Who's going to get the chicken?

 

 

Here I am again, seeking attention as usual, but a-keepin you up to date with my epic TripAdvisor tour of the C-Word. If you’re new to the blog – where have you been?? Catch up mate!

 

So, for the two primary cancers (that means, separate, unrelated, new cancers, vs one that started somewhere and chose to have an extended holiday elsewhere) I’ve had in the last three years, I rate them on:

 

Location

Amenities

Service

Overall

 

I will return to this.

Sooo – last time – I’d been to the Breast Cancer consultant; alles klar in the C department but wow, was he unhappy with the lumpy patchwork of a botched left boob. I’d talked about it in the last blog; I’m not overly bothered if my 53-yr old fun bags have gone from 36DD to 36 under the quay, with a wonky bit on the side. The carer is a bum man anyway, and, jeez Louise, that’s a wider berth then any quay can cope with. Quay what I mean?

 

At that time, when we last spoke, there was the prospect of some surgery to alter the look of leftola, the one with the wonky bits. The consultant put it thus:

 

“I am not happy with the look, compared to your lung scar. I would like to correct it (otherwise your left tit will end up in your right ear love…or that’s what I think he said..)

The golden moment:

 

“I need to re-open, then inject fat from your stomach to fill and re-shape, and als……………………..”

 

STOP…

 

Or rather (channel your Girls Aloud people!):

 

 

“Stop right there,

Thank you very much,

I need someone with a scalpel touch,

Hey you, always on my bum,

You won’t be bothered if I have just one?’

 

Stop riiiiight there, stop riiight there ….etc.

 

Alright love, I’ve already signed the forms, when do we start???

 

Well, we started, and then quickly, we stopped. Not that, you filthers!!

 

We stopped right there. It will become needed, but not now. The funding would be better spent on other things. We are officially NOT BOTHERED.

 

So from breast, we move to lung. Flippin eck, sounds like a starter at the Fat Duck!

As you know, I had an upper right lobectomy (aka, a third of my right lung) hoiked out last September. Due to lung cancer, obvs! Why did I get that? Because I smoked tons of lovely fags. I don’t regret one; to this day, I massively enjoyed them all.

 

I will keep banging on about it, but 90% of lung cancer patients are current or ex-smokers. I am a 7-year ex-smoker. 50% of current smokers will get lung cancer; 50% of us will get cancer anyway. This thing will kill you, and it will yet kill me, despite abstinence for 7 years.

 

Hold that thought, please. I don’t want you doing what I now have to do, for the rest of my life.

 

Today I had the results meeting from my scan in January.

 

Guess what: another little thing is brewing.

It’s too soon to say what it is, exactly; we always assume the best, which no doubt it will be. It’s in the lower right lobe; we’re a bit concerned I’m going to run out of lobes on that side — buuttttt – we will deal with.

 

Back to my Trip Advisor ratings:

	Breast cancer	Lung cancer
Location	The left boob	The upper right lung
Amenities	Heart, lungs, all that shit	Other bits of the lung
Service	Nice at the time, paying for it now	Mr Dreamboat was lush
Overall	Would not recommend as a place to revisit on same side	Literally hoping for a second bout under his care #awks

 

 

 

Evening, Chickettes!

 

First of all – THERE IS NO NEW NEWS. I haven’t got a hatrick yet, or – not that I know of! I was absolutely hopeless at keeping the Chicken, and who indeed was going to get it, alive during the end of last year. Soz. I’ve gone a bit veggie too, which may help mitigate!

 

This was partly because the whole process of a new cancer was utterly bizarre. Not the actual happening of it – that was fine – I had breast cancer because I have breasts, I had lung cancer because I used to smoke. Absolutely fine by me. You reap what you sow and all of that – it’s fair.

 

No, I mean, it was almost like CA Express. CA is the medical code for cancer, so, if you’re ever in with the GP, you’re chatting away and you see what she is writing…if you see ‘?CA?’, not that you would decipher it, obvs, pin her to the desk and get answers.

 

Or maybe the CA Drive-Thru?

 

‘Ello good morning what can I get yooooo, is that a meal you want? No, what just the coffeeeee? No fries with that? Ok, go to the next windowwwwwww which is what it says on my sheeeeet when they don’t buy a meeeeel thank you for your business and have a good daaaaay!’

 

I’ll never go back to the Fat Duck again, that much I can tell you.

 

Well, let’s try this. I pull up to the window.

‘Good morning young sir, I’d greatly appreciate one of your finest upper right lung lobectomies please!’

 

‘You want any morpheeeeeen with that?’

 

‘Yes please good man. As much as you can muster!’

 

Speaking of muster – well – I find myself in an extraordinarily military kind of environment in my new job. It’s all acronyms, orders, clicking of heels and frankly, little boys clinging on to their past glories. Oooh!

 

Typical day:

 

“Now look here Bunty, there’s trouble in the troops.”

“Righto Sir, what’s to do?”

“We need Chalkie, Fizzer, Chippo and Whizz, at the double.”

“Certainly Sir! Report back in the Mess at 17:00hrs’

“Good work Bunty. See you for sundowners then, old bean.”

 

I was not, and am not, Bunty.

So it’s a tiny bit awks if I have to go off for TitCheck, or LungCheck. Not with my immediate boss, of course – she is an ACTUAL FEMALE – and could not be better as a boss and a human being.

It’s more with the senior chaps. We were in a meeting at 8.30 the other day; I knew I had to leave by 9.20 to go for my mammogram results meeting. (For anyone new to this blog, it started three years ago when I was diagnosed with breast cancer – keep scrolling back down, it was much funnier when I had more to face – and it’s only going on now because I got lung cancer, unrelated, five months ago).

So…I am running the meeting and the (hitherto) frozen chaps are beginning, just about, to learn that a woman is not just there to make the coffee – and then I have to go. I say, honestly, that I have a hospital appointment. Frowns and shuffling and jolly good luck.

I would like to tell them why, I can’t and don’t. I am not Bunty, after all.

Onwards, upwards, bigger better MORE! Ohh – which reminds me.

So off I trot to the other god.

I have the original, the Loving one, with the capital G; my beloved Oncologist also with a capital G, as this is the first letter of his surname; and my breast consultant who has no Gs in his name, yet is my saviour for matters of the boob department.

I was with this god of mine on Tuesday. After the physical examination, I get dressed and sit in front of his desk.

“No evidence of recurrence in either breast, Sophie”, says he.

“Thank you!” say I, ever so slightly relieved.

His face is not right though.

I hear a ‘but’.

“However, I am not happy with the way you were left post-surgery. It was not well done. It is causing distortion and tissue scarring which will only become worse over time. You have some tissue, forming as lumps, also which I would like to remove. It depends how you feel about it.”

Now that’s a question. Look, I’m 53, not 23; I am happily married in a loving relationship; I don’t care about how I look; or, I do care, but my husband can’t be beaten off by a stick carried by 100 Bison – so?

We think on.

