Gratuitous Cute Cat Photo

I have a horrid cold and a hacking cough.  I am sick of being ILL.  The cat is also snotty.  Here he is, I only wish you could hear the comedy snoring. 

I'm too ill to go to the parentals for tea and to go to the oncologist tomorrow with Mrs P.  This is rather annoying, but I don't want Mrs P (or Mr P for that matter) to get this virus which would just complicate things massively.  So, it's just me in my pyjamas and the cat watching Midsomer Murders.  Joy.

Limbo

Zolodex injection on Monday wasn't as bad as anticipated.  I was expecting a foot long needle from what other people had said, and although the needle was pretty wide bore and hardcore, it wasn't too painful.  SMF did a jolly good job of looking after me, did all the washing up and made a 3 course tea.  Nommers.  Lovely man.

Tuesday I met up with some friends I haven't seen for AGES, which was smashing.  I've been a bit apathetic of late...and now there's nothing cancer wise going on I feel like I should be getting off my arse and doing stuff, but I have a really snotty cold and just want to watch films and eat takeaway and dick about on Facebook and Twitter...not so constructive really.  So...I have expressed an interest in joining Breast Cancer Voices, not overly sure what it entails but I think I need to be more proactive. 
And there's a trillion other things I could be doing.  My sicknote runs out at the end of next week, just before my birthday, and am not sure what do to about going back to work.  I feel a bit 'in limbo', like I'm not really ill, and therefore should be getting on with it and going back, but then the ironing the other day was traumatic so I'm sure going back too soon would be wrong in so many ways.  I miss the people I work with, but it's hard and physical work and if I can't manage a bit of ironing (although to be fair, it was about 6 weeks worth) without my arm getting sore I shouldn't be rushing back just yet?

Mrs P has an appointment with our shared Oncologist on Friday, a week before her official appointment, so am hoping her chemo will start soon and the lump on her neck will go down.  Lumps on necks are not good, generally.  I've decided to go with her mainly because the Onc was a lovely bloke who works for the same trust as I do, so if I can pull a few strings and get her treatment started forthwith that would be tremendously advantageous. 

I have done absolutely bugger all so far today, except watch 'The Lives of Others' (good film) and laugh at the cat's comedy snoring.  I've just spotted an unread copy of Grazia and am fancying a Sue's chicken chow mein with curry sauce so it's yet another takeaway for tea and a catch up with the fash goss.  I look like shit so I hope I don't see anyone I know in the Chinese :-S. 

Tra fer now! x

Jesus Doesn't Want Me For a Sunbeam

At long last the Tamoxifen side effects have started.  I thought I might get away with it.  Should have known better.  Hot flushes, feeling queasy, loss of appetite, increase in appetite, insomnia, fatigue, joint aches...the list goes on.  And the mood swings are fairly spectacular, up and down, up and down, sometimes within the space of minutes.  My day has gone like this:- got up at 5am, did a pregnancy test since I'm starting Zolodex next week (it was negative, I felt relieved but strangely disappointed)...noticed cat hadn't come upstairs and went down to check on him - he's been a poorly kitty and had gastroenteritis -  so I tiptoed downstairs to see if he was alright, he was fast a-bo on the sofa until I stubbed my toe on the ironing board.  It was a spectacular leap I must say.  I made a cup of tea and went back to bed with cat.  Then got up and fed him.  Then went back and slept and finally got up properly at midday and felt like all kinds of shite.  I had a massive pile of ironing to do but made SMF a mix CD instead (and I have excelled myself, if I may say so, with the track listing and art work), then spent the rest of the afternoon crying for no reason...well, there is a reason - Mrs P has a lump on her neck and is still 3 weeks away from seeing the oncologist and more to starting her next chemo.  So, I'm going to ring his secretary tomorrow and pull a few strings (get ME!)  And...that's about it so far.  Cat's been avoiding me all afternoon because he says I'm bringing him down.  I can't be bothered to make tea so I've had two yoghurts and a couple of beers.  Am now listening to mix CD and blubbing.  Bollocks.  Bollocks to cancer and everything.

Tomorrow I'm going to get my arse in gear and do stuff.  Ring Oncologist's secretary, eat properly, see the parentals and take them a present (Hairy Bikers cookbook) then call into work for a bit (not to work, just to socialise) before having tea out with some lovely ladies. 

Tomorrow will be better!  It better bloody had be...

My Right Breast

Hello, hello, hello. I promise not to go on about the cat (although he had a stomach upset, couldn't get to his litter tray, and shat in the bath - which I thought was genius. Easy to clean up! Still not pleasant though, but bless him...) as this IS supposed to be a breast cancer blog. I'm such a proud cat-mother though!

