Spreading the news

Good evening again my friends, and if anyone could possibly explain what you, any of you, has done with our summer, I’m all ears! 

Hmm – ears – we’ll come on to that later. Oh don’t worry – I don’t have EAR cancer (well, as far as I know – anything could happen these days, carcinoma tourist that I am!) 

I think I’d just woken up under Dr Dreamboat last time we chatted. Corr, I bloody wish! By this I mean, under his care. In the end, he and Professor Yaffle did NOT remove the whole of the rest of my right lung. Only the lower lobe! So you have three lobes in your right lung, and two in the left. I now have a middle right lobe, and a full set of lobes on the left. Happy days, right? 

Except … not. I mean the preservation of the middle thingy was fab. The trouble was, nobody told me the results of the operation, or the results of the pathology. 
You know me – I’m an easy going girl, I don’t ask for much. (The carer has just choked on his roast and gone limping into the garden in some kind of apoplectic disarray. Embarrassing- we have lovely new neighbours. It was lamb, too – his favourite.)

Anyhooo, the weeks dragged on, with radio silence. The surgeon is in one town, the oncologist another. I mean I know it’s Southampton and Portsmouth, respectively, but I’d understood the World Wide Web operated in these parts. 

After three and a half weeks, despite contact west, I decided I had to intervene. I emailed Mr 24 character’s assistant.

‘Hi D, it’s me, Cardigan. Don’t suppose you’ve had the pathology back from my op have you? Like, next steps if any, and all of that? Yours slightly earnestly but not at all panicking – Mrs Garment’

By return: ‘Hi Mrs G-C. Oooh – Mr 24 characters asks if you’ve had your operation???’

By return:‘Yes. Almost four weeks ago.’

Before return:‘I’m on the case now and Mr 24 will see you at four twenty today.’

Crikey thought I, that’s like the dentist seeing you at two thirty. Work it out – unless you are not over 50!!

Off I trundle at the designated time. 

Mr 24 is ready for me, with a hurriedly recruited pathology report, obvs curling at the edges because it had BEEN SAT IN SOUTHAMPTON for four weeks. 
Now, as you know, I can find communication challenging with Mr 24, especially with masks on, as he no doubt can with me. 

A piece of paper is offered. 

‘Mrs Garment, we have just found the report. Here it is.’
Shove of a paper, all in that funny print that printers had in the 80s. It has words I don’t think I’ll ever understand.

 
‘When they got the lung section out, they also found the cancer has spread into all the lymph nodes they took. Fully replaced by metastatic lung carcinoma.’

I sat back a little in the chair, at that point. Of all the things I thought may happen, spread was actually not one of them. I mean, I can’t believe it’s not butter! I wish it bloody had been, it would have been a whole lot easier to get rid of! 

I am a bit confused, as the spread of lung cancer (they all have their different routes by the way: for lung, it goes liver, bone, brain. It doesn’t even bother to go to the other lung. Weird, isn’t it?).  Not for one moment had I thought it would be a lymphomaniac. The little shit.

‘Oh ok!’ Say I. ‘What does that mean?’

I’ve been to Sri Lanka three times but I’ve never heard or learned the phrase ‘technically you’re fucked’. Namaste love. 

Now this is not strictly the case. In my favour I am young and fit (STOP LAUGHING YOU BASTARDS!!!!!!!!) – the stats aren’t great BUT most people present with lung cancer far later in life, unfortunately by which time there’s not much to be done. 

In my case, I’ve had the gold standard: relatively early detection in both episodes; my ebullient 54 year youth on my side; I’m dairy free, I read the Guardian (um, and the Telegraph FOR ITS GARDENING SECTION), I’m kind to animals, I love my mum even though she’s long gone – What could possibly go wrong???? 

Upshot is, headbanger cheeeeeeeemo starts this coming week. 

‘You will be vomiting, you will lose your hearing and your hair and you will be having diarrhoea or constipation. It is a very tough regime. We will look after you.’ 

Well – that’s all I need to know. I am perfectly happy with that. 

Tomorrow I go in to get the central line rigged up – up a vein from elbow to heart – which will stay with me until the end, in November.

I’ve done it before, four years ago, and therefore I’ll do it with ease and characteristic arsiness again this time. 

Thank you for staying with – I’ll update you with cytotoxic lols later this week.

Pip pip xx