In the meantime, I’m super excited for Monday, as it’s my first PET CT scan for lung cancer; I haven’t shared this yet, but this is the treatment plan I will have going forward, every six months, for five years. Surveillance, said Onc God, is more effective than chemo or radio at the time, last autumn.  Apparently, this little bugger is more likely to turn up again, than the breast cancer. I’m ready, as always.

Let’s see if Bunty is free to make the coffee, eh?

 

Pip pip xx

Tra la la la! I was with my GP earlier, and I’ve laughed so much I felt it was time to share this, and recent experiences, with you, loyal readers.

It wasn’t me who made the appointment – nowt wrong with me day to day and that’s the truth; but they’d received all my recent paperwork from various hospital visits and called to suggest I went in for a general catch up. I think that’s really impressive.

Contrary to what you might expect, once you have hopped on to the conveyor belt of cancer treatment (Good game! For those who can remember that reference; ah – just you, Keith…sorry), the GP and the local surgery sort of come out of the whole process for a time – if not, the entire duration.

If something weird happens, or if you need a top up of associated meds, then of course, in you go; but for the most part, you’re locked in to the treating hospital’s system, meaning that all on-going appointments with consultants and specialist nurses are made in situ. That makes sense – removes a step of the GP’s time, and the sludge-trudging admin that comes with it.

Consequently, despite having two separate cancers within the last two and half years (showing off again, I know! What am I like??! You wait til the hatrick, lol!), I have probably only seen my GP maybe, three or four times throughout? That’s a great tick in the ‘good patient’ box at the surgery – ‘she’s never ill, she never bothers us!’ – but, show that to various Oncology departments in these parts (“Mrs C? Uggh! Can’t get rid of the old bag”) and they’d laugh their pants off!

Pants..pants…Ah! I knew there was a point to this.

So – every time that I have a medical appointment (if it’s planned, vs legs akimbo on some operating table as much as that is superly fun), I like to present myself in as best a condition I can muster. This is mostly to prove how little any recent medical adventures have affected me, and how utterly marvellously I am recovering – aka, a completely counter-intuitive, stupid and bonkers idea. That’s me!

With both my C-Trip Advisor research tours, I’ve stuck to this approach. Get up at the usual time, shower, do hair, get dressed properly, put the slap on; good to go. It puts me in a positive mood for the day, and then I know that I’ll be virtually untouchable – entirely due to the thickness of the make up I have applied. Good luck to anything or anyone that wants to get through that lot.

In short, I want the medic to say, ‘Gosh, you look well!’ – rather than, ‘You do know you can wash those jogging bottoms??’…or, ‘Does your accommodation have a bath or a shower?’

Or, most crushingly: ‘Is that cod I can smell?’

Outside is one thing; underneath is quite another.

People, I am talking hospital pants. Those pants which are so large, so white, so clean; the sort your mother would approve of. Not your standard greying, fraying kegs; oh no. The kind which, when washed, you need to call three friends over to join you, one at each corner, likely on a village green or festival site, to gather, fold, and put away. In someone’s nearby barn, if poss. Well – at a minimum, to be fair.

I’d got all this nailed down pre-op, of course. Timings conspired such that we got back from Crete on a Friday, and I was in for the lung hoiking on the Monday. Not much time to prepare – but I had. Well – more than that.

Once we knew the date of the op, I set about preparations. First of all: de-fuzz. After breast cancer chemo, I saved hundreds on lady-waxing. Contrary to popular belief, and you can find out all about this if you scroll down within this blog on WordPress, you lose ALL of your hair with most breast cancer chemo cocktails. I mean ALL. Two years after, the whole bloody lot is back. With a vengeance, as the months go on.

I visit lovely T at the salon, who has been with me on both TripAdvisor tours. Spatula aloft, wax bubbling, she starts.

T: ‘The usual down there?’

Me: ‘Um, can we just let it look a bit more….unruly?’

T: ‘A number of my ladies have said that before an operation. Fine, I know the look you want.’

Me: ‘Thanks T. I don’t want them thinking I am some kind of…’

T: ‘You’re having lung surgery, aren’t you???’

Well, you never know, do you? Best to be careful is what I say.

A night when your big, white, apple catchers are certainly NOT les pants-aux-choix is date night. Me and the boy carer have these at least twice a month. Soppy old us (bleuuchhhh!).

He’s super-keen when I suggest one just over two weeks after the op. Call me cynical, but he’s a Procurement manager for a massive corporation, I’m on Codeine, for a medium operation – and that converts to morphine once you swallow it; I’m also on prescription Malbec (ummmmm….I’m sure that’s what the doc said?).

‘This could be a cost-effective evening’, I bet he is thinking

‘I hope I can stay awake beyond 8pm’, is what I am thinking.

It never materialised. I had my best pants on – it was date night after all – but, following a bit of to-ing and fro-ing with trusted medical friends, and their great guidance, we spent date night in Resus at our local general hospital. It WAS JUST LIKE 24HRS IN A&E! They had a red phone, ‘Trauma call, adult female, 9 minutes’ – and everything! I loved it until they put me out, of course. There was no wine list, but the drugs were first class.

Trouble was, I’d had numerous investigations, scans, almost surgery at one point, ALL WITH THE WRONG PANTS!

Back to the GP. Things not quite behaving as they should, with her tests, so more referrals to come.

Downstairs, meanwhile, still super-blocked (my traffic is not flowing freely, shall we say – and nobody mention cocoa solids please, you’re just showing off, and I will punch you). She, the GP, as ever, has a magic solution.

My drugs have prorogued the recovery of my, erm, bowels; I looked the term up.

‘Prorogue: Discontinue without dissolving’

Yep, pretty much sums it up!

Never mind Typhoon Hagibis – there’s wind in those pants tonight

The amazing Dr N sent me home with tons of sachets, lotions and potions. I will spend my entire day tomorrow working out what, when, how often. Before I’ve gone to Lids for a 24-pack of quilted, obvs!

Run out of steam old chums – Tena big jobby scoopy pants,  and bed, beckon.

Pip pip xxx

Tiny postcript: We, by which I mean my tiny family of four, have had amazing and encouraging news lately  – one tiny hump to go; but, as I don’t have my lucky pants on, it’s not for sharing just now.

 

 

Well a very good evening to you all, loyal poultry fans – and what a pleasure it is to invade your quiet soiree, one and all. What are you doing anyway? Is it Strictly (#whocares #goodbye50%offollowers)? Boris’s Bonkers Bumblings? (#wtf) or…?

So, what brings me to this keyboard ce soir?

A number of things. First of all – and if you followed my breast-tastic adventures two years ago, you’ll know this – (all in the same blog, new readers – just scroll on down!) I need something funny about this hilarious rollercoaster of ridiculously undignified happenings which is cancer treatment – to set me off.

I’m going to focus on pain and drugs today. Well – I say that – who knows where we’re heading. I’m off my face (ON PRESCRIPTION DRUGS OBVS) as usual.

Anyway, back to pain and drugs. Lord knows, most of us experience one, and need the other, of a typical working day; although not me, obvs, because I have an amaaaazing new job…[enough? Too much? Bit creepy? Desperate? Whatever).