So...I went to see another BCN today, who was utterly lovely, to get my falsie (prosthesis) which you can wear in a bra and look 'normal'. So far so good. BUT, you have to have special bras to wear them in...my usual Floozie and Agent Provocateur fancy frilly things don't fit the bill. So that means I need to do my very favourite thing - UNDERWEAR S.H.O.P.P.I.N.G. Hurrah. They're not as pretty as the usual bras for small gals but they're acceptable. And they sure do look comfy (a sign I am getting old, I fear. Nex thing you know I'll be wearing Dr Scholl's.) If you're interested in seeing what they look like here are two photos (front and back) of my new booby:-

It comes in a little box with a pocket to put it in and it feels alright. But now I need bras with pockets and wide middles and thick straps :-S...I have a gazillion pretty lovely sexy bras but none of them will do. The prosthesis sticks out and won't stay put if I jig around. Therefore it necessitates internet shopping ahoy.

I also decided to post a photo of my mastectomy scar (very modest, no other booby to be seen) just for the record. this is four and a half weeks post-op.

Doesn't look too bad does it? Be good to compare it with the bionic boobs in 12 months time. The slight swelling you can see below the scar is the seroma, which I haven't needed drained this week so far.

Have been taking the Tamoxifen for 2 days now and no side effects yet. Although I do feel a tendency to go into bitch on wheels mode, but that may be because it's almost 'that time'. I'm sure when I start the Zolodex in about 2 weeks I'll be a NIGHTMARE. With a beard. And a funny singing voice. And a three stone weight gain. Cancer IS hilarious.

Went to see (500) Days Of Summer yesterday - thoroughly recommend it. Lovely, sweet, sad, poignant and with a belting soundtrack (2 Regina Spektor numbers OMFG fantastic). If you haven't seen it or heard of it it's boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl (her name is Summer, hence the title), girl doesn't fall in love with boy thing. Got to love a film with an (un)happy ending.

Righto, onwards and upwards. This girl has shopping to do!

Tata for now, booby blog followers!

xxx

Toxic Phlegm

The cat has settled in well and is behaving as though he's the one in charge, which I gather is how it's supposed to be. The only problem is his propensity to want to have a conversation at 2am, 3am and sometimes after...he makes a massive fuss of me first thing in the morning and then spends the rest of the day ignoring me. It's been grand weather here and it's a shame he can't go out yet...I might buy him a lead and at least then he can go out in the back garden. Cat on a lead! Uncharacteristically he's sat next to me now, having a wash, probably because I've given him roast chicken sent up by Mrs P. Cupboard love.

I went to see Mr W on friday, the breast surgeon. He has very big hands. He basically said that the mastectomy was the right choice as the tumour was multi focal; so as well as the tumour taken at lumpectomy, and the 4mm margin removed with the breast tissue at mastectomy, there were two other small tumours. Scary. Anyway, as I have such 'modest breast tissue' (small tits) that had they done a WLE (Wide Local Excision) it would have taken a significant amount of breast tissue away so as to leave the breast looking deformed...so I thought I might as well have the whole lot off. Nothing to do with the boob job I'll then get in 12 months. Oh no. ETA: Forgot to mention that the seroma was drained again and they got about 80 mls off, which is better...less than last time. It feels really tight around the chest and under the arm but I'm hoping I won't need to have any more fluid drained off and it'll settle down. 'Cos that would be brilliant.

I've been putting off starting the Tamoxifen (called Toxic Phlegm by my BCC buddy's kids - hello A!) but am going to take my first one RIGHT NOW. Done.

I have another 4 weeks off work at least, depending on how the arm/chest/seroma does and so I really need to get out more and do stuff and not spend so much time arsing around on the internet, or watching shite telly, or just doing nothing...tomorrow I am aiming to go to the cinema to watch (500) Days Of Summer and buy a cat lead. Tuesday I have my prosthesis fitting and so will combine that with a little retail therapy. Nothing too over the top. And Wednesday I'm taking fab sis-in-law out to lunch...

Will report back after my falsie fitting.

x

How much is too much?

Hello! Oh, I'm so rubbish lately at updating this blog thing. I wish it was because I have a massive social life but it isn't. I really am just rubbish.

