All change, a-bloody-gain

Back on a handful of homeopathic 'don't panic' pills after an horror-inducing conversation with the perennially upbeat Harriet.  She could tell me they were about to amputate a limb, it would still come out all perky.  Apparently the return of my periods lead to a number of options a) nothing [preferred by me], b) reduce your oestrogen levels by going back on the Zolodex [no, no and thrice no], or c) eliminate oestrogen in perpetuity by removing my ovaries.  

.

It's been a long time since I've been that terrified by a phone call.  Even though my much trusted medical team may leave me well alone, the very thought of having more surgery, being slowly deleted, bit by bit, terrifies me.  The prospect of any more hospital procedures makes my heart sink;  but more importantly, I hadn't come to terms with the infertility thing at all, had I?  A few brief days back on panty liners and paracetomol and I've already fantasised about a miraculous, unexpected pregnancy with which to amaze and amuse the neighbourhood. 

.

The operation even has a comedy name, Oophorectomy, distant cousin to a German oompah band.  They're not going to get me anywhere near that, unless I am in grave danger without it.  It shouldn't matter, I ought to be pragmatic, but it's my body, and it matters to me.  I'd like to keep my periods and my fantasies a while longer, thanks all the same.

.

Good thing work phoned an hour before that, not an hour later, because I was remarkably perky then, and I'm a wreck now.  

Grumpy old woman

Beautiful book from St Andrew's bazaar.

.
Surly, overslept [becoming a habit].  Have begun taking Nursey for granted.  Her absence today discombobulated me.  Spent an hour waiting for her harrassed substitute to help me out, resorted to reading up on surviving domestic abuse and how to get through winter as a pensioner, 'If it's cold, don't go out'.  How long did it take a committee to come up with that? 

.

Sitting with a sulking cat, awaiting Sainsbury's delivery van.  Out of milk.  No substitute.  Have they no imagination?  The world is turned on its head today.  Writing group will bring me back to my senses, or help me escape them for a time.

.

Can't stop myself counting down to returning to work.  No wonder I'm feeling foul.  And I've got a surgery check-up tomorrow.  He may be Mr Trustworthy, but it still makes me twitchy.  Sorry world.  Cheerier another day.

Slow progress

Alas and sadly, 2 codeine so far today and counting [for mystery stomach pains].  Been a while since I felt like this.  Gratefully distracted by afternoon writing workshop.  Left via impressive press pack awaiting I know not what, but definitely not me.  Not one flash bulb, and a good thing too.

.

Nursey says breast crevasse healing magnificently, now using half the amount of seaweed needed in early Sept when it all went so spectacularly wrong.  Feels like a lifetime ago.  Last night's spectacular dream also involved glancing down and seeing an innocent brown mole in its place.

I prefer cats...

.. but come on, "Bobby lends a paw" was a welcome discovery while failing to find my old short story (from a set of knit-your-own-doll's-house instructions).  I even remember the colour ink, the size of the notepad, everything.  Can't find it.

.

No sooner do I triumphantly announce to GP that gut rot is fading away (he said would I humour him & take a month of antacids.  You know me.  I have no pride & will try anything), than it wakes me up all bloody night.  I overslept, yet again.  Makes me so grumpy when I finally surface and face the day.  Alarm clock from tomorrow.

.

[Only for the brave] New dressing gives me far too good a look at the cavernous hole in my chest.  And I feel rather exposed and vulnerable.  But no choice, my skin couldn't bear another day of sticky dressings.  Bathing is a distinctly interesting experience now:  even more rapid, bolt upright, followed by quantities of antihistamine cream.  Onward we travel.

.

Set top digital box died - all its lights glow simultaneously.  Am reduced to 5 channels & a DVD player.  That I can sit still long enough to watch anything is, nonetheless, a recent triumph.  Watched DVD from the Hospice Shop free box last night, Michael Caine and Sigourney Weaver in Half Moon Street.  That man will do anything for money.  Off up the hill to return DVD whence it came, and to endeavour to do a little more with today.  

(Im)measurable triumph

[Turn away if squeamish] Nursey couldn't fit 12cm of packaging inside my very own breast pocket today.  Only another 33cm to go.

.

For the unitiated, while other people have breast pockets in their shirts, mine's in my breast.  Healing, very, slowly.  Nursey reckons Christmas, latest..

