a nice thing

We all know I have a fitness trainer, Julie - well, this was from her the other day to cheer me up when I was so stressed when my pc went in fatal meltdown. I was VERY stressed!

Oh, plus a lot of BIG cakes...ehehe. That ensured I went to class! Cake! Brilliant - but the little Primrose will be in the garden for years to come reminding me of how nice people can be...

the mammogram

Wednesday, 11 March 2009

Well, on Monday I finally had the mammogram I thought I was having weeks ago. And after everyone telling me how painful it was, how horrid it is and various other interesting stories, I was a bit nervous I must say. But I was determined to have it, as it is another ‘control mechanism’. For me, any way I can take control of what my body is doing, is a good thing.

So at lunchtime, off I went - I arrived early by 30 minutes - and here is where everyone goes crazy. The RD&E hospital is amazing. I have had nothing but brilliant treatment there so far and I have absolutely no complaints about it…EXCEPT FOR THE PARKING!!! It is a total nightmare. Our jolly government are always trying to force feed us ‘public transport’ use. Yes, theoretically it sounds marvellous. But in reality, it sucks. It would cost me twice as much to catch the bus [not to mention changing in the middle of town, meaning standing around in the freezing cold and rain for ages] and anyway I hate being at the whim of bus drivers. They are never on time. And as for the bus stops? Ha! In the UK it is ALWAYS raining. So what do they do? They remove all the shelters with sides, and give us trendy plastic roof thingys that the rain can get to you from all angles. Idiots. They are about as useful as a third buttock.

Right - arrived early - it took me 40 minutes to find a space!! I had to stop in the middle of the parking lot and call the ward, as I was so stressed I was shaking like a leaf, worrying that they would think I was a no show and cancel my appointment. They were so calm…'not to worry – we know you’re here so just arrive after you find a space'. Oof - what a relief. And of course, 2 minutes later I did find a space. Then raced to the ward and sat in the nice serene waiting area. Yay - NO television!!

I do not understand why they put televisions in waiting areas? They are usually showing some idiotic program that makes one wish to shoot the screen or beat the person next to you over the head with a book. Non stop drivel or, [even worse], ER?? What?! Grr. Better to spend the money on a nice big bowl of Help Yourself Valium for the magazine table. Far more use to all of us stressed out and demented patients.

I hate television in waiting areas. Stop that. Have a library. And free tranquillisers. And a multi story car park.

But as usual I digress. I blame the chemo brain. So, on to the mammogram. It was not at all painful I am glad to report! A tad undignified having one’s boobs yanked about, but that’s a small price to pay for peace of mind. I seem to have ribs that get in the way, but apart from that, no worries. Here in the UK we have the ‘4 picture’ version. Good, more pictures, more conclusive results.

The Process. You go into a little room, and change out of the top half of your clothes [good to wear separates girls] into a Bat Woman cape. Of the UGLIEST fabric you ever saw. WHO are the Evil Designers of hospital garb?? As a designer myself, I would like to have a rather sharp word with them. Then. All your kit goes into a shopping basket! Hilarious. Then the radiographer knocks on the door, and off you go. With your trusty shopping basket. She is explaining a lot of stuff whilst shuffling you about into the machine, but mostly I was eyeing the machine and wondering what was going to happen, so she was wasting her breath, poor woman. Both boobs go into the machine twice – once straight ahead, and once on an angle. So four photos. It doesn’t take any longer than about 2 seconds for each photo [if that], so even if it had hurt [which it didn’t] it would have been easily bearable. Especially if it saves one from having a mastectomy.

Then one waits outside in the hall whilst the radiographer checks that the scans are good. After that, off to the little room, get changed and off you go. Four weeks max for the results to arrive. OK! Good work for Monday!

the 5 year clock - and a thank you

Monday, 02 March 2009

Today is the day that I had 'The Surgery' last year. The beginning of the most peculiar, difficult and enlightening year of my entire life. As it says at the beginning of the blog; "I was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer, stage 3b in February 2008 at age of 46. I've completed 6 cycles of chemotherapy and had a total hysterectomy and oopherectomy. It wasn't very funny, but I'm still laughing!"