I was with some amazingly wonderful work colleagues just yesterday, who’d kindly come to see the old bag just to check I hadn’t been telling fibs, I expect me at home, to cheer me up and just be really nice people, which they are.

It was slightly awkward in that, at various points in the conversation, for no reason whatsoever, I kept dissolving into stitch-splitting giggles – all of my own volition. I think at one point, one of the lovely people in question just said the word ‘but’ – and that was it! Tears rolling down my face, clutching my sides, trying to hold the rest of my right lung in, as I swear it was attempting an escape via the three incisions in my back. That worked ok (the stemming of the escape mission); but (oh no!!! that word!) – it just kept coming. After a few such random outbursts, the only thing I can offer these lovely people by way of explanation is that it’s the drugs.

There was another time, during my hospital stay. So, I am back up on the main ward post ICU, and am tethered by five lines. Two IV drips; one lung drain; the power supply to my permanently inflating/deflating surgical stockings (phwoarrr!), and of course, and the ubiquitous oxygen. If I want a wee, I have to call a nurse. Up we get; and while the nurse can carry most things, it is me who has to transport the lung drain container, replete with its gurgling mass of browny-red gunk, filling fast, to the loo.

As it is important to mobilise as soon as poss, Nursey suggests we walk down the corridor with this lot.

“Fine!” I tripped. Because, one of the drips is of course, full of lovely morphine. And I get to administer it to myself. Oh happy days! Trippy as you like! Off my face 24/7. Loving this!

I am always very upbeat in hospital, wanting everyone to have as funny a time as I am. This has not always worked well; for example, they didn’t seem to appreciate me in the End of Life ward in Acute Oncology, when my mum was on her way to brighter shores. I mean, what was wrong with me initiating a regular quiz, “Guess my Cancer!” ? To be fair, it wasn’t obvious, looking around – and Mum won (I made sure of it!) because hers was melanoma, which has NO OUTWARD CLUE!.

Hmm, looking back – not for everyone, I suppose.

Never mind; new hospital (I think I have been barred from the last one); me as patient this time – so, why not?! Liven everyone up is what I say!

“Nursey! It’s Wednesday! Mid-week Happy Hour!! Quick – put a catheter in can you? We can offer Dirty Martinis and lovely warm oak-aged Chardonnay!”.

I am not sure why, but the tugs on the four tethers in her grasp were, to say the least, unnecessarily harsh. Nasty Pursey Nursey.

Off we set, back to my bed, Nursey leading the ensemble of wires and rigs, a little faster than I felt was necessary, sloshy, trippy, freaky – and then leaky. We didn’t make it to the bathroom.

At that point, post lung cancer surgery and all that, I didn’t think it was quite the right time to ask her to take me to the smoking room.

Now on that – as you know – I haven’t smoked a fag since 8^th May 2013. By that time, I think I had exhausted the world’s supply of Marlboro Lights, and enjoyed every smelly one of them. I miss it to this day; smoking is LOVELY (for the smoker; not for anyone else). I still run to be downwind of a good old puff from someone..while being grudgingly accepting that it is not a good thing to do. And it isn’t, in the long run.

And that, my friends, is why I am where I am today; totally expected, and totally fair. It is nice this time not to be told why I might have cancer (to this day, I cannot get over the fact that non medics would suggest a reason why I had got the disease!) As my Onc said at the time, I had got breast cancer because I have breasts. With this one, obvs (EMR), it is because I smoked. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time! I was talking to someone today who said, ‘well, I am only a social smoker so that’s fine’. No! It is not! Just think: if you took out a fag from a packet and on it, it said: ‘This is the one which will start it’ – you’d put it away.

Here comes a tiny bit of science (PAH! Me? Science? LOLliing my pants off!)

Pre-breast cancer, I didn’t really understand what it was all about. I still only know what it meant for ME; every case is different, every treatment tailored – you cannot, and must not, generalise.

Same goes for lung. For example, I had no idea that it wasn’t a case of simply hoiking out the tumour and patching up the hole, as it was for me with breast. They have to take out the whole lobe – where the tumour has got cosy. Effectively, you are bursting a balloon, to get at the cancer. It can’t go back in – that is that! Consequently, you are left with permanent, reduced lung function.

For neatness, and for my never ending luck, mine was tucked snugly in the upper right lobe of my right lung …but….almost abutting the next lobe. Hence, no way of doing a biopsy on it prior to the main op. It was offered; with the proviso that I would very likely bleed out and die. I hesitated; (as if!) and then opted to pass, thank you very much. It was local anaesthetic for a biopsy after all – and hey – would I want to embarrass myself in front of Dr D?? I don’t think so! So we all agreed – just get that whole lobe out. No problem; lungs are big, right? I could lose some weight???

The neatness point is that you have three lobes in your right lung and two in your left. So! I have evened myself up! Result! It was done by keyhole surgery, which means I have three fairly reasonable wounds in the side and middle of my back. Neatness abounds once more; with my boob scars, which are on the left, I am very well balanced. I am pretty happy with that!

 

Crumbs, my drugs must be wearing off! Speaking of which…

 

May I introduce you to my good friend, Colin. Codeine Col, the troll, the nastiest yet most effective home-based pain killer you can wish for. As you know, when you take Codeine (perhaps as Co-Codemol, Solpadol etc) – the minute you ingest it, the body converts it to morphine. Oh happy days!!! I was sent home with some, but pretty fast, I remembered its effects on my central plumbing system. And oh boy, did I feel them.

After three days, I was more backed up than the M5 southbound on a sunny bank holiday weekend. I think you know what I’m saying, my friends!

 

I did the thing you are not meant to do (I’m not talking about calling Dynarod to relieve me of my pressure, though damn, that was a fine , and very big hose!) I elected to withdraw all pain relief. A week ago.

 

Result? Lots of lovely, easy trips to the loo; not so lovely evolution of the bits which look outwardly simple, in terms of the wounds, but of course belie the internal rib manipulation, pulling and pushing of squishy bits inside, tugging, dragging – well, you know it. Well – actually, I don’t, but I am beginning to get the hang of it!

Having passed out in Sainsbury’s from weird pain now at the front of my ribcage, (damn it: 24 years earlier, I’d have got my shopping paid for; trouble was, that liquid wasn’t coming from any birth canal) – and falling asleep at nearly every opportunity, I realise that perhaps I do need some chemical help after all.

I ring the doc – my local surgery GP, who has been on both my TripAdvisor cancer tours, and other things before, and always gets me through.

Me: “You know that Codeine stuff I had?”

Her: “I’ve prescribed you 240 of them, I’ll bring them round.” [because she is amazing, always has been].

 

Woooooo bloody hooooo! Anyone up for a Colin-Fest this weekend??

 

Pippity pip lovely friends – more soon xx

 

 

 

Hgghhhallo peeps (or whatever good evening everyone is – was – in the local language – I’ve got to say, it was all Greek to me). Well, I should really get over myself because we have been home ten whole days today. I can’t quite believe that; as in, how a 30 degree tan can just go…..in that time.

