Fast-track NHS

The chemo clinic rang this morning. Said they'd booked me in for my first session next Monday - they'd had a cancellation.

JP rang them back on my behalf and declined the appointment because:
- I'm still in my six week post-op recovery stage
- I haven't even finally decided I'm going to have chemo
- I haven't yet seen the oncologist

While the speed is impressive, I'm not yet ready for Domestos.

Perhaps they're wanting to expedite everything through before any Con-Dem cuts start to bite.

I've decided to approach chemotherapy like I did the half marathon. When people asked me how I did it I said: "You just put one foot in front of the other."

Had been thinking of running it again this September. Maybe next year.

Survivors

These orchids were sent by friends soon after I got diagnosed - that's six weeks ago - and they're still going.

Cut flowers normally last a few days or a week at most.

A few bits have fallen off but they are thriving and still beautiful.

I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere.

Reasons to be cheerful

At the risk of sounding like some ghastly Pollyanna, I've been trying to spin some positives out of this chemo conundrum:
1. I'll get more time off work (although perversely, I'm kind of missing work)
2. Summer is a good time to be recuperating
3. I can have fun with wigs
4. There is an unofficial support network of chemo veterans and others emerging around me. They are with me all the way. (Thanks - you know who you are!)
5. I won't have to shave for a bit
6. Oscar is happy when I'm off
7. More time to pursue my dream of becoming a writer.
That's all I can think of at the moment. Four more than Ian Dury anyway.

Not sure this is working. It still feels crap. But a cognitive behaviour therapist would say just think the thoughts, you don't have to feel them. Your subconscious mind will follow.

Meanwhile Sherwood is full of bluebells. These are the ones in our garden.

I'm off to the Indian Community Centre at lunchtime with Jules. You can get a decent curry there for £3!

Yesterday

I didn't take my medication.

I didn't do my exercises.

I drank too much wine.

And a Tory Toff walked into Downing Street.

I am nostalgic for '97, when things could only get better...

Oh Gord

They're recommending chemo.

They found 'traces' of the cancer in one of the seven lymph nodes. The chemo is just in case it's spread further.

The conversation went like this:

Consultant: "We will put you on a course of chemo",

Me: "Do I have a choice?"

Consultant: "We want you to live to be an old lady. We want you to live to 90."

(What's it to you? Who wants to live to 90?)

Consultant: "Why don't you want chemo?"

(Why ever? Who wouldn't? What's not to want about six months of looking and feeling crap, flushing out your body with poison, knackering your immune system, and in all likelihood increasing your risk of getting other primary cancers).

Me: "Because it's a poison and a carcinogen."

Silence.

The nurse says it's a 'belt and braces' approach.

"It's like Domestos."

Great.

Perhaps I am too negative. Perhaps I am being a wimp. True, I don't want to lose my hair and feel debilitated. True, I don't want to be out of action for yet more months. True, I don't want to give my body, which is still recovering from a major trauma, yet more battering. But it isn't that.

It's just that every fibre of my being is recoiling from it. Treating poison with poison. Treating poison that may or may not be there. Just in case. Belt and braces.

I see the oncologist a week from now. I need more information. I know. This is not a rational, thought out response. I know two women for whom chemo caused more cancer. One died of leukaemia. The other one went on to have another primary.Her own consultant told her the chemo probably caused it. Two women. I know there are plenty of others who had chemo with no recurrence. This is not a scientific sample. I know.

They found traces in one out of seven lymph nodes. The other six were clear. The blood supply was clear. The cancer is Grade 2 - not the most invasive type. They will treat it with radiotherapy and hormone drugs anyway. I'm fine with both of those. It's just the chemo shit.

The good news is my critical illness insurance might now pay off my mortgage.

It's an ill wind.

And as JP says Gordon probably feels worse than me right now...

Eek a mouse!

I hadn't had the back-spasm effect for a while until it returned with a vengeance the other night, waking everyone up.

During the 3am worry-hour that ensued I became convinced the surgeons had left something in me which was lodged in the cavity where they took the muscle out, causing me to twitch.

JP reassuringly explained there's no way this can happen because they count all the implements out in the operating theatre before and after surgery to check they haven't left anything behind.

I was about to drift off again when he said: "maybe it's a mouse!"

EEK! It feels EXACTLY LIKE a mouse running up and down inside my back.

Tomorrow is Black Box day. I see the brilliant Miss Bello at 10.30 NHS time for the results. Maybe I'll ask her about the mouse.

In the pink

There has been a change in the division of labour in this household since the operation. The fairies who used to do the washing are away on sabbatical, and the ones who do cooking, shopping and car things have taken over the laundry department. They have brought in efficiency measures - meaning fewer, larger loads, but less selection.

This has some interesting side-effects, as with this bra. When I bought it it was white, now it's a rather fetching two-tone pink effect.

Been bra shopping again today. Just can't seem to find the right thing. Anything offering sufficient support is too tight round my scar. I prefer sports bras to post-surgery ones. I'd rather be an athlete than an invalid.