Caturday first! Yes, the cat has arrived and is disrupting my life. It's very much like suddenly having a baby without the being pregnant bit (obv); I was ill-prepared for the fact that he likes to hide in places (I know babies don't do that) and keep me up all night wow-ing (babies do that) and mew for stuff when he's been fed and cat littered and cuddled to death and I DON'T KNOW WHAT HE WANTS. Babies definitely do that. But he's cute and has a face only a mother could love. Cat-mother. Look at him! When we (fab sis-in-law and tiny niece) arrived to pick him up the lady that was fostering him wasn't in...she'd got all wobbly about him going. So her comedy neighbour had to let us in her house to try and find his stuff and coax him out from under the bush (NOT a euphemism.) We couldn't see a cat carrier, so he had to be ferried down the A59 sat on his rug thing on my lap in the car; he was effectively catnapped. He seems to be settling in a bit better every day, he no longer hides under the bed or behind the telly, and we are bonding slowly. Now if he could only stop the night time wow-ing things would be dandy. Since two people have referred to him as Cosmo, and as it sounds a bit like Gizmo, and can also be shortened to Mo, that will be his new name. Cosmo. Meow!

Ah, yes, the cancer thing. Saw the onocologist on friday, was given all the statistics which I tried to understand, heard the bit about chemo having less than a 5% chance of improving my survival rates and that the lump was just less than 2 cm and there was no node spread (fuck me!) and decided to say NO to chemo. So that's bloody brilliant. I'll be having Tamoxifen (ace side effects - bad mood swings so now I can be nasty and bitchy and blame it on drugs - hurrah!) and Zolodex to suppress my ovaries. So no babies for 2 years, but by then I might have got used to the cat. Felt strangely deflated after that, I mean it's brilliant news that I don't have to have chemo but...I dunno. The cancer's gone, so has the right breast, but that's not really the end of things. Just feels a bit...odd. Whatevs. NO FUCKING CHEMO! W00t!

What else? Oh, went for a physio and support group thing at a nearby hospice (I know, I thought the same thing when they told me where it was) which sounded fab and I wanted to join up to their cancer ladies coming on a monday and having their feet rubbed and being made up and having me time but I don't come under their jurisdiction. Which is pants.

CE came over today, top tonic that she is, took me for lunch at Breda Murphy's - ace place. We had wine and halloumi kebabs and goat's cheese parcels and sea bass with warm potato salad and warm orange cake and sorbet and rhubarb and ginger creme brulee (say that in a Lancs accent) and maple biscuits and oh it was lovely! I only remembered I didn't like rhubarb after I'd ordered but it was still nom. Then we looked at fabulous overpriced shoes (I hankered after some tangerine plastic Viv Westwood sandals that smelled of bubble bum - oh yes) and jewellery and then I bought the cat a present. It's a tangerine flapjack, a sort of toy dog thing. He was seriously unimpressed, but then I imagine that if I bought him a diamond encrusted litter tray with a built in cocktail bar and jacuzzi he'd still be seriously unimpressed. Apparently that's cats for you.

Virtual crush update - we are engaged. How mad is that? Mad but brilliant :o). Rowr!

Upcoming stuff to blog about - prosthesis fitting next Tuesday. Temporary boob :o). Watch this space. Pun intended.

Tra fer now!

x

Stasis

I've been to have the blancmange drained again. Massive relief (cheers fab sis-in-law!). It's not pleasant having a bulbous armpit but it's always a great feeling when it's all syringed off...150 mls this time so it's less than last week which is heartening. I'm sure the bugger will fill up again but hey ho. So, now it's countdown to D-day on friday, then Caturday (!) - been shopping for cat-related necessaries like a litter tray (my niece can't wait to 'scoop the poo'), litter, tray liners, Glade smelly stuff to detract from the smell of cat piss, Go-Cat dry food (tuna and trout or something equally delectable), cat milk and three cute mice for him to massacre. I'm looking forward to the Prince Regent's arrival.
Picked my niece and nephew up from school and tried not to cry when J said they'd been asked to say a Hail Mary for someone and he picked me. He's 7. Kids are brilliant and the best tonic against the shitness of the C thing. I'm not thinking about the fertility side of things (I don't have any of my own, yet) but I'm sure that'll come up at some point. Damn it. You always think you'll have tons of time to do stuff like procreate and then suddenly you have to start considering what you'd do if that was affected...I honestly don't know. Anyway, no point until someone actually mentions the F word.

Also got an appointment for a prosthesis fitting the week after next. Cool! I should be driving by then too. Looking forward to getting my temporary boob. And in 12 months time I should be getting my Size C supersonic ones (don't want to go too over the top. I'm not f**king Jordan.)

Re virtual crush. I had 3 Facebook messages from a certain someone who is utterly fab (to the max!) and sees past the C crap and likes me for who I am. This makes me very happy. He's the dogs. And he's cute too. Bonus. When I had the Mx I thought that no-one would ever be interested again. I like being proven wrong and even better when it's by someone with a big brain and an even bigger heart.