We were away for a bit of R&R – booked (pre-diagnosis), for the boy, who never takes his holiday, and is about to resume his carer role – and, well, for me too, three months in to an amazing new job and then, rather embarrassingly, having a bit of a blip at the old docs and needing a little thingy doing . The time seemed right for a cheeky week; and so it has proven to be.

We got back on the Friday, and OF COURSE there’s lots to do of the weekend, in order to be ship shape and Bristol for Monday. Monday LungDay , la, la, lah lah lah, as I now know it!

We’re all good; cats fed, bins emptied, food sorted; I am sort of excited to get going. We pack the car and race over to the hospital.

In I trot, tan intacto, brightest clothes on, pink lippy abounding (I don’t wear lippy), happy as a lark! I canter to the desk. Reception looks frosty all round.

“Hi! I’m in for a procedure this afternoon with Mr Drea…..Mr C. !”

[Audible sigh; visible eye rolls …then..wide smile!]

“Good morning! Mr C and the anaesthetist are waiting for you upstairs. Someone will show you up”

(Just done that myself, thought I).

Up we go, and into my room. I know I am not going to be in this room this evening, but I AM going to be in it, for a week. Hmm. Maybe hold off re-arranging the furniture and changing the colour scheme? I haven’t got #flowerpotcottage with me in any case, with her ever portable supply of Shaded White and Cabbages and Roses (odd diet, but she’s the best girl in the world; look her up on IG why don’t you, please, and become her 8 millionth follower!). Not to worry; time to unpack, make sure the wifi is working and just get comfy.

Now, you KNOW I have met Dr Dreamboat, the eminent, pioneering and leading Video Assisted Thoracic Surgery – aka VATs (which is included, I hope) – person in the whole entire world. The nicest, most modest man on the planet. A devoted family man (urgh, bet he’s REALLY UNHAPPY); not your arrogant, ‘you better love me because I am literally God’ type surgeon, of which, there are many. I have met a few. Suffice to say, Dr D, or Mr C as I should say, is the person you want to trust with your life, lungs and – well, practically everything.

 

So, quite a contrast. Enter the anaesthetist. Who sprang in, like a pale, North Eastern European version of the Cat ( I think he is meant to be called Pussy but…) in Shrek. Boots and all!

“I am Professor Gerhard Aerhardt Scherhardt Merhehart Ausmarhdt Nerrharrrrrrt. You can call me the GASMAN! Get it???? HAH! (…as if exhaling). I am your Anaesthetist for today. Actually my name is Leonid. HAH!“

I am quite taken aback, as is my carer. I mean, we have literally never experienced anything like this in our unexpected medical romps the last few years. So, here’s how it seemed.

This person has appeared, apparently with a wind machine around him, in a white lawn cotton shirt, immaculate black jeans WITH A HUGE buckle on his belt; rimless spectacles; endless confidence. He sits himself on my bed.

“I am charge of your operation today and your survival during and after and your long term chances of full recovery. Any questions?

“..ummm.. give us a momen………”

“Goodt. First I make you deep sleep and will collapse your entire right lung, but only ven you are deep sleep. HAH!”

[We’re literally creased up over in our corner – which is all we have, given he is man-spreading on MY bed]

“I vill then turn you over and put epidural in your spine.”

[Last time I had one of those I was having a baby so not sure why?…..no time, L is back]

“Zen I will monitor you as lung comes out and make sure you vake up. People think, lung lobe collapse, like a balloon. Pump it back up, like a balloon. HAH!”

[Always been one of my favourite jokes, I must say]

“No! There’s 36 million tiny balloons and it takes a veek! So you must do breathing, like zis! HAH! HAH!”

 

To be honest, I was so bloody terrified/bored/wanting to wear my new slippers down to theatre, we just had to do a key change, step off our stools…..and let him go.

Difficulty was, 30 minutes later, I saw him again. Modern ways have it, and this is a good idea, that if you can walk to theatre, you should; you have to say cheerio to your best beloved at the door (and we both did British stiff upper lip stuff #stifledblubbing); and then, doors closed: zat vas it!! The last thing I remember, pre-op, on the evening of Monday ze 9^th September, was Leonid, holding a mask above my mouth……

Hurrah hurrah, thought I, as I woke up in intensive care with what I thought/hoped, in my intravenous morphine world, was the entire England Rubgy squad jumping up and down on my torso (a girl can dream); I’m alive! And then: it hurts; because, I know they are in Japan.

Well it was all very jolly in intensive care, apart from one, repeating thing. There’s eight beds in there. Obvs, I am the newest recruit. The morning after the night before, I begin to observe a pattern.

Clunk, clunk, clunk. Dragging sound. A squad of two, psyching themselves up.

Swish of curtain (not mine).

“Hi. You OK today?” (no wait for an answer).

“We’re going to take your drain out. Here is the gas and air. We need you to be really brave; take deep breaths into this mask.” (zis mask??? Terrible flashbacks already, lols!)

 

It’s a bit like how I approach the cats when I have to give them the old flea treatment capsule thingy in the back of the neck. Nervous, because I know Karen will rip my throat out, and mild mannered Willy will just hate me forever.

 

On they go, and, no word of a lie, the five that I heard resulted in blood curdling screams of ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!’

 

I was so excited to be involved, as it seemed to be the passport from ICU back up to the ward, that I eagerly enquired as to when it would be my turn.

‘Oh, you’re thoracic. The other seven are cardiac. You have to have yours in for three days. But we’re moving you tomorrow.”

Up I go, the next day. I can see I was completely out of it looking back at my texts to my male carer that evening.

Me: I’ve had a litre of Oramorph and a wee in an actual bed pan!”

Him: Well done lovey.

Me: I had a sandwich and threw up all over my bed!

Him: Well done lovey.

Me: I wish you could have come to see me last night in ICU!

Him: I did. We cuddled. Well done lovey.

Me: I love you. Can we get married soon?

Him: We did, four years ago.

Me: Well done lovey.

 

Next day, or, who knows when…I hear the distant clunking of the Drain Squad. Dynarod this is not, for I have nothing, or, alternately plenty, to give (see blog called Bottoms Up). No. I know what this is.

New ward, new team. Enter, nervously, two nurses.

“Hi! You OK today?” (no wait for an answer).

“OK! Hahahhaha! You’re going to take my drain out aren’t you! I am ready – I have heard the others going through it! Where’s the Entonox then??”

Nervous nursey exchange.

“You can’t have it. You’re thoracic. It’ll damage the remaining lung.”

 

Holy fucking shit.

Now, I am a strong girl, I’m from Somerset born and bred, strong in the arm and thick in the head. I invoke all my powers of yoga/pilates/mindful breathing (and natural sheer arsiness) and tell them:

“This is the countdown. Do it in three..two …one – GO!”

Some days later, la la la la la lah, here I am, la la la la la lah,

Bum in turmoil, la la la la la lah,

Having fun, la la la la la lah……………………………………….Zonk.

 

See you soon lovely friends xxx

The blasted generation game

 

Hey Hey! Just how much I missed you!

