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.