:o)

Blancmangophobia

The blancmange is back and growing by the day. I can't get in touch with the BCNs to see about getting it drained but I do finally have an appointment with the breast oncologist for friday...so I'm hoping that I can do both at the same time. Well, not literally at the same time.

Now I'm a bit scared. Because I'll get to find out about the treatment side of things, which is actually scarier I think than the diagnosis, the surgery, the post-op blancmanges. They might say the dreaded word. CHEMO. And then again they might not...the treatment options are endless and I have no idea which one they might recommend. The good thing is that I'll undoubtedly feel better when I know exactly what is to happen and why and when. Then I can just get on with it.

Cancer is boring. But come Saturday Mr Spoonface will arrive. Caturday! I've never had a cat. I hope we get on alright.

CocoNUT

Oh

Am in danger of falling for someone virtually.

This scares me.

A lot.

Hair

I had the chop. I love it. Having a colour change next week, I think it's called something like Wild Heather.

I've been having some really weird dreams lately.

Seroma Schmeroma

I had to go and have the seroma drained again yesterday. Another 250 mls. How fecking tedious. The real bummer is that it's already filling up again. I don't know whether it's because it's *that* time of the month or it's the thought of another 6 weeks at least off sick and the associated Groundhog Day TV or the thought of this seroma coming back with a vengeance every time it's drained or the fact that I don't know what's coming next regarding treatment but...I feel a bit shit really. I'm still in my pyjamas, haven't brushed my hair (now just like Natty's! Will post photos when I feel like it) or teeth, am watching Saturday Kitchen and titting about on the interweb. I have no motivation to do anything, but am bored with doing nothing.

Last night four work chums came round and we had lovely food and wine and a good gossip. I wore my softie in an effort to at least look 'normal', but any slight movements and it popped out to give the appearance of having three boobs, which I suppose is an improvement on one? At some point I'll have a fitting for a prosthesis which will be better and will hopefully stay bra-bound at least.

Oh! For those of you who believe in angels here's something...tuesday after the trio of clerks left (and this may have been the Bacardi Black) I was standing outside waving them off with my good arm, when I saw this strange white light hovering about my head. It stayed there for about 10 seconds then flew up and disappeared. And this morning there's a white feather in my lounge. If that's my guardian angel then they want to get their arse in gear and do some guardian-ing.

Hell.

Spoonface

Here is a photo of the super wee fella who will be coming to live with me in a week and a bit. Isn't he fabulous! His name's Gizmo, but that wasn't my doing. I'm thinking of changing it to Gomez (he looks a bit Adams Family) or maybe Mo for short...

Had a smashing night of alcohol and chatter last night with a trio of clerks. It was a real tonic. You can't beat spirits and gossip for perking a girl up. Still sore as hell but hey ho. Just got to get on with it haven't you? Have gone back on the Tramadol and Diclofenac. I hope the world doesn't fall out of my bottom again as a result.

Spatchcock

I rang the BCN this morning and my smashing sis-in-law took me into hospital to get it sorted. I have now completed the ELTH hat-trick and been to all three hospitals. I was taken straight to the ward where the lovely BCN put a large needle into the bizarre blancmange like swelling and drained off 250 mls of clear fluid. It felt better straight away, but I'm sore as hell now. I can't lift my arm above shoulder height when before it felt like I was making an improvement. Ne'er mind, I'm sure it's only temporary. I thought it might be a good idea to wear a sports bra, as that's what's often recommended post-Mx, so I've just wrestled myself into a very tight crop top sports bra type of thing whilst trying not to cry. I'm in it, it does feel better wearing it, it might help stop the seroma filling up again, but I think I'll have to wear it for the rest of my life. Or cut it off. Hey ho.
So I'm feeling a bit crap really. The pain's starting to get me down, I might even have to contemplate going back on the bowel busting painkillers as they do recommend taking them in order to be able to do the necessary exercises. However, since a trio of clerks are visiting tonight and might bring alcohol I may sleep on this :o).

I've found this website showing photos of a young woman's bilateral mastectomy and eventual reconstruction. You can see it here. It's bloody amazing and gives me hope for my bionic boobs next year. God, this is going to be such a long process and I am so impatient.

I've had a spatchcock poussin for my tea. How posh is that?

Erm...

Last night's post was brought to you by cancer victim whingers anonymous in association with alcohol.