Me again. I just LOVE this process, with bits and pieces revealing themselves. It’s all about learning.

I’ve decided that I am like a TripAdvisor for C C C – cancer. See? I can say it; then, so can you. To me.

I will talk to you later about someone who calls it ‘the blasted business’ in front of me. That’s fine! That’s him, and how he goes about it – brilliant.

In fact, I think I am becoming a seasoned pro, and that is absolutely fantastic! See what you think of my latest idea.

So the plan is, I visit a few cancers, see how I get on with them, then give them a rating, or some tips, or places to avoid. You can ‘like’; find the information useful; book in on my recommendation; do whatever you choose! I am here to help, after all. I do hope life, if it so chooses, gives you my 5* preference.

I’m taking you on a new tour, as it’s summer, of lung cancer. Want to join?

It’s interesting this time, because people (not you lot – you are completely, and utterly, beyond amazing) are much more guarded. I think it’s because this stop on my research tour is a direct result of what I have done in the past. I smoked. A lot. For many years. The good Lord knows I have put the bloody hours in – dedicated as ever to the task in hand! I can honestly say, I gave it my ALL, lol!

I gave up 6.5 years ago; but the damage was seeded. It’s come to call. I accept that, completely. 90% of lung cancer patients are smokers or ex-smokers. I played with chance; it kicked me back where I belong. So, rather than have people tell me ‘it’s my fault’ (which they rightly can), I’d prefer to say that I have done all I can to earn this 🙂

So now that’s out of the way, I must update you on many hilaaaaaaaire moments since we last spoke.

On Monday, I contacted the Onc. I know I revealed his first name last time, but trust me; it was like witnessing your parents having sexy time; it was wrong, on all levels. He has to remain Onc or I will be disobeying some enormous code and he will give me a shit chemo cocktail because he is actually quite nasty. Yeah, ‘Tim’, that’s you. That is the LAST time I will mention his actual name. Urggh, weird parent sexy time shivers have descended.

So as far as I had understood it, following me and the male carer’s meeting with the hugely dreamy Mr ‘I Can Get That Out of You Probably Reasonably Successfully ’ thoracic surgeon last week (Note: I am wondering if he can do it under local anaesthetic so I can just sort of look at him for four hours: turns out he can’t. Bum.), it’s all going ahead in early September. We won’t find out whether it’s a lung cancer primary, or a breast cancer spread thingy until after that. That said, I had questions for Onc. I had to email him.

 

Me: Onc. How big is it and does size matter in staging or prognosis?

Onc: I don’t know how big it is.

Me: Are you going to cook up another vile chemo cocktail for me afterwards?

Onc: Won’t know til it’s in a pot and we can poke at it.

Me: If it’s a new primary are you going to fix it again?

Onc: It depends.

Me: If it’s a spread of breast cancer, are you going to fix it again?

Onc. No. We move to palliative.

Me: Fine. Bring on the op.

Onc: [nothing]

 

Anyway, having overdosed on Onc’s humour, literally splitting my sides and possibly my right lung (whereupon spread would be like Utterly Butterly left out in the sunshine on a warm afternoon. By the way: you must never eat that sh*t), I then had the good fortune to spend five days with an elderly male relative (EMR from now on) of mine. He was nowhere to be seen in the last episode – that matters not. He is with me now for this run out. In his, um, unique way.

We’re trundling off on a road trip together, which, I had had to warn him, may not have happened at all, but had not explained why. We’re chatting away and he is planning future road trips with me as chauffeur. In October. Time to act.

 

Me: EMR, I am not sure if I can commit to that just at the moment, as I am going to have to have an operation soon.

EMR: Oh blast. When will you be back on form?

Me: Don’t know. I will keep you posted.

EMR: It’s not to do with that blasted business that you had is it?

Me: Yes EMR. It is.

EMR: Not the other side is it?

Me: Oh no! I am fine with all that one, I’ve just been checked again. I’ve got a new one! Lung cancer this time!

EMR: That will be all that sunbathing you did I expect.

Me: No, EMR, that will be all the bloody fags I smoked!

 

I had heard via a friend, during the last episode, that EMR put my breast cancer down to ‘all the blasted sunbathing she did!’. Hmm. I can see some work needs to be done here! It is not his fault; he is quite old and his wife died of skin cancer. I get it.

Silence pervades the car.

Some minutes on, still silent, my EMR passenger starts softly, but awkwardly, patting my left forearm, as I drive.

 

 

Back to HQ, and luckily, and timely-ly (soz Jane Kingers) enough, we’ve only got people in to remove some blasted bonded asbestos, of the non-dangerous (UNLESS DISTURBED) kind. I could be wrong but I am not certain it was around in 1703 when Barratt’s or Wimpey (or whatever it says on the receipt written by quill and ink but with an interesting addition of a QR code and Queen Anne on live chat) built the house- BUT, somewhere along the line, this stuff has entered our garage. (We’re still a bit annoyed the builder didn’t think of putting in an en-suite at the time, but hell, our garden soil is good – so, we thank you, olde English peasants. Our vegetables are marvellous.)

We booked the works pre-diagnosis. We dutifully moved the entire contents of our DOUBLE LENGTH garage outside, as instructed, the day before the works were due. The morning arrives: call from company. ‘We are going to have to delay a week.’ Not happy, but… what can you do.

The following week, an intelligent, lively, energetic and qualified bloke arrives with what can only be described as a Mute Brute. MB’s job is to assist with the removal of the offending ceiling panels, help clean down thoroughly, then assist with the erection (stop it Sara G) of new boards. Simple, right?

I think I knew things were going to go wrong when I offered the pair tea or coffee.

The smart one said, ‘Oh yes please, tea with one sugar.’ The Brute went ‘UGGGHHH?’ then took a screwdriver to a slate, and slowly, carefully, with all his might, carved out …. ‘X’

I wasn’t sure if he was mid-Facebook response or … but then again, he didn’t add ‘You ok hun?’. To be honest, that’s WAY many letters/thoughts/words than it seems he is able to enunciate.

Oh dear.

The nice one left and said all would be fine with the MB. Not so.

Upshot is, four weeks later, after more comedy (if it were funny) – – MB was actually left untethered from his chain that day; he managed to smash through to next door’s ceiling (I am reminded of Muttley- ‘medal, medal”), the finishers came in (not Danny Care, unfortunately) but refused to work in there because MB hadn’t even cleaned down, and had disturbed the A stuff; new people came in to clean and one lamped his head on a light he’d unscrewed 3 weeks earlier, hit the deck unconscious, and I was there with the blood, the plasters, the paracetamol, the vomit, as his employer was telling him to just carry on. I called 999 and the bloke got carted off. Still not resolved, four weeks on.

 

All the time, they knew of my condition. At every stage, right from the start.

 

Do you know what? I feel like lighting up a fag after 6.5 years. Thing is, I don’t want skin cancer, do I, EMR?

 

Pip pip 🙂

Time to update my loyal Chicken fans. Me and the Chicken – or, more correctly, the Chicky and I – have missed you guys. I’ve had no post views for months. Possibly because I haven’t posted for months? Details to follow; I have a present for you, by way of apology.