The total hysterectomy and oopherectomy would have been today at 12.30pm - I still remember how relieved I felt to be going under the knife. Madness. But I'd feel the same today. The relief was immense.

And I was relieved to have the chemo too, even with all it's horrific side effects and unpleasantness. It was a relief. Just to know that IF there was any cancer left, it was being killed. Nuked to death. Yeah!! Go chemo, go. Bloody cancer - I hate it. I really hate it.

The date has made me remember some funny things and some awful things. They are all mixed up together and in a strange order. I thinks that’s down to a mixture of the anaesthetic and just chemo brain.

I remember...My dear friends Penny and Rhonwen in South Africa, texting me cheery messages in the hospital [I shudder to think what it cost them!]. Mum arriving with a big bag I got her full of lots of M&S grapes – looking rather fraught but trying to be really chirpy [and succeeding!]. Getting into the lift with the nurse to go to surgery and watching Aj disappear from view between the closing doors, then crying and trying not to, as I felt like I might never see him again. Laughing when the nurse and I arrived at the operating theatre and no-one was there – it was tea break! I had no slippers on. We had to linger in the hall like miscreants. The nurse was very cross. I was feeling stoned. Crying as the anaesthetic took hold. Being told my blood was amazingly oxygenated. Coming round into anaesthetic shock, but realising there were no tubes in my nose, and that the surgery had only taken about an hour and a half [good news]. Being frightened that Aj would see me like that and have a fit. Trying to walk by hanging onto Aj’s back pockets – just so I could get the horrid catheter out. My blood pressure dropping to idiotically low levels. Being hideously thirsty. The epidural not working but the pain nurse being like Superwoman and sorting it all out in no time [and she was cross too, not with me but with the anaesthesiologist]. Wondering what the great big chop mark was going to look like. Worrying that my identification bracelets [I had two] would fall off, as they were so big. Being SO grateful that I had my own room and my own bathroom. Having a shower and almost screaming with frustration, as I could barely move my arms, and I didn’t want to get the dressing wet. Andrew’s face when he was trying to help me shower, and I was crying and being a compete bitch. My sweet friends in Portugal texting and calling me. Being well enough to get my breakfast in the cafeteria for patients with Mum. Stealing the miniature heart shaped Marmite pots for Patty. Because she absolutely HATES Marmite. Not feeling like a cigarette at all. The relief of knowing I could go home. The trip home in the car, wondering why the roads were suddenly so bumpy.

So many things – I am sure there are more, but my brain won’t compute them right now.

And now I am looking at my five year clock – we have decided [me and the other OC girls] that the clock starts after the last chemo. Mine was on the 22 July, 2008. So I am in a 7 month remission so far. So far. So good. So good, so scary.

But, scary or not, I say this from the heart – thank you so much, all of you who have been there for me this last year. You have no idea how much it has meant to me [and still means to me]. You can’t have any idea unless you have had cancer – it’s the most aggravating thing! But on the other hand, it has shown me a lot – I know my priorities, and they are different now. And I know my friends – they are different now too. And I know my family are great!!

But of everyone that had to put up with me, bear with me and accept me as I was, my husband has to be the one person in a million. He had to put up with my ‘every single day’ dramas. He had to look after me. He was worried. And still is. He has no-one to tell how he felt, no one to say ‘don’t worry, I will take care there’ while he did something else. He was alone in this, as I was. But he was there. Every minute, every hour, every day. And he’s still here now – I am so lucky. And I love him so much.

thoughts on being a 'hypochondriac'

Wednesday, 25 February 2009

This post is especially for those of us who are 'post everything'. I.e.: surgery and chemo. Everyone thinks you are better. We all hope we are. And we are. But we are all afraid we aren't. The surgery is done and pretty much healed. The chemo is finished. Your hair starts growing back [into hilarious styles I might add - in my case anyway!]. Your energy levels are up. The days of Fatigue Attacks become fewer and shorter, in fact when I get an FA now, I wonder why I'm so tired...then I remember! This has got to be a good thing. The mind is amazing how it can just "put things away" if you will. I am sure it helps the body heal, not to be thinking about all that horrific stuff. Thanks Brain!