I'm not as wobbly today. Or as bevvied up. I'm sore and swollen, the swelling on the chest wall is getting scarily bigger and tighter. It's fluid-y and sloshing about when I move. I think I'll have to ring the BCN tomorrow for advice. It might need draining. Lovely.

In other news, I'm having my hair cut this week and possibly coloured. Like Natty up there. I might go brunette. Or blonde or something. Always a good move when you've been dumped and got le big C. And just before you have treatment and lose it. Ha!

This week I need to ring and arrange to take delivery of my new feline lodger, who has been provisionally named Gomez Spoonface (my niece thinks he looks like he's looking in a spoon. Will post photos as soon as I can!) I've never had a cat, but he looks like a fun character so I'm sure we'll rub along just fine.

Oh, and more disappointment on the man front. You'd think I was used to it by now. Roffle.

Half-Woman, Half Small, Nipple-less Boy

All of a sudden I feel like I'm hitting the wall at 100mph. With a Bacardi Black and coke in one hand, an emergency cig in the other, and all to a Kings Of Leon based soundtrack. I went to bed and started blubbing. I haven't blubbed since my diagnosis, apart from crying at the end of Ghost Town, which we should probably gloss over. I think I'm doing alright and then *BAM*, I start thinking about shit things like never having a boyfriend again, never having children, never getting married (bum order of things for a Catholic there), and who the hell wants to go out with a woman with one boob who might lose her hair and, God forbid, her sense of humour? I have such a brilliant, BRILLIANT, support network - family (who are fucking fabulous to infinity and beyond), friends (especially B-girl - tits and teeth love!), work friends, neighbours, medical people etc. but I can't help thinking that I miss having a significant other to be there when no-one else is. I mean like at 3am. Or like now. I remember sad ex saying that you can't put on people...and I so don't want to put on anyone. But surely a SO is there to be put upon? In a reciprocal kind of way I mean. You put upon them, they put upon you. Sad ex was shit anyway. I don't know why I'm even thinking about him.
When it was New Year 2009 I did a global text to say that I hoped 2009 wasn't as much of a shithouse as 2008 was (just to elaborate, my horse died of a tumour in Jan, my heart was bruised in June, then again in November, Mrs P had to have more chemo, then I had a nervous breakdown - not a good vintage) but 2009 is SHITENESS personified. I had my heart broken by some shithead Brummie who ran away even before I was diagnosed, then I got breast cancer, then Mrs P needs more chemo again and oh poor Mr P with both of his girls with the Big fucking horrible C...I don't want fucking breast cancer; I don't want Mrs P to be so ill; I want what everyone else seems to have (although they probably don't, when you scratch the surface) a normal bloody life with no crap and no titting about with cancer.
This Bacardi Black is good stuff. ~And K of L ROCK.
Fuck me.

Why is all post-mastectomy underwear bloody awful?

ETA - I just checked my diary. Am pre-menstrual, which probably explains a lot. Best make the most of it hahahahahahaha.

Pains, Drains and Bowel Complaints

Hello! I've survived the inpatient experience and am now 55378008 (get it?) After being discharged on Wednesday and having a few days with the parentals I'm home, eating whole nut and watching 'Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?' So, I thought I'd write a bit about the whole boobectomy thing.

Went into hospital on the morning of the op at 7.30am, just in time to watch the other inmates eat their breakfast. Got pre-opped, prodded, poked and drawn on then changed into a gown that appeared to be custom made for Geoff Capes. Went down to theatre at 10am where I was slightly perturbed by the anaesthetists inability to work out how to get water out of the tap. Hoped he was better at rendering me unconscious. He was. Got back to the ward at about 1pm where my first thought was for a cup of tea. I was tethered to the bed with calf massagers (quite pleasant)and fitted with two drains, a morphine PCA and a saline drip. Oh, and some oxygen for good measure. This means it's a major military operation whenever I need a slash.
I wasn't in much pain but had some morphine to make the nursing staff feel better; and it was there so I might as well. I was hoping it might make me feel a bit mellow and floaty but I didn't feel any different. How disappointing. Fish pie for tea. It appeared to have pasta in it. One drain comes adrift and makes a mess of my gown, prompting the inmate opposite me to shout 'YOU'RE BLEEDING! YOU'RE BLEEDING!' The drains are refitted (apparently someone cut the tubing to the wrong size) and calm is restored.
Down the corridor is a long-stay inmate who must be a nightmare to nurse but is hysterical to listen to. Let's call him Kenny. Kenny's been there for 6 months and is cantankarous and difficult.