In 9 days’ time, it will be the second anniversary of the end of my treatment – surgery, chemo, radiotherapy – for breast cancer.

Now I like a good celebration, and I never like to feel it’s completely over. Like, for example, when you get married. You do all the lovely, amazing, big full-on party, rammed with love and happiness – then you piss off on honeymoon and wish you could stay in the bubble of lushness that was. Or a birthday – I keep my cards up for literally flippin’ ages – weeks! The male carer looks at them, keeps them up for a day or two, puts them away. Such is life.

Anyway – back to the gift I promised.

Call me a drama queen but I have cooked up an extra special 2^nd anniversary treat for you!

I’ve only gone and got lung cancer! Hilarious! Yet – generous of me – don’t you think?

I literally cannot believe my luck. And I’m not even being funny although that obvs goes against the grain for moi

So – here’s what’s happened:

My lovely weird Onc (if you’re new to this blog, please do look back – I literally love him) and I were having a review post-treatment for breast cancer. Here’s how it played:

Onc: Well done, we’ll keep an eye on you for the next few years

Me: Hahhahahah! Thanks! For all you’ve done – like the hair loss, broken arse, reduced ability to do anything with your ridiculous cocktail of horrible chemo drugs! And a tit with a bit missing which hurts all the time!

Onc: You’re welcome

Me: Hahahahah! Thanks. Breast cancer wasn’t the one I was expecting to get

Onc: Which one did you want?

Me: I thought I’d get lung, liver or skin based on my very active lifestyle before I ever met you (#blatantlie)

Onc: Not worried about anything except lung. It says on your form you don’t smoke.

Me: I don’t. I haven’t smoked since 8^th May 2013.

Onc: How long did you smoke and how much?

Me: Do you need a coffee/wine/gin

[some time after]

Onc: Holy fucking shit.

Hence, PET/CT scans – the ones where they inject you with radioactive dye, which illuminates active cancer cells – followed. At six monthly intervals. Last one, two weeks ago. Little git had doubled in size, lit up like a Christmas tree. It was still July! So bloody Asda, typical.

I knew my fave Onc was on his holidays ten days ago. Me and my male carer were thinking of going up the hill to a different pub.

Onc’s phone number pops up. I am thinking – we have a good laugh in clinic but…

 

Onc: It’s Tim.

[Me thinking in a random bubble: in two years, he has never said Tim]

Onc: I’ve just seen your PET/CT results. I think you have a lung cancer.

Me: Fine. What’s the plan?

Onc: I want you to go and see my favourite thoracic surgeon. We need to get it out.

Me: #whatevs

 

Tired now – will update you – saw surgeon, op planned, all good, as usual.

 

Pip pip J

 

 

 

 

 

Hello hello, lovely friends!

Well – what an epic few months. Yes…eventually, after more twists and turns than an episode of Doctors/The Coroner/Escape to the Country (you see…it probably was time) – I have finally, officially gone back to work. Six whole weeks ago.

It feels like ages, mostly because it has been – but then, not everything about this merry little detour from my life reaches these pages, my friends.

After much checking and discussion, to-ing, fro-ing and to-ing back again, all core members on Team Chicken (medical and other) felt was it was a good enough time as any to have a go.

It’s not that I haven’t checked in at all; from time to time I’ve voluntarily dipped my toe into the (now Atlantic-sized) ocean of my work e-mail; realised I didn’t understand a thing and withdrawn it very quickly into my lovely comfy slipper and settled back down in front of Jeremy Kyle with a grateful yet terrified parp, and a nice piece of cake.

I remember when I was off on maternity leave, following the birth of with my (recently 23-yr old) daughter. A colleague came to see me at home. She cooed a bit over my baby and then started saying, “ooh, you’ll never guess who’s taken over so and so……and you know that thingy project we’re doing with whatisname – well, they’ve only gone and said they want to do something completely different with it now ?? Hahahaha!”

I was staring at her open-mouthed with warm newborn sick down the back of my neck, supporting a tiny bottom, clad in a rapidly-composting nappy with a weary, yet very happy hand.  Indeed, I recall that I myself was wearing a nappy at the time #childbirth.

I could not understand how to respond, or the relevance of my visitor’s conversation to anything, anything, in my recent and current state.

This time around, I am more than nervous. I sort of remember what I did for a living; I sort of remember what my employer does; I definitely remember the people I worked with.  The nice ones, that is.

For once, Move-it-All is not, and I mean NOT – needed. The mere anticipation of returning to work results, happily for me, not so for Dynarod, in the best output I’ve had for a year.

Oooooh – hang on a minute. Output. Let’s just ‘re-visit’ that?? (I’m still learning!)

Us cancoids are incredibly lucky to get amazing support from all bloody sorts of sources, throughout and beyond the treatment process. One of my faves has been cancoid yoga, which happens at our local Macmillan centre every Thursday.

In we all troop, week by week, in varying states of OK-ness. Obvs, as ever throughout this process, I was trying to prove that this condition, or rather, its treatment, is merely a bit of extra fluff on top of the general fluffiness of life. I am cheery! And subtle to the hilt. Couple of shabby backflips, nod to the God and there I am, nama-bloody-ste. Check me out sistas!

Some of us do the class sat on a chair; some get down on to a mat (I’ve seen Sheila there for eight weeks running and I swear she hasn’t been home yet. If only wet patches could talk.)

We’re up on a chair or down on the floor. Janet, our teacher, begins.

“Good morning friends!”

(We like Janet, she’s really nice, we all think. Comfort.)

“Now, before we begin, who’s got Active Cancer and who is ‘Living With’?

(Janet – do you want us to say this altogether or one by …)

“You, over there, I forget your name – are you Active or Living With? I just need to fill out my sheet, sorry”

(Jaaaaaanetttttt!!!!! This is very awks for us lot)

 

In we all settle, in the ways which we can manage.

 

I’m lying on the floor – as it’s my resting pose in life, never mind yoga.

We begin a sequence to relax and stretch and rest. Happy days, think I – if this is yoga, sign me up – I’m in.

 

“And breathe….” says our Jan. “This will release all the toxins in your body…..”

 

(Awfully sorry Janet – didn’t know you meant all at once.)

 

Luckily, I usually lie next to Jim, who I can blame for literally anything. Poor Jim has taken one for many members of the team, far too many times. He’s Active alright. We’re Living With. Him.

 

Thank goodness, thought I, when I got back to work. All they need is my brain and its diligent application to the resolution of pressing matters of the day, month, quarter, year. Yeah – I’m onnit.

 

Now don’t get me wrong: my employers could not have been better – like, the best in the whole world  – in supporting me through that tiny blip I had. Honestly …completely amazing. I was incredibly lucky by comparison with other people – my new cancoid friends – I met along the merry way of treatment.

 

Yet I get back – scarcely recognising the terms in which colleagues now speak. It seems to be ultra physical, and trust me, I’m not in that shape yet.