.

No idea who Fiona Cooper is/was.  I rehoused this ruler when the Yoga Therapy Centre moved to Islington.  Reckoned I appreciated it far, far more than Robin ever did.  Still, you never know.

.

Time to pack paper dolls, Tom Jones and an apple.  Time for hospital.

Look!

 What light!  That's 9am perfection for you.  Slept rather too well, rolled over, slept some more.  Are you observant enought to spot the deliberate error? Turned over - naughty!  Woke to find wound had bled because I'd slept on it.  B*gger.

.

To Nursey now to get it dressed.  She'll reassure me again, "Well, at least it's got a good blood supply".

Curious, orange

I could live there without a struggle.  

.

Not an easy day.  Weary, stomach pain,  bleeding breast wound (it had stopped for a few days - 3 steps forward, 2 back..), it's chilly out there and the kitchen underfloor heating that made the place snug as a bug last winter won't work (£200 call-out:  are they insane??).  Frenzy of domestic pointlessness.

.

Reassuring e-mails from JS & phone call from MP, all in all reminding me that painkillers addle my brain (can't remember pin number despite obscene spending habit), and that the world will be a brighter place when I've had a nap.

.

Pottered among the statistics:  who exactly reads this blog  at the Czech Ministry of Finance?  Or Mohawk College of Applied Arts, or Reuters?  You're all equally welcome.   You provide a moment of welcome escapism;  hope the feeling's mutual.

.

Radio 3 on.  No brainpower to select tunes.  Girl scout promise to come back cheerier on the morrow.  xx

I am losing my cotton-pickin' mind

Dear NB, thank you so much for moral support and yogic discourse today.  Download these recipe pages (Aroona Reejhsinghani, my catering guru), and enjoy.  I recommend Hyderabad Seviyan (closest to our dessert at Rasa Express today - £3.50 for lunch, recommended, 327 Euston Rd, right on top of Warren St tube, complete with yoga studio for staff only in basement), and Mangalore Dal Payasam.  They take time to boil down, but they are just lovely.  JS, you could get Mr T to try them, too.  I know you'd love them.
Where were we?  Right.  South African frequently tactless Nursey was surprisingly sympathetic, and did a very thorough job of examining and dressing my miserable wound.  It's decided to react to its usual dressing now.  Can you see my fine footwear on the patient's couch?
One thoroughly frustrating ultrasound:  Mr D says nothing to be seen in my gall bladder.  And as CT, MRI, X-ray all drew a blank, best to get myself referred to a gastro-enterologist to explore my large bowel.  Because it hurts.  Not that he thinks there's anything wrong with it, but get it checked all the same.  Appointment should arise within a fortnight.  How to stay calm for a fortnight and not dream up sinister bowel-related problems?  Keep taking the drugs, says Mr D, consultant wise man.  Had had a generous dose before seeing him, as it happens, and gleefully rounded off by wishing him well over the holidays and looked forward to seeing him for March's six monthly routine mammogram, "No, I'll see you in two weeks to check your breast".  Drat.  Momentarily forgot about that.
What are the Venezuelans up to exactly?
And how come I've lived here for 17 years and only just noticed this plaque on my tube platform?  And why would anyone bomb this obscure corner of North London?
Came home to a hot kettle and abandoned football;  MP and Little B had only just left.  Need to rest, not just run around distracting myself.  Wonder which I'll manage..  Shed man cometh tomorrow, and a haircut.  Good.

Another ruddy day unfolds...

NB:  Have had acupuncture and am somewhat calmer now, but, this is what I wrote on the tube a mere four hours ago:

.

Where did the euphoria go?  Why am I flitting from here to there and back again, mosquito-style?  So sped up that today I ate my first ever Chinese take-away lunch-time special on the Underground.  I'd run out of time between appointments and phone calls, every one of which medically related.

.

Is it the sniffle I picked up at my never-ending daily appointments with the Nurse, wound-packing over and over, "Did they tell you it'll scar this time?", or the unsettling mystery calls from the GP who keeps saying, "Please phone back", but never says why, and is never available when I try? Please don't let my wound be infected.  

.

I think it's acclimatising to bloody anything life slings at me, over and over again, and then grumbling about whatever is left on my plate.  Ergo, if all traces of cancer were proven to have been eradicated, every last gallstone removed, lifelong financial security guaranteed, I'd probably still phone my sister and whinge that I picked up a cold this morning.

