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.