 

When I went off with cancer, I was being asked to ‘lean in’

If I could ‘lean in’ it would make me ‘on point’ to ‘execute’ (ouch!)

Now I am back, I am asked to ‘double down on point and lean in.’

 

What am I, Olga Korbett??

 

I don’t know what any of these things mean. I’m happy to dance the Tango with a kitten on my head if that’s what is required of me – I’ve been a loyal employee for years. But I need to know what the steps are (and what the kitten is called, obvs).

So, breaking it down. The last time I was ‘on point ‘ was ballet classes, which I did between the age of 4-13 (I was pretty good #darcywasluckiertho). OK, happy with that – I’m sure I’ve still got it.

When I was asked to ‘lean in’ , I dutifully inspected next door’s pond and my own toenails. One had tadpoles in but fortunately the pond was clear. Tick.

I did try to ‘double down’ today but sadly Janet was underneath, my ballet shoes were off and there were tadpoles all over the place.

 

I can see that being back at work is shaping up to be much more of a physical challenge than I thought.

 

(Janet: cancoid yoga class forgives you. I need to come back, asap. Namaste love)

 

 

 

 

Sorry about that. I’ve been in the car all morning (I mean, I had places to go, I wasn’t just sitting in my car like a weirdo), thinking of more/betterer things to say than the version I posted last night. At one point, I was in the B&Q car park (I know; you want my life, and who can blame you), trying to update the blog, thinking how suitable a place it was, what with Chicken being something I do myself , and B&Q being a mecca for other people who are keen on doing it themselves, whatever the ‘it’ might be. Anyway, the vibe was not cross-pollinating and I was gradually tearing my (new) hair out – which leads me nicely on to today’s topic. See what I did there?

I’ve realised I’ve said nothing to you lovely lot since, errrr, November. So either I’ve gone mute, got fingular (made up word) arthritis, or lost the ability to think and then dump that down into words. What the h, no one’s noticed my absence nor would I expect them to. I don’t have a Dec, for a start. Practically invisible, I’m glad to say!

The truth is, lots of long, boring and tiresome things have happened. Appointments, scans, prods, pokes and a handful of belly-busting lol sessions with my beloved Onc, obvs. So let’s bloody dump all that and crack on with the funny side of life!

In previous blogs I’ve said I always needed a catalyst of extreme humour, around the treatment or its effects, to inspire a new post. Stand by!

Last week, I was lucky to be reunited (and it felt so gooood!) with a lovely friend who spends half her life here, and the other way down under. Consequently she has a great hybrid Hants/NZ accent. (#coveringmyselfforrthenextbit).

The last time she saw me, around six months ago, I was hairless, hopeless, listless, fruitless, pointless – as in, absolutely, totally normal, but definitely a bit ragged round the edges from treatment.

I was really looking forward to seeing her again. So she walks into a room of besties, gathered for drinkies, and says, “Oorrl rite Soph, how you goin? Those pubes grown back yit?”

Hil-hair—i—arse!

This is, among many things, is what I love about my closies during all of this lark. Never dress it up, or down. Remember that, mates of people who get this pesky thing.

So while we’re on the subject, by which I mean hair, not what my friend said, I may as well update you. I have some loyal followers who might remember a blog post round about 10 months ago when I likened the charting of my increasing hair loss to the BBCR4 shipping forecast. Now I can’t be arsed to go round Britain (aka me: chemo weight gain has not been kind, lol!) again. The only point of relevance between said forecast and me now is, of course, dogger. This has a point – honest.

During chemo and radio, I lost my head hair in a remarkable fashion. I had a large oval-shaped bald patch emanating from all directions (not just one, Cheryl) around the crown; and a matching one, about 1cm deep, all around my hairline. But oddly, parts of my (pre treatment) shoulder length bob, remained. I say remained; they downsized considerably to thinned out, lank strands – but their presence enabled me to perfect a convincing comb-over, such that unless you were directly above me, you may not have noticed much of a hair loss at all. The receding hairline was a bit of a giveaway though, especially above my ears. With all those factors in mind, the net look was a cheeky combo of Monk, Max Wall and Mohican – which is most convenient for a writer who loves her aliteration. None of this bothered me – who bloody cares, it’s only hairs! That said, and back to you Cheryl, I really wasn’t in a position to say I was worth it..again, whatever it means.

About 6 weeks after the end of chemo, and with the judicious application of Miracle Grow Wonder Shampoo for hair type Chemoid.. it started to grow back. And over the months since, an alarming new look has become mine.  Think permed pubes on Prozac;  thick tufty ringlets; Stringfellow or Pat Sharp after a shampoo and set; a mingin great mullet, ablaze in DARK BROWN. I am Queen of the Poodles, top of the pups. I expect you saw me at Crufts recently – I did rather well.

In fact, I was waiting for a friend in a cafe the other week. A waitress came over and said, “Are you Claire?” “I don’t think so,” I replied. “Oh sorry, it’s just someone has just phoned to say she’s running late and could we let her friend know. She said the friend had dark curly hair”

WHAT??? I felt a shot to the heart, followed by a slow, seething, swirling feeling in the pit of my stomach (which, given the size of that right now, is one which could easily rival a Northern colliery). She thinks I have dark curly hair. That is how she identifies me. I’ve never had dark curly hair. Surely she knows I’ve got straight blonde hair. What is the matter with her?

Well, therein lies the point. Nothing. She’s right. I am the woman in the corner with dark curly hair, so she thought I might be Claire. I realise that I’m either not seeing what stares back at me from the mirror, or rather, not accepting it.

Time to get things sorted and go in search of my former self. There’s a minimum wait to endure post-chemo before you can have any chemical intervention on your head. That moment, fortunately, has come. By just one day, as it happens. Hurrah!

I breeze into the local salon and as is usual these days, I apologise to everyone in the room for the matted tufts and straggly long bits on my head. In fact, every time I meet anyone new now, the first thing I say is, “sorry about my hair”. I want to make it clear that this was not a look I actually chose, because, unlike total hair loss, there can be no obvious explanation for why it looks the way it does.

So I walk into the salon, and luckily, my miracle-worker hairdresser, who is also my miracle friend, is on hand. If anyone can sort this mess out, it’s her. But still I’m blathering on. “I hope this is the doggie grooming parlour!!  Can you do poodles?”

“Look around you love, we can sort out any old dog in here!” says she. Although I must say, there was a distinct air of the Woodhouse about her when she pointed at the chair and told me to sit.

Some hours later I emerged with the same curls, but now straightened, tamed, and in a more familiar, fairish hue. She even put my hair up for me, in my usual old (former) style, bless her heart. I walked out of there feeling like a millions dollars. To be fair I was probably high on bonios, but I didn’t care. I felt like old, proper me.

Naturally it doesn’t stop there, this regrowth lark. My legs – or should I say RUGS! -have been waxed twice!!! Yes! I’ve  never been so happy screaming my head off in pleasure at the pain!