.

Pathetic, isn't it?  The human condition.  Ah, me.

.

Afternote:  GP caught me at last - "Just phoning with good news - no sign of infection on the swabs we took from your wound".  So why am I still as twitchy as a Hollywood movie star on a diet of thin air, filtered water and coke?

.

Attached strapline from 'The Lady', found in GP surgery.

Tempus fugit

For over two months, I almost got out from under the doctor.  I wore a funerial suit and went to work.  Everything is subject to change.

.

Now, I've wanted to make fairy cakes for days, but stop short at the prospect of standing up in the kitchen.

.

S~s raised her eyebrows on seeing my copy of John Diamond's 'C - because cowards get cancer too'.  One swift nudge and she remembered reading Jude the Obscure four times the summer her father died.
Pace.

.

14 days ago I had surgery to remove a seemingly undiagnosable lump - the more tests I had on it, the more conflicting results I got.

.

Six days ago, my surgeon congratulated me on not having cancer.  Instead, I have a pre-cancer which itself necessitates a mastectomy.  But not before the gallstones operation, itself necessitated by the hormone treatment taken for last year's tumour.

.

Four days ago, my wound opened itself wide and I've spent from then to now being cleaned, swabbed, patched up and drugged.  I've done a full circuit of the NHS' out-of-hours offer.  And, somehow, between it all, I live a life.  Now, where are those jelly diamonds?

Don't read this with your breakfast...

A haimisheh Warhol for light relief.  Now leave this blog unless you can cope with gore.
.

Phoned Oxford in a bit of a flap last night;  BBIL very wisely suggested I take a codeine; fell asleep ten minutes into The Belles of St Trinian's (Alistair Sim, none of that Russell Brand nonsense); woke to go to bed with my hot Badam milk;  undressing, cross-eyed, my scar tissue had opened a full inch giving me a far too clear view of the depths within;  panicked.  Phoned my Breast Care Nurse, knowing it to be pointless, but at least thinking mine might be the first message she hears when she plays them back in the morning.  

.

Tried NHS Direct, "Your out-of-hours service will phone you back, and if appropriate will call you into their clinic";  "What if I can't get there?  Can't they send someone round with a needle and thread?";  "In these situations people usually call a taxi or a friend".  Good point.  Friends.  Why hadn't I thought of that?  Phoned J Opp [is everyone called J? J next door, cousin J, lifelong J known here as S~S, or even J in America];  no answer;  knocked on her door - 12.15 pm by now.   She didn't answer;  stood in my dressing gown in the middle of a road so silent it could be a movie set for some post-nuclear nightmare, saying "Sh*t, sh*t", and by a mercy, she looked out of her bedroom window.  "I'm knocking because you've got a car...";  as I explained, the GP phoned back, talked me down, convinced me I needed nothing doing right then, and that my miserable wound would do something called secondary healing, which is far better than being stitched, which risks sewing an infection in.  I could always go to the surgery in the morning to have it packed.  

. 

Keep thinking, "but I'm meant to be having a skin-saving mastectomy:  how will that work if I haven't got any skin?"

.

Tom Jones singing 'Sex Bomb';  an unusual choice, but I'm finding playing everything in alphabetical order a wonderful source of eclectic distractions, suits my continual mood-swinging.  Skipped 'She's a Lady' to Razorlight's 'Somewhere Else', far more appropriate.  Sorry neighbours.  Full volume this one. "I really, really wish I could be somewhere else than here".

.

Ever tried EFT?  Repeat aloud:  "Even though [insert current crisis here] I completely and unconditionally love and accept myself".  Ha blinkin' ha.

.

[Wrote all the above waiting for Dr's Reception to open.  Dr Limbani (who he?) plus female chaperone will see me at 9am.  No nurses available.]

Relax..

.. I have stopped leaking.  Lovely A says I don't have to go in today.  Relief.

Never rains...

.. but it pours, literally.  Have just endeavoured to calm myself (while awaiting hospital to call back), by lying on my yoga mat, with (series of) flannels wedged over leaking breast.  I'm going to have to go in again, aren't I?  And I was so looking forward to SB turning up with all the kosher delights Hendon could offer.

.