Day 1 post-op and the calf massagers come off and the surgical stockings go on. Sexy! The nurse who puts them on has to go for a lie down afterwards. Later on in the day the drip comes down, the PCA is disconnected and I can get out of bed without unplugging several medical devices first. The two drains are still in, one's draining vast amounts and the other not very much. I become a bit bored but the food perks up. I'm partaking of the halal menu. Most of the inmates that were there the day before are being released. Another inmate comes on board - let's call her 'June', because it rhymes with 'loon' - she's a sprightly woman in her eighties and she's barking. She used to counsel homosexuals and once ended up on a cruise with a load of swingers. June takes a shine to me and likes to have a chat about sexual activity and her up there down there burning (yes; down *there*.) Another inmate joins us who could vomit for Britain. June is prone to getting up in the middle of the night and disturbing everyone with her disco inferno. Then she sleeps all day. She begins to covet my banana and starts dropping hints but I'm not giving in.

Day 2 post-op and all hell breaks loose. The strong painkillers I'm now on begin to play havoc with my insides. The world falls out of my bottom. I become very intimate with the ward WC. The pain is horrendous but at least it takes my mind of the other stuff. The axillary drain comes out though and now I only have one drain, but it's a juicy one. June alternates her time between going to the bathroom, sleeping and eyeing up my banana. It's going brown but she's still not having it. A nun pays her a visit and probably wishes she hadn't - June tells her God doesn't exist and that she needn't think she's the chosen one.
I get a gander at my op scar while having the dressing changed and I'm quietly impressed. It doesn't look anywhere near as bad as I thought it might. I feel sleep deprived and bored and my abdomen hurts like hell. I decide not to take any more painkillers. I'd rather have post-op pain than this digestive trauma. Kenny is heard complaining about his dinner. "Fucking rabbit food. Every fucking time they put it on. Who wants to eat raw fucking carrot?" He has a point.

Day 3 post-op and the drain is still remarkably juicy. I'm told I can go home with the drain in situ but I don't fancy it because of the amount of fluid still pouring out. I'm told they'll leave it till day 5 then it has to come out. The student nurse on the ward washes my hair and puts in a french plait which makes me feel a bit better. Kenny tells the student nurse to "take the fucking headscarf off....that's what I don't like about you." She threatens to fill in an IR1 and he suddenly becomes apologetic saying he didn't know what came over him. Every day is like Groundhog day. Drain check at 6.30am, breakfast at 7.45am, get dressed, watch crap telly, listen to Kenny shouting, despair at June sleeping all day, have dinner, read a bit, have tea, see a few nurses and have obs in between and visitors who bring massive amounts of naughty food, then go to bed and get woken up in the early hours by you know who. And then it's morning and time for another day.

Day 4 post-op. My bowel is still agonisingly painful and I don't want to eat. The drain is still juicy. Kenny's having a bath today. As they're hoisting him into the bath chair I can hear him shouting "Me balls! Me balls!"...I know I'm going home tomorrow and I can't bloody wait. The nursing staff have been brilliant but the novelty's worn off; and I don't know if I can bear another night of June's disco inferno. The vomiting patient is about to go home when she starts vomiting again; copiously. June uncharacteristically loans her her blanket (but says she wants it back after.) She later gets moved to another ward and June snatches the blanket before it goes with her. Those reflexes are pretty impressive for a woman of her age.
I still haven't eaten that banana and she's still not having it. That night I sleep with the curtain pulled round, a pair of earplugs in and an eye mask on. I sleep surprisingly well and miss June's party piece.

Day 5 post-op. The drain comes out and I have my first bath. I feel minging. I get a softie to go in my bra, although I think it's a while before I'll be putting a restricting piece of underwear around my war wound. I've got my physio exercises, my painkillers (which I'm not taking for love or money, or pain for that matter) and my paperwork. I'm packed and ready to go. This is about 10am and I'm not being picked up until 3.30pm.
I say my goodbyes, go home and have fish and chips and an early night. I'm happy to be out.

Day 6 and 7 post-op I spend them being spoiled at Chez P's. Two visits from the distric nurse and my wound is declared fine and the steristrips come off and I head home to mine on Day 8. I've now got a bit of swelling just below the scar, not sure if it's fluid and might need draining but as it's the bank hol weekend I'm not getting too excited about it and will ring the district nurse on Tuesday. I feel tired but suprisingly OK. Half my chest looks like a small boys. I'm wearing vests.
Next step is the results of the ANC (axillary node clearance for the uninitiated) to see if the little cancer has made a bid for freedom. Provisional appointment for results is in 3 weeks as the Consultant's on holiday but am hoping to get in with his Reg before then.

I wonder how June's doing?