Gone are Cheryl’s sexy senorita false eyelashes – my own are back, thicker, darker and longer; even my old lady chin hairs have put in a sterling effort to reappear as coarse and unshiftable as before. The only hair that hasn’t returned is the stuff under the arms, which is absolutely fine by me.

If you’ve got a friend or relative who is suffering hair loss because of this treatment, please do tell them to take heart. It does come back. It takes time, but it happens. It is the upside to that particular downside – and there’s always an upside, if you choose to look for it and then focus on it. I’d highly recommend that you do.

Follicle news just in:

Hair update: remember those nose hairs, that I didn’t know I had until I lost them? Hmm. Looks like the strimmer will have a lot more to do than the lawn edges this bank holiday weekend.

Have a wonderful Easter my friends xx

🐩 🐩 🐩 🐩 🐩 🐩 🐩 🐩 🐩

 

Sent from my iPad

This is a music night. Flex your music muscles mes amis. We’re going to be movin an a  groovin very soon!

I hope you are all supertastic? Why don’t you tell me back what’s going on with you – put it in the comments please – this is a two-way thing, after all.

Right, enough about you. I’m not Mother Theresa, loves! Sort yourselves out!

The other week, I went for an MRI scan. (Bloody hell, only back from hols and lols with the boy and straight back in!)

The MRI was to have a look at a few other bits of concern. Fine. No drama – we are all good with that. It’s better to be talked about than not at all, if you see what I mean.

I’d listened to BBCR4 the night prior. (While we were in Crete the other week, boy carer said, ‘there’s 3 people on this holiday: you, me and Radio 4’ – but he lacked the manscara and guyliner to evoke any sympathy #diana).

The chap on the radio was saying that he’d had a PET scan, which was very claustrophobic. I’m listening but secretly thinking, somewhat disingenuously some may say, thank FEC I’m not in for that. Then he goes: ‘at least it’s not as bad as an MRI -‘that’s way closer.’

Shit. What to do. I can’t get into a small lift. I can’t get into a public lavvy cubicle unless I leave the door unlocked. On an easyJet flight I just get… well, speedy off-boarding (at the right time, obvs) syndrome. Truth is, I’m rubbish at small spaces, and Onc hadn’t even said how small it was going to be, nor that I would be in there for one whole HOUR.

I begin to panic, and say to boy and mini-carer, that on the day, if I can’t get into it, I can’t. I email Onc on the morning to say I will try to get in, but I might not.

‘Two diazepam, two cocodamol. Get in, I’ll see you after.’

‘Love you too, gorgeous,’ I didn’t say. Had I been sat in front of him at the time, he’d have no doubt peered over his glasses at me and swatted me away with a nonchalant flick of the hand. And I would have punched him in the face.

Nonetheless, I have to have this done – there’s no other way to test for another situation I may have. I’ve got to woman up. Hey – I’ve had loads of scans these last 10 months –

Ooh, Scanana-rama …. let me think.

Ultrasound x 20+++++ (but still, we’re deffo not preggers – dammit!)
Gamma x 5 (yeah whatever, can’t remember what for or why)
CT x 6 ( no need to be rude)
Overhead projector lightweight one x 1 (bones are dense, much like my brain)
MR bloody I x 1 (see below,)

I can’t count the 19 sessions of radiotherapy, because, technically they are not a scan. Oh no – they’re zapping highly toxic doses of radiation into me, a situation they have to remove themselves from lest they get affected.

Honestly, when I’m back to work, anyone who needs any photocopying done, I’m your girl – it ain’t what I do, it’s the way that I do it.

So on MRI day, suffice to say, I’m more nervous about this part than any other element of the process we’ve been through so far. Put it this way, there’s no need of Movicol to get me going that morning, for the first time since chemo started.

I have been advised to start shooting up with my (prescribed, loves!) drugs an hour before I have to go, into what I perceive to be, the frozen, long, dark drawer of an undertaker’s lair. No light, no way out. And, I’m told, you go in head first. Eeeeek, I think. Followed by an unscheduled splattttttt. Ummm…sorry about that, scanning dept at the hospital. #awkward

You have to get into the music mode now, please.

I get into the scanning room, half-doped, half-frantic. I have to leave his nibs outside in reception, which I never like.

Well. It’s an… itsy bitsy, teeny weenie, greeeey-ish big machiney – so, in the locker, I chose to stay. Ha ha ha ha – ha ha ha ha ha ha!

I’m protesting like mad but slurring deeply, as the consultant radiologist assures me all will be fine. Actually, the thing is not as bad as I’d been led to believe…there is a beginning, and there is an end, in that, it is not closed off at one end. Then – news of the day – because they are scanning my lower back and pelvis -I get to go in FEET first.

It still means I’m in the inner of a kitchen roll for an hour, head included, no room to scratch that if I had an itch – BUT – it made it, somehow, better.

They shove you in and piss off – de rigueur throughout this nonsense- but they talk to you ALL the time. As the thing whirrs, shakes, bangs, vibrates, the consultant asks me if I’d like any music. I’m getting higher and higher on the pre-drugs so I start to think of a new playlist I could start.

I’ve discussed this with two other cancoids I’m in touch with at the mo and we all agreed that this was fine, coming from us.

So, I give you, courtesy of diazepam and cocodamol, the other week, the ultimate cancer playlist, in rough synchronicity with my own process.

 

Has to start with Queen – You’re my breast friend!

Who wants a bit of Blondie – PICCture this!

How about, to follow, ‘Surgery!’ – Bee gees, obvs…

Or, that classic from M-people, ‘Move-it-all up’? (The intent was to move it all down, but never mind)

Ooh, I know, Bananarama – ‘I heard a tumour’!

Or, if you fancy an album, I’d recommend Fleetwood Mac, Tumours? Very good, I hear.

Next up, The Verve – Bitter Sweet Lymphomy. I love that one – though not recommended during diagnosis staging. Can be #awks

Just had a request in for Culture Club – Karma Chemo-leon. Yeah! Long, repetitive, painful and annoying. That just about sums it up.

Hang on – a really, really, really OLD friend of mine recommended this one, originally by the Edsells – Mammogram-a-ding-dong! Yay, love it!

I’m a lifelong fan of ABBA so I was only too pleased when they offered to dedicate the following to me:

Waterpoo! (Tell me about it Agnetha, I got c-diff in acute oncology! It’s as though you’d written the symptoms into the song, my Swedish sister from another mother. Mind you, I put that sepsis episode down to a Tainted Glove, of course. Cheers Marc Almond 🙂

And ..

‘Knowing me, knowing Poo’ – well, breaking up is never easy to do, is it Bjorn – but tell me about it again, I’ve a big stick and I still can’t get them down. Jeez Louise.

 

And then,…the MRI… I…. I…Delilah…forgive me Delilah, I just couldn’t take any more.

Because by then, I was off the planet on drugs, fast asleep under the inside of a kitchen roll, laughing my head off in my slumbers. Such fun!

So lucky my C hasn’t yet metastasised – or, my musical chums, we could have been looking at Billie Spleen and the theme to the Bone Ranger!

Love you all and thank you as always for your support.

Pip pip xx

 

 

 

 

 

 

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