This is all so, so, very unsexy.  Why can't I have something Victorian-heroine-like, that makes me pale and interesting, complete with full recovery in the penultimate chapter, leading to happy outcome with dashing hero on final page? 

.

Perhaps Drummond Street sunflower was planted by those fine guerrilla gardening people.  JS and I made note to subversively carry sunflower seeds throughout next spring, slipping them in wherever an opening should arise.

2 for-the-price-of 1

Now, are you sitting comfortably?  I don't have cancer.  That was the good news.  Instead, I have DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ), a pre-cancerous condition, in the very same breast that had cancer last year.  Supposedly, loads of people are walking around with this, oblivious.  But, now that it's been identified, I will need a mastectomy and reconstruction.  Yes, finally, I get to have one breast like Jordan (and then I can have even more surgery on the other one, so they match....)  No need for chemotherapy;  can't have radiotherapy, as you only get that once per breast, and I've already had it.  Once they've done all that, there's a 99% chance of being here in 5 years' time.  

.

And a third doctor said, "Well, it's looking increasingly like gallstones.  You really must have an ultrasound".   Comfortingly, the breast op is sufficiently non-urgent to allow for the gallstones stuff to be resolved first (excellent, because they s*dding hurt).

.

Found myself menu-planning for the likely 4-day hospital stay for breast op:  sushi from Wasabi; soup from Itsu;  reliable S~S bringing reliable M&S; dosa & thali from Rasa Express; must try those instant porridge kits from Planet Organic, but didn't they get a lousy review somewhere..

.

Onto brighter things:  please, please try this Italian;  bang opposite Saatchi & Saatchi, which would explain the framed cartoons by well-oiled patrons;  though the photograph of a sheepish Prince William eating there was remarkably understated, I felt.  Had it been on my wall, there would probably have been a ruddy great arrow pointing him out.

.

My amanuensis of the day, our J, took excellent notes, paid for slap-up lunch, and then I had to let her get on with some work.  So, reluctantly, I scooped up my biscotti in a serviette, embarassingly bridge and tunnel of me, I know, but I couldn't bear to leave them.  Had to explain 'bridge & tunnel' to our J, who will clearly have to broaden her reading to include far more trash.

.

A quick emergency shop in Drummond Street for sandal soap, upma mix and ginger;  fellow Victoria Line passenger with perplexing book simply entitled 'Advance List', full of celeb stories due in the coming months:  Roger Moore's autobiography, imaginatively entitled "My Word is My Bond", is coming in October, apparently, with saucy revelations that he (gasp) slept with Bond girls.

.

Home to a promptly delivered bird bath - only ordered on Sunday night.  The small print on the bird feeder claims it'll get more customers with a proximate water supply.  We shall see.  I think the large cat population around these parts will keep visitors to a slow, possibly dead, trickle.

.

What sort of gene pool do I have exactly, to have two different, unconnected conditions in the same breast?? Back to see Mr Trustworthy Surgeon (he'd come in during his holidays to explain all this weirdness to me) next Tuesday.  GG, it might be your turn next...  

Light relief

Remarkably prompt & reassuring check-up back at hospital this morning. My surgeon couldn't be there - but was concerned enough to speak to me by phone: I have fluid, but it just needs monitoring, not removing; and I have penicillin, to ward off infection, not because I have one. All my vital signs are just fine. Came home with a thermometer, just in case.

.

Results from yesterday's excision biopsy due next Tuesday. Looks just fine, said Mr Trustworthy Surgeon, but your circumstances are exceptionally unusual [ie: my test results so far don't add up], we will have to wait and see.

.

Little B had the time of his life waving at each Underground Ernie as he drove into the platform; and payasam at Diwani Bhel Puri went down exceptionally well.

.

If I don't sleep now, I'll go mad. Enough.

Curses

Have post-operative fluid build-up. S*ddit. Sounds like a bottle of water slooshing around in my chest. Awaiting hospital call-back, but am almost certainly having to have it removed today. Wasn't meant to be doing anything independently for a few hours yet, so MP & little B will come into town with me & play with the animals at Coram's Fields while I get done.

.

Really hope I can be seen at my usual clinic - don't fancy A&E at all.

.

And to think, I had such a pleasant early morning; researching in-service training events to get back up to speed with yoga teaching; trying to remember John Peel's favourite song (Teenage Kicks, Undertones); wishing S~S best of luck in her fancy-shmancy new job at her really special new school today; trying (but failing) to look up how to make corn dollies out of lavender; taking blurry photos of a window box.