Titty Bang Bang

Tomorrow is le D-day. When I go from B -> b, although technically that's not correct as it's the right one that's going. B -> p? Yes. I'm having a coffee and a Twirl and making my last pre-Mx post - get me and my medical abbreviations. Check it out. I've paid bills and shit, packed my bags and feel the need to shave my legs. I don't want to look shoddy in hospital, although I'm sure that will go out of the window after a couple of days. I look remarkably healthy, with my Cyprus tan (and peeling skin) and the week off cancer was brilliant, like Butlin's but sunny.

I'm not particilarly dreading the operation itself, I'm just dreading being a f***ing inpatient.

See you on the other side!

Shake Your Coconuts

I've bought new pyjamas for hospital. They say 'Shake Your Coconuts' on them, which made me chortle. After the op I might cross out the last 's'. I'll only be able to shake my cocoNUT then. I've also bought new slippers, and a dressing gown. Once the mastectomy is done I should get a bit more of an idea of what happens next. Joined a breast cancer forum and ordered a ton of leaflets which I've put in nice coloured folders according to whether they're about the disease, being a younger woman with breast ca (at least I'm young in some respects - bah), things to do after surgery, treatment and practical things like wigs and prosthetics. It makes me feel more in control and ever so slightly anal.
Now I've done all that I'm going to have a week off from cancer. I'm not going to think about it. I'm going to eat too much and drink my body weight in alcohol and get a sunburn. I'm going to flaunt my coconuts by the pool. I'm bored of cancer, and I'm not even a bit of the way through the whole thing yet.

One more thing. When my mam was diagnosed with cancer I prayed for it to be me instead of her. I didn't mean that I wanted cancer AS WELL. Ooh, God, you're such a card.

Delete, Delete, Delete

I've just bought a ton of new underwear. Then realised that a) I don't have a boyfriend and b) I've got about two and a half weeks before I am one-boobed and therefore have to wear it all in between now and then. God bless prostheses, that's all I can say.

I miss N. I wish I didn't. Men are weird. Even though I texted him to say I have breast cancer I have heard NOTHING. Not a sausage. I think this should tell me all I need to know.

Cancer Is Hilarious!

When you have cancer you can get away with murder. I've been a bitch; it's because I have cancer. I send someone (usually an ex) a narky text; it's because I've got cancer. I spend £500 in one day on something I don't need; I'm allowed to, I'VE GOT CANCER. I don't want to go into work; I don't have to, I have CANCER. The possibilities are endless. Other pluses - future bionic boobs, critical illness cover meaning I might get my mortgage paid off, visitors who bring alcohol, months off work...but...I'm learning fast that cancer is also not so hilarious.
I'm reading too much and worrying about things that might happen, but might not. Not the dying part, I'm not up to that yet. The stuff they don't tell you when you get your diagnosis. The treatments you might have to have and the terrible side effects. Ovarian ablation, early menopause, the end to fertility, thinning hair, chemo, radio, drugs, drugs, drugs, the possibility that the evil C has spread beyong the breast. I think because I have sinusitus and am pre-menstrual (make the most of it!) that I'm being a bit negative. And on information overload.
B-girl has been my rock and when I feel a bit SH1T I can count on her to put me right. Why am I worrying about things that I might not have to go through? BECAUSE I HAVE CANCER! Meh.
I have to go to work in a bit. If I can get in. Apparently my journey in could be foiled due to thousands of iron men. Life is surreal sometimes.

The Story So Far...It's a long one, make a cup of tea and grab a fondant fancy...

