Preamble
I’m aware that this blog has become a relentless saga of misery and anxieties. I’m not sure what to do about this since I’ve committed to being authentic and true to myself. This is one place where I have no intention of pretending and putting on a good face. Why would I do this? To make it easier for the reader? I’m aware how disarming it can be to read raw emotion and pain. But if this is you, then I respectfully say, please don’t read. I understand that it can be difficult, but it is even harder for me to be a Pollyanna about his cancer.
I’ve spent too much of my life ‘turning the cheek’, forcing a smile through my tears, not letting people in. Not letting them see the real me. Hey! That was the title of the first song I wrote a few years ago! I will include the link to my Soundcloud file here. This one is demo of the original production by my dear friend Alex Dew. It needs to be updated, but I like the song.
However, I’m going to try to lighten up with this post at least a bit. After all, it’s always about how you tell the story. I am not without hope.
Thresholds of Tolerance
One of the things I’ve realised with this Mr C is how my levels of tolerance are constantly changing – like shifting sands. A friend recently described his workload and life as “…being in the storm of hot sand. The harder I dig, the more falls in…” A powerful metaphor that immediately elicits empathy and compassion on my part. What I’m going to try to do in this blog is to turn that metaphor on its head. Let’s see if I can sustain this concept, so bear with me – I’m experimenting with a slightly less than perfectly functioning brain. 😊 (If he reads this, he’ll appreciate the emoji. I’ve picked up this dubious habit, plus that of extreme use of exclamatory marks from him!)
What I mean by changing thresholds of tolerance is how what was once ‘the unthinkable’, the absolute worst thing that could possibly happen, can become, just another hurdle to cross before meeting the next one. For those of you who have been following my blog from the beginning, you’ll recall my extreme reaction to the idea of a breast cancer diagnosis when I was decades younger. What would Susan do? Obvious, of course, Watson. She would simply top herself. After all, what could possibly be worse?
Well, I jumped that hurdle without the need for such an extreme and final solution. I accepted the need to hack into my right tit, fiddle around with the nipple with the possibility of losing sensation; remove a few nodes, then have radiation treatment, followed by years of hormone suppressant drugs. All very libido-enhancing and life-affirming on the desirability front!! Now I’m not saying I liked that option, but I found a way to accept it as the price for staying alive. Just imagine, Susan’s perfect tits would no longer be perfect!
Enter second act. Alas, what appeared reasonably simple turned out not to be so. It was all much bigger on the cancer front than appeared from the scans. There was no healthy tissue to be found in any that was removed. And this was not just a couple of millimetres you understand. Oh no siree! Susan never does anything by half. Eighteen millimetres had suddenly increased (including the DCIS) to a total of sixty – and that is just what has been removed. Who knows how much remains in the diseased tit? Maybe there IS no healthy tissue in there. This will become known after my second surgery on January 27.
Now, I’m not saying that was an easy threshold to accept. I did have to take some serious gulps, not to mention the river of tears I wrote about last time. Nevertheless, my brain has adjusted to this hurdle. Okay, I say, it wasn’t what they expected, but it could still be worse. Could it really? Back to the hot sand. It seems to be mounting up, but it has still not consumed me. This is interesting. Not so long ago I might have been searching for the easiest exit route at this stage. But no. Susan has moved into problem-solving mode.
I think I’ve already reached the next dune of hot sand as the 27th of January gets ever near. (Dune – interesting choice of words here.) I am already preparing myself for that post-op consultation two weeks later when I’ll be told they could not find sufficient – or indeed any – healthy tissue to leave in that damn parasite-ridden tit to make it safe for the tit to remain. Furthermore, the only safe option will be to have a third operation, to remove the entire breast. The big M cut. Mastectomy. Of course, I could be wrong here. But I doubt it. I’m half-way towards accepting that threshold. I try to calm the terrors this one produces in my overly fertile imagination.
For example, last night I slept for five hours
I hasten to say only after consuming the maximum pharmaceutical products I’m allowed for pain and sleep – quite a potent little cocktail – especially after eating only half an avocado and 2 little chocolates for the entire day. But hey! At least I ate something. I wondered whether it would be helped if I washed the pills down with a small shot of the wonderful aged El Dorado rum my son bought me for Christmas. Don’t tell the medics, but I did help those little pills along with a wee dram!
