I woke yesterday, as night turned into day and I was thinking about the surgeon walking from his car and into the hospital to start his day. I pictured him looking through his list, drinking a cup of tea, and making himself ready. All weekend I had found it strange to think someone else knows the results of my operation, that they were sitting there and now I was going to find out, Monday.
I’d slept badly, worse than any other night because this was the penultimate result day, this was all about facts, no ifs or buts, just facts. After the operation my fear had left me, but as this day approached, I began to feel the nerves kick in and this is where I bought my third pair of trainers, this time purple (my second pair bought the day after my operation, pink).
The wife and I took our places in my Stay at Home office, her sat on the bench, with its pink faux sheepskin rug, me on my seat. I sat making a list of possible outcome A-E, with a) being the best outcome, all the others involving more surgery and harder treatment plans. The phone rang, no caller ID. He was new and Irish, and started with ‘I have brilliant news’. My wife and I punched the air, locked eyes and leaned in. I knew already that the cancer was (past tense), Lobular Invasive, Grade 2 (. 1 = slow, 2 = fast and 3 faster still). This meant it had the ability/possibility of spreading. They had warned me that the grade could change, from 2=3, the tumour could be bigger, especially with this cancer as its hard to see on mammograms, scans or even on the MRI, they have been estimating till this moment. He went out to explain that the margin was clear, that it’s not in the vessels that lead to the lymph nodes and not in the nodes, I was clear and it was truly brilliant news.
I watched my wife as we talked in disbelief, her breath out and relief, the hard emotions she must have been holding disappearing into the air around us.
We climbed into the car and drove to the sea, I needed to breath in the air and blue sky. We remembered then how we had made the same trip just one month ago, joining our son and his partner on the beach to tell him I had breast cancer, the devastation we all felt. Now we drive and I have no cancer.
I still have radiotherapy in six to eight weeks’ time, but this is to prevent it coming back. The treatment is normally given over a three-week period, but due to COVID they will be doing all the treatment in one week, so he warned it will be intense. I’ll also be on tablets for five years, as this cancer is estrogen driven, so they need to suppress it. The side effects are your bones may get weaker, prone to breaks and I will need to ensure Vitamin D and calcium, build strong bones with weight baring exercise. I’m looking forward to building myself strong. I’m looking forward to my long life with my wife, as we have promised each other, we grow old together, not one without the other.
As we walked we reflected on this time last year, and how I’d had this terrible sense of foreboding. I had a fear I was going to die within the year, something I wrote about last year. When the pandemic hit, I thought I had some sort of sixth sense, as I learnt others had had this feeling too, that I’d sense the pandemic. Before the pandemic I’d looked it up because the feeling was strong, and it says if you have a sense of foreboding you should take seriously, talk to your GP as its often a feeling people have before heart attacks or strokes. When I got the diagnosis, before I knew what I was dealing with, during the biopsy’s, MRI, the grades, wondering if it was primary or secondary (there is a history of bowel and skin cancer in my family), I was frightened the premonition would come true. But its not and I got brilliant news, yesterday.
As I share this news I am acutely aware that when that surgeon put the phone down to only pick it up again to tell other women harder news. I know others who have been in contact have major challenges coming up in their treatment and my thoughts are also with them too.
Catrina