But, now that all those hospital visits are over, apart from the 3 monthly check-up, the Helpful Brain starts a new trick. It's called "Imagining The Worst". The hospital visits were a comfort zone [why?? all that happened to me there was painful and scary?]. Maybe because you know that someone else is looking after you, checking you, making sure every little blip is a 'norm'. Once the last chemo is over, it’s: "off you go, have a nice life". Which is great - they are obviously confident that you will.

BUT what happens next is almost the most difficult part to deal with.

Every single little thing that happens, be it a stomach ache [it's returned on my bowel] or a back ache [it's on my lungs!] or a foot ache or a headache [definitely a brain tumour]...everything makes you stressed. Everything makes you wonder if the cancer has come back. Everything makes you scared.

And that is SO frustrating!!!

As a person who hardly ever went to the doctors BC, for me this seems an insane life of seeming hypochondria.

Well, I finally gave in and went to see my GP about that stomach pain I had. Of course by the time I rang to make an appointment, I was pretty stressed, and when the secretary said the earliest appointment would be next week, I felt sick. So I explained the situation, and she was really very good. She said she’d get my GP to call me, he’s see if he felt I should be fitted in. Sigh of relief.

He called me back in 10 minutes, and fitted me in half an hour later! How good is that? And I did mention to him that I feel like an hysterical hypochondriac with my constant wittering on, and it was him who said that this bit is now the most difficult bit and that I am actually managing well. Oh, and that I am definitely NOT a hypochondriac. Good.

Trying to cope with having had cancer that is, according to all the newspapers etc, quite likely to recur, [and of course this month the hype is worse than usual] is hard. Especially in the first few years. You want to be 'better' and 'get on with it'. But you also want to put something back, spread awareness, try to help other women with the horrors of dealing with this stupid disease. So you can’t just turn over and go; "excellent, I’m better now, ciao amigos". Because all the time, you are worrying about the Dreaded Recurrence.

But anyway, I’m fine - seems I may have had an infection - apparently once you’ve had all your guts hauled out and mauled around, they are a lot more sensitive to anything like that. And he also explained what all the lumps and bumps are that are going on inside my stomach [I now know where my liver lives]. It’s weird – I never once examined my tummy before last year, and when I do now I wonder what the hell is going on in there? Nothing is ever in the same place - and the GP said that it’s pretty difficult to examine yourself anyhow, as the minute you raise an arm to do it, something tenses somewhere.

Oh and I also know where my aorta is. Aorta? Did I want to know that? Er - no. Very interesting, the things I’ve learnt this past year!

So, it seems I am going to be a multiple personality for a bit - one of me getting back to 'normal', looking forward to the usual things, working, gardening, holidays [yay! Venice!] etc - the other one doing what erstwhile would have been totally out of character things; like the circuit training, Relay for Life, trying to support other women like myself who are going through all the terrors I did. And of course trying to get the message across to other women about ovarian cancer.

Hopefully, at some point, both these people will arrive at an agreement for time sharing, and I’ll be in my fab and groovy new single persona! At the moment though, it can be a bit confusing.

little things can make a big difference

Monday 2nd March 2009

March is Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month here in the UK - and it appears to be 'Tea Party' time.

If you'd like to show your support, look out for Tea Time Treats which offer donations in selected BOOTS stores [this is not in ALL the Boots stores, so check first]. To find out which Boots stores are selling food and drink items with a donation to The Eve Appeal, telephone the Boots Careline on:

0845 120 1511.

If you buy any product in the Boots 'Original Beauty Formula' range in March, Boots will donate 10% of the selling price to The Eve Appeal.

You can help The Eve Appeal by holding your own Tea Party as part of the 'Make Time for Tea' campaign - see here The Eve Appeal, or see Ovacome to download the fundraising pack from either site.

Here's the little Tea Pot keyring from Boots - I have one, it's made of what appears to be enamelled metal - it's quite cute!