I slept, but I also dreamed. Just so you remember where we were before that firework diversion, it was Susan’s fertile imagination and accepting new thresholds of tolerance. I will call this my Mastectomy dream. They say in Mindfulness and some forms of psychotherapy that one should visualise. Visualise I certainly did. I saw my amputated tit on a laboratory slab. I have no idea what they do with all these breasts that are removed. Presumably they go to a lab for analysis, before going … where? Is there a breast cemetery or special crematorium? Do they preserve them in whatever liquids are used to preserve organs for research? I had an image, firstly of my small brown one, then the multitude of multicoloured, myriad of breasts of all shapes and sizes that have been amputated from so many women. I must seriously ask what happens to them. Is this an unhealthy thought? I can no longer discern what are reasonable thoughts and questions from the decidedly morbid and neurotic.
Yesterday, my lovely Breast Care Nurse, Yasmin, in the UCH MCC asked me whether I thought I might benefit from speaking to one of their psychologists. I think she may think I’m losing it a bit. She could be right! I’m certainly displaying signs of anxiety and what the medical-patient-jargon describes as ‘Low Mood.’ I can’t say I haven’t felt better in my life, nor had higher moods. But I think it would be odder if I thought of this as the high point in my life! I’m sure that speaking to a psychologist won’t harm and might do me good. I already have weekly sessions privately with a psychotherapist who specialises in working with clients affected by cancer. However, a MCC psychologist might add something different and is plugged into my cancer care team.
Perhaps it is my current concern that the pain I have in my right side (same as the cancer) foot, ankle, shin bone and hip could be a signal of secondaries in my bones that makes my team think I might benefit from a psychologist. I know the surgeon has said the pain is not consistent with breast cancer bone cancer, but suppose it is? And, if not, what is it? Why did I get this pain suddenly out of nowhere? I haven’t had an injury, there is no bruise, and it gets worse when I am lying down, rather than moving about. This would be a MEGA hurdle to cross and maybe one threshold too many to find acceptable. My GP has submitted a request for an X-ray to check if there is maybe a fracture or some irregularity with the bones in question. Nobody thinks it is a secondary cancer. Let me hope they are correct. But they didn’t know about that other bunch of cancer cells that were hiding and invisible on the scans.
Did I say I was going to lighten up in this blog? Okay, I lied. I just wanted you to stay with me. That was the written equivalent of a coquettish come-hither look. 😊
How to finish this one? It’s already very long for a blog post. Some of you won’t have reached this point. I don’t blame you. You have my forgiveness. But for those of you faithful friends and followers – or maybe you’re at a loose end – I’ll try to end on a slightly comedic note with the promise of better to follow next time.
You will be aware of what I’ve been saying about my lack of food intake. I can’t call it failure to thrive, for Susan has thrived rather too much before all this started. Luckily, as it happens! (That exclamation point again, H!) I think when I was in Cyprus at my new house, I must have put on about 5 kgs at least. This means that my current weight loss doesn’t look bad at all. I’ve now dropped two dress sizes and my bum is reasonably sized – still a good Afro one – but not massive. I’ve bought some classy new leggings/skirts and a couple of dresses. Lord knows where I think I’m wearing skirts and dresses. I go nowhere, but a girl can always dream. What I need now is some exercise to firm up said flesh. It’s a challenge to find things that don’t have me rushing to lie down or cry in pain. Mr Cariati (surgeon) was clear about not working out, or at least not using my upper body muscles because this will increase inflammation to the painful haematoma.
I’ve done a bit of research and will be trying for 30 squats, increasing to 60 per day; some back and sidekicks – or whatever they’re called, seated leg extensions and a daily short walk. (Vertigo permitting.) I’m not sure about planks or reverse planks as they use the upper body. But my belly could do with tightening up. I’ve lost the fat but have flab. I’ll see what I can work out. Maybe I’ll consult my PT. After all, I had just paid her for a further six weeks training when all this happened. She’s sitting with the dosh. I’m sitting with the flabby flesh. Let’s see if I can enter the operating theatre in shape (apart from the tit area.)
My hairdresser is going to wash and diffuse my hair on Tuesday at a time when I will be the only person in the salon. I’ll have to do my own manicure as I don’t trust the nail bars on the Covid front. I just need them trimmed and shaped. No polish allowed in the op Theatre anyway.
After all, one must try to look one’s best. Even wearing the regulation operating gown, compression socks and the curious disposable big pants they give you.
Next blog will be a short one, and a mad hoot – love and affection, and a mad attempt to elicit a romantic response from someone who had only agreed to such a date in my febrile mind!
Hasta luego amigos.