One Saturday in April I had one episode of a bleeding right nipple. I'd been having a shower, doing the whole 'new boyfriend coming over therefore I need to look fabulous without looking like I've made a massive effort' thing. Neat bikini line so that he thinks you were born with a tiny triangle 'down there', toenails manicured to perfection, hair from a Pantene advert. When I was drying myself, there it was. A bit of blood. About a teaspoon, if that...just there, coming out of my right nipple. I wiped it away and it was gone. I thought I'd just been a bit too over enthusiastic with the net curtain scrubber thing and though no more about it. Boyf came over. Good weekend was had by all.
A week later while tea-ing at the Fartwood with my best B-girl I mentioned it, and since she works in the field of breasticles she advised me to get it checked out. I had no other symptoms. No lumps, no tenderness, no discharge. Nothing. It didn't bleed again so I assumed it would be something and nothing and I'd be alright.
Went to my GP, the lovely Dr M, got out the baps, he couldn't see any asymmetry or nipple problems, or feel a lump. But referred me to the breast clinic to 'be on the safe side'.
So, 4 weeks after that, off I trot to the local breast clinic where I don a cape that looks like a dishrag and Mr W the consultant has a feel around and also says he can't feel a lump but since I'm over 35 I should have a mammogram. I work in the medical field and know that even if it hurts like hell I will have to be stoical and pretend it doesn't. I have my boobs flattened then make my way back to see the delightful Dr D for the diagnosis. The mammogram is clear, but he wants to do an ultrasound to be sure. I'm not worried, this is standard procedure I'm sure.
So, there we are while I'm in the crappy cape again having my scan, B-girl has come with me and is sitting in the corner, Big B is at the bottom of the bed. We're talking about how it's better to come to a hospital that you don't work at; I can't imagine my good chum and colleague Dr S having to grapple (hardly, I have modest breast tissue, but grapple is such a good word) with my baps and then being able to look me in the eye over the Fox's Biscuit Assortment, when Dr D puts a hand on my leg and says the words "I'm sorry, there is a lump." He points it out. I nod. I do ultrasound for a living. I'm still not worried. B-girl looks pale. Big B puts a hand on my leg too. Then I have a big needle stuck in my boob, for a core biopsy. I don't feel a thing. I go into babbling mode. Still not worried. I see Mr W afterwards and the breast care nurse J, who is all in pink. People keep looking at me like I should be crying. Or at the very least shocked or worried.
I get told to come back a week later for the results. A week later I hear the words 'benign' and 'B1'. Both v good. BUT, and there is always a but in life, I'm given the option of having the lump removed and biopsied again to 'be on the safe side.' It's either that or have another biopsy, or leave the damn lump there for 3 months and see what it does. I go for the lumpectomy. The only thing I'm now worried about is having a general anaesthetic. I'm a GA virgin. I have to have a wire localisation at one hospital, then B-girl is to drive me to another hospital for the lump removal bit of it.
The lumpectomy is scheduled for two weeks later or so. The 3rd of July. A Friday. And my day off work. Bum. I survive the GA. I get a nice cheese and Branston sandwich and a lovely cup of tea afterwards. Everyone is very nice to me. I could almost enjoy it. I'm still not worried.
Two weeks off work follow whilst I recuperate. Watching daytime telly is like Groundhog Day. Last year, in November, I was off work for a different reason. If I was a celebrity it would be called 'Nervous Exhaustion' and I'd have been packed off to The Priory. Being a pleb I get a sicknote which details I'm off with a 'low mood' (which makes me sound no more than a bit fed up)and a prescription for Prozac. Jeremy Kyle, This Morning, Loose Women...I'm sure they're exactly the same every day. All the guests that were on Loose Women in November start to show up again in July. Jenny Agutter. Steven K Amos. Everyone else. I can't drive yet. I'm fast losing the will to live. Still not worried. Although by this time boyf has possibly left the country and we are officially over. This upsets me more than the looming threat of potential carcinoma. I'm still not worried about the boob thing.
A week after the op Mr W's secretary phones me to say that I will be discussed at the MDT that afternoon (I almost feel important) but that Mr W is off the week after so will I see another surgeon for my results on the following Monday. Fine, I say. If it gets me away from Loose Women I'll go anywhere and see anyone. B-girl offers to meet me there and my sister-in-law drives me.
The ubiquitous cape is donned once again and a nice young man comes into the room with breast care nurse D. There is no mention of the word 'benign' this time, and I just about register the word 'cancer'. Oh. I don't really react. I just want to get out of the cape. I nod a lot and listen to my options. Wide Local Excision (removing more of the cancerous area and some normal breast tissue) and radiotherapy or mastectomy. Mastectomy. People look at me like I should be crying, but I still don't. Weeks later I still haven't. I'm invited (invited!) to come back and see Mr W a week later to have a chat about my decision. I can't really remember what was said. I think radiotherapy was mentioned. And receptor testing. And the oncologist. Nobody says chemotherapy until I see Mr W. Chemotherapy is rough; Mrs P (mother) has had 3 lots of it. I don't want chemotherapy and decide that if having the mastectomy (and the removal of axillary nodes for further testing to see if the cancer has spread) means I might avoid it I'll do it. Besides, WLE would mean hardly any breast tissue would be left anyway, so they might as well take the lot. That way I can have a booby job (reconstruction) in 12 months and get 'jiggled' so that I have two boobs the same and more importantly BIGGER than the ones I had. Result.
I go home and tell everyone I've got cancer. They all seem more worried than me. When is it appropriate to start worrying?
The mastectomy is scheduled for Friday 21st August. That's three weeks off. I decide to go back to work. And to get a cat.