all ages ignore or feign ignorance of any and all road signs to brazenly inch their way into the few spaces which offer a short walking distance to the hospital. I know where the best coffee is, naturally, and when not to bring something to read because they already have good magazines. For someone who has barely been inside a hospital most of her life I could offer walking tours in this one.

One day to go before the operation and one last appointment, this time with  nuclear medicine which wasn't as dangerous as it sounds, more mapping out to be done for the operation so they could see exactly where the lymph nodes are positioned, this was the bit where they injected me with radioactive stuff and tried to distract me from the pain as it whooshed into my veins, by screening a soothing video of Swiss mountains and waterfalls. I really think they need to change their idea of what constitutes distraction, old Top of The Pops footage would have been better and then at Christmas time how about excerpts from Elf to cheer people up?  I have a feeling they don't have a suggestion box...

I'm rubbish at packing, I never know what to take. For this hospital visit I was told to bring a dressing gown and slippers, I bought a slip of a nightie and chunky socks. Told you I was bad. We were only allowed one person in with us and I brought two, this last thing went down very badly with the person checking me in. She was not happy, in fact she summed up the expression 'po faced' perfectly. Next time I need to remember not to bring in one gorgeous Irish friend and one good looking concerned Italian boyfriend, Ms Po Faced was not impressed by my colourful guests and skillfully managed to tell all of us off in various different ways without ever bothering to look in our direction. That is quite an achievement and scary to be at the non receiving end of it. If you see what I mean.

The thing with being in hospital makes someone like me turn into a major people pleaser,  they are amazing these nurses and doctors, in fact the whole NHS is wonderful, so you want to be on your best behaviour for them, or at least I do, smiling, cracking jokes, anything to show them that I am indeed the model patient. Perhaps in the back of my mind I hoped I'd be pushed to the front of the queue and the surgeon, all fresh from a decent nights sleep would be on fine form and all ready for his star patient to be the first up on the trolley. Happy and willing and ready to cut me up beautifully as he knew I would be nervous and hungry from all that nil by mouth beeswax.  First up? In my dreams.

When the sparkly eyed anaesthetist came in to tell me the news that I would be the last of the day I figured that Ms. Po Faced had far reaching powers or friends in high places, I was looking at 19 hours total with no food, no more liquids and still about six hours till the operation, she was good I'll give her that, I sent my guests home, unwilling to cause any other problems. In the meantime I answered all the questions on the anaesthetist's form as he lounged on the bed I'd been told to get off of.

"You aren't allowed on there" I said in a low voice.

"Oh" he replied smiling at me "Really?"

"I've already been told off" I said.

"I'm sorry to hear that, I'm going to risk it" he said, carrying on ticking boxes on his form.

You're a braver man than me I thought, thankful the curtains on my little cubicle were closed and she was unable to see this flagrant breaching of the rules.

I had several visitors in the run up to the operation, not chosen by me but entertaining nonetheless. My wonderful cancer nurse came to see me, I can't believe I am writing that I have my own cancer nurse, but I do and fortunately she has the patience of a saint, she understands my need for straight talking and isn't offended by my sometimes slightly gallows style sense of humour. She also has great skin, my Irish friend pointed that out, she does indeed, it sort of glows. In fact she glows, she's calm and articulate and every time I see her I want to hug her, there is something about her which makes me feel everything will be alright. I have her number if it isn't.

Hospitals are strange places, reassuring and scary at the same time. A bit like the people who work there... Waiting to be called I felt as if I was hiding, trapped in a cubicle on an uncomfortable chair wishing the time to pass by while at the same time hoping it would stand still. I did go on a brief sojourn to have a blood test, oh yes even on this big day they weren't letting me off at least one extra puncture wound. It helped pass the time and on my way there a fleeting thought that I could make a break for it did cross my mind but I wasn't sure where to go, and then what? Back again to face the wrath of Po Faced? No thanks. I was accompanied for this trip out by a he/she person I say this because quite honestly it could have happily been either.  Sitting waiting for the test the very ambiguous being next to me asked (in a squeaky voice) what I did for a living, I felt as if I was back in a hair salon, 'Going anywhere nice for yer holidays?' Fortunately I was saved from having to respond by the call of the needle.

Next up was my stylist...kidding, just kidding, it was a hospital nurse? Orderly? I'm really not sure but the comedy circuit is missing a trick with this lot, I have a feeling that under their uniforms they are wearing t.shirts and badges with various sayings about needing to be mad to work here or 'I'm Crazeee me'. Indeed they are. I was given paper gowns to wear, two on account of me not having brought a dressing gown and a bottle green pair of surgical  socks with the toes out, I wasn't looking my best but the main aim was not to pull, I kept telling myself.

Interestingly patients are now walked into theatre instead of being knocked out on a bed and then rolled in, apparently, psychologically it helps patients recover quicker, although I am not yet convinced, I'm still hoping I will be sent a feedback form...

Friendly check in upon arrival = Nil point
Walking into theatre = Nil point
Theatre Fashion = Nil Point

Being walked into a pristine large operating room, looking like Steptoe's aunt in my odd looking get up and faced with several groups of very professional looking people who all pause, smile at you benignly (how ironic) say hello and then go back to their tasks, was frankly terrifying in a way that only Jack Nicholson would understand when faced with Nurse Ratched and her team. Helped up onto the bed, worried that my bits would fall out and trying to arrange myself in a dignified manner was tough, soothing talk from the various nurses as they 'arranged' me on the bed about impending weddings was difficult to concentrate on. There was no gentle drift off as the anaesthetic took hold, one moment I was panicking as the needle in my back of my hand drip fed in the medication far too slowly for everyone's liking, the next I was out cold.