Isn't the NHS extraordinary (today)???

It has taken me longer to upload a picture of my feet in disposable hospital slippers than any other part of today's procedures, except perhaps the surgery, which I was unable to time, for obvious reasons.
.
I am home again. J, MP & little B are all here. Time for tea, lunch, and rest.
.
Thank you for checking up on me.

Journey without end

The lovely Flo (in Mr Trustworthy Surgeon's team) thinks I might need my gall bladder out, and should have an ultrasound to check further - such an Alf Garnett sort of a problem, gall stones. And I was bumped to the end of the ECG queue because I didn't hear my name being called - 'Young, gifted and black' at full volume. Serves me right. Comfortingly, the ECG looked entirely normal; on schedule for breast op, Monday.
.
Had a "lemmeouttahere" moment, disorientated down endless unfamiliar corridors. Someone helped. It's the compassion that brings on tears.
.
Wonderful J will be with me from Sunday night, and see me home from what should, hopefully, be day surgery on Monday. Now they tell me I'm not meant to be alone for the following 24 hrs, so, team, if anyone wants to do a bit of footfall-sitting anytime between Monday evening & Tuesday evening, just let me know... The hospital letter says I'm not meant to operate machinery blah blah, but a kettle?!
.
I will give you full access to my (embarrassment of an) ipod, eclectic bookshelves & (well-stocked) fridge. I intend cooking Indian & cupcakes for Sunday - I'll make extra.
.
xx f

All change!

Until 10.30am, I thought my exploratory surgery [excision biopsy - apologies to the squeamish] was 3 weeks' away, now it's on Monday. That will be my 10th procedure to establish what is going on. Would someone please, please change my hospital records: I am Miss or Ms f, not Mrs; every time you phone or ask for Mrs f, I look over my shoulder for my mum. And I clearly have no husband.

.

I enjoyed the underground today. Nobody could reach me on the phone.

.

Got disproportionate pleasure from sushi post-acupuncture [it kept me calm for about 75 mins] with Bangalore-bound Pj, for whose Delhi-born palate it was a whole new ball game. Travel safely, brave one.

.

Mr G*man is home from the US - my local hero - we share the same breast surgeon. He has had more procedures than me & the rest of Ward 13 put together, yet his gardens and allotment still bloom and grow forever.

.

Probably not such a good idea to have the boss round for tea today, is it? And if dear S~S phones [due off her plane tonight], I think I'll just cry.

A day unlike any other

My nephew took this photograph. I think it's quite excellent for 35 months..

Breast Care Nurse A said, "I've only known two people to have a positive diagnosis of cancer in a biopsy, and then not go on to get cancer", but, I just might be their third. My medical team will sit down and have one more argument about me (this result doesn't match that result... give her another biopsy... yes, no.. give her an MRI... yes, no...and what tests shall we give her liver... no, perhaps it's the gall bladder... hmmm).

But according to Mr Trustworthy Surgeon, (such a nice boy, Moroccan, Sephardi, I am sure his mother's very proud) the only way forward now is exploratory surgery, but not for a month. "Oh, God, I don't have to go back to work tomorrow, do I?", no, no, they all assure me, I am positively Dagenham (east of Barking for the geographically challenged), what you really need is a decent rest. And so, straight home & on the phone to my beloved she-used-to-be-a-nun-until-she-fell-off-her-perch, who will fit me into the convent guest house for a bit of p & q in early September.

May I recommend the entirely authentic Il Sorriso, where our J took me for a comfortably Italian lunch, Charlotte Street (closed Sundays), and pretty reasonable, too (even more reasonable when someone else pays, thank you, our J).

And for what reason, what purpose, have I teetered this close to the edge & quite conceivably be coming back again, relatively scot-free? Too soon to say, but at the very least, to re-evaluate how I live, and do it better. Thank you GG, for suggesting a very interesting writing course (at the Groucho, friends, and why not?), which has indeed space for me, and just might come to pass. Wonder if I can get the Macmillan people to sub me for that one?

I am off to try to slow down now, and possibly make more fairy cakes. I do aspire to spend longer on the sofa and less on the computer. So I hope you'll understand if postings slow down a little ~ it will be a triumph on my part if they do.

So much love to one and all xx