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.