This week’s ‘blob’ is brought to you live from my sofa this Chemo Tuesday evening – because basically if last week’s treatment was like doing 30mph in Martin’s Mazda through the narrow country lanes of a tranquil village to get to the Barbridge pub in Nantwich on a bank holiday Monday, this session was more like the time I was towed by ‘the lads’ with a length of rope from Hanley to Crewe in my mum’s broken down Talbot Samba down the A500 at high speed, screeching over roundabouts on two wheels.
Much like that traumatic and hair-raising car rescue circa 1990, it wasn’t the anticipated start to the day. The machine that you log into for the blood tests which gives you a ticket (bit like the deli counter in the supermarket) was out-of-order so instead there was a long queue to sign in with the nurse – however no sooner had I sat down my number came up. Bonus.
With the “we’ll call around 11” instruction I sauntered leisurely and knowledgeably up to the café and took my time with my breakfast. At 10:45 my phone rang: “Come in at 11.30.”
Bit flustered, but pleased at the prospect of an earlier slot, I gathered my stuff and headed off for a brisk walk around the block to stretch my legs before I had to sit again. At 11.10 my phone rang again: “we’re ready for your treatment!”
So, my brisk walk turned into more of a frantic trot back to the hospital and a hot, sweaty, slightly out-of-breath roadrunner replaced any serene swan intentions, as I turned up at the ‘chemo room’ eager to claim my chair – not the look I was going for amongst the bedridden and lethargic patients.
I might get it right next week.
So I was home by 2pm. All dosed up for another week and feeling ok. Number #3 and the first out of four Taxol rounds completed. Thankfully symptoms last week were just mostly tiredness (although not extreme and managed the gym twice, work and a night ‘out out’) and mood swings (more extreme ranging from positive highs to morbid lows.) It’s fun in our house at the moment.
There’s been some interest obviously about how the lump was discovered. We girls are taught to self-examine ourselves and I think we expect anything ‘suspicious’ to be glaringly obvious. But you know what, that isn’t always the case.
I’ve read so many posts on a support group from women who never noticed anything wrong because quite frankly there was nothing palpable or conspicuous. Most lumps are deeply hidden or too small to detect. However DO check those baps out girls.
In my case, I went for a mammogram in June as part of the ‘over 50s’ annual screening programme. I got the all-clear.
In September I came across a small marble-sized lump under my right armpit. Off I toddled to the doctor to get it checked and she told me it was a limpoma (fatty lump).
Three months later it had doubled in size so I went back. The doctor referred me to the hospital and the consultant sent me for a mammogram, scan, a biopsy and later an MRI. At this point I still felt nothing in my breast. No lump. No soreness. No visual changes. And was quite confident that it was just some sort of lymph node infection.
My diagnosis was on March 4th. A week before my 53rd birthday and a date that will forever remain etched in my memory. And as clichéd as it sounds, when she said the word ‘tumours’, I heard nothing much beyond that.
I thanked her as if she’d just given me an Amazon gift voucher instead of a cancer diagnosis and hubby and I just auto-piloted our way out of the hospital.
After shock comes tears. And lots of them. It’s like someone has swooped down and taken you and your life and put someone else in your place. The person you were yesterday has vanished in an instant. Because whatever you were supposed to be doing later or tomorrow or next week or next month has changed in a way it’s hard to describe. Because now you have THIS to deal with.
After tears comes immense sadness and anger and a kind of grief. A strange mix of traversing between the emotions coupled with a tremendous feeling of guilt about the burden you now lay at your family and friends’ feet and yet at the same time selfishly wrapped up in your own journey that in all reality no one can ever fully join you on.
They can meet you along the way and offer support and love but cancer is a very lonely walk. It’s my own Camino de Santiago and you can try and photograph it, share it, explain it or describe it, but it’s a desolate journey of processing, worry and acceptance. As my aunt said: “you have a big hill to climb.”
However, that doesn’t mean I do not appreciate all the messages, gifts and loving vibes everyone is sending my way in whatever format. I have one friend who sends me jokes, another drunk Friday night videos, and others who have gifted me fruit baskets, crystals, herbal tea sets and self care products. There are hugs, chats, dog walks, practical paperwork help, lunch invitations and hands-on healing.
Hubby likes to send me funny podcasts to listen to on Chemo Tuesday and this snippet from some of Sean Lock’s comedy genius videos seemed apt:
“One of the things you can get for Christmas is a goat for an impoverished village somewhere in the world. I thought much better idea, get them a greyhound, and then maybe they open up a racetrack, get a betting shop that serves alcohol and they can really enjoy their lives, just like I do.”
So whether it’s a goat or a greyhound – thank you – I am indebted and grateful.
two steps freelance 