Coming round from the operation, any operation in fact, I am always slightly bewildered as to why they choose that particular moment to tell you what has been done to you. It's hard to take instruction or listen to information when you are a dribbling paranoid mess. I also had the dubious honour of extra morphine being syringed directly into my mouth as soon as I woke up. Not as pleasurable as you may think.

"Have your cup of tea and eat some toast and go to the toilet, then we can call your lift" said the definitely male nurse with bobbed hair after administering the drug.

Yeah, right.

I have a theory about this. I think they have us on camera somewhere, scoring points over the 'drunkest' looking patient, seeing how they walk and where they walk, how long in the toilet, how long to get dressed. Remember that game you'd play as kids when you would turn someone around until they were dizzy then give them a push and start them walking? Hysterical until it was your turn. Well I think that is what this lot are up to, and to be fair I'd do the same given half the chance.

The consultant came round, full of good cheer, and great news. It looked like the cancer hadn't spread through my lymph nodes, so that is good, it was all removed, more good news, but they did have to make two incisions, not so good. I am learning though, they always follow the good news with a bit of bad.

Like the opposite of the icing on the cake.

The Mean Reds Part 4

In the film Breakfast at Tiffany's Holly Golightly describes having the 'Mean Reds'. Worse than the blues, to quote Audrey Hepburn from the film she dismisses the blues as being those days when you are getting fat or it's been raining too much, you're just sad that's all, but the mean reds...well they are in a league of their own.

"Suddenly you are afraid and you don't know what you are afraid of" is how she describes them..

I went to the surgery to see one of the doctors about my leg, an infection I had from an old horse riding wound needed checking on as it wasn't healing. I'm not keen on this particular GP, he messed up something for me a few years ago and I have avoided him ever since. However I was told that he is good with infections so I parked my real feelings about him to check up on my leg. The appointment didn't take long and I was ready to leave after only a few minutes. He however had something on his mind he wanted to discuss with me.

"I have noticed from your notes that you have breast cancer, I'm very sorry to see that" he said.

He then went on to mention how interesting it was because my levels of CA125 had been quite high back in May. Of course I already knew about this, CA125 can be a marker for cancer, it is something to do with the level of a particular enzyme, the normal level is around 35, anything higher and they start to worry. Mine was at 100.

"It's fine" I said really not wishing to enter into a discussion with him.

"That was all put down to my abdominal fibroid, they did think it was ovarian cancer and although it was pretty scary at the time in the end it was decided the levels were elevated due to the fibroid". I said, done with my explanation.

I made to get up and leave but he hadn't finished with me yet.

"Well that is what is terribly interesting" he continued, "There must be a link between ovarian cancer and breast cancer, especially with any family history of either cancer".

He looked at me half smiling as he relayed this news, there was an element of discovery in his tone as he continued telling me about a patient of his with the same thing, turned out she too had breast cancer, and her levels of CA125 were also higher than usual. He found this nugget of information fascinating, it pleased him no end that there was this potential medical breakthrough which had not been confirmed but which he had deduced by looking at my notes and comparing it with his own case. Clever man.  He was certainly quite happy to be sharing it with me. I felt sick as I took in what he was telling me.

"Does this mean they could have found this back in May? Four months ago?" I asked, in disbelief.

I watched as, metaphorically speaking, he climbed onto a fence as he could see me registering the impact of his conclusion. He refused to admit anything all the while mumbling something about 'it being highly unusual to link the two' and there was 'no definite link just a possibility' but 'wasn't it interesting?' Not for me it wasn't, it was frightening, although quite what I was scared of I wasn't yet sure.

Catching something like this early is important, it is hammered home to girls and women of all ages how we should check ourselves again and again because the earlier it is caught the sooner they can treat it. Was he saying that they should have / could have checked and then insisted on a mammogram just to rule things out? Should it have been caught before, maybe, before it started hurting. If there was a teeny tiny chance that it may have been linked then should I have been screened? It's confusing enough at times in my head but at that point it was bedlam.

I'd had enough and stood up to leave.

"Your leg is making good progress" he said, I was nearly at the door.

"Of course the chemotherapy will set that back" he said.

Even my consultant wouldn't confirm what my treatment would be until after my operation, yet this GP with the limited knowledge of my case set out on a screen in front of him felt he was perfectly able to blithely pass on this terrifying piece of information with all the compassion of Genghis Khan.

I walked out before I lamped him.

I did write a letter of complaint and they have assured me there will be an investigation,  I have asked that even if there is a glimmer of a link then anyone with high levels of this enzyme need to be offered a mammogram. It isn't enough to dismiss it as a theory, the procedures need to be changed.  I have no idea what is ahead for me, I won't know a thing until I'm given the results after my operation and that is a few weeks away. One step at a time.

I'm almost looking forward to the operation, it won't be pretty but I certainly need to know what I'm up against. That's the thing with the Mean Reds, once you know what the frightening thing is, it's not quite as frightening.