Leaving my husband at the lift door was heartbreaking. I was full of anxiety and over filled eyes. I am so vulnerable and crying. I want to go home with him, not up to the first floor of the Peony Suite in the breast clinic. I have about 4 seconds to compose myself before the lift springs open. I just about do it. My mask is on so half my face is covered. I may just get away with this. A quick glimpse in the lift wall mirror tells me otherwise. I look like I have been hit in the face – red bulging eyes and swollen cheeks peak out the top of the mask. Shit. My bag is so heavy as I have brought my laptop determined to make the most of this time, catching up on my marking and of course writing my blog again. I am keen to do the latter as soon as possible.
I am met straight away by a kind man, masked up and he walks me to my room – ‘Peony 5’. It is a large clean and warm room. Overlooking the car park. I long to get out of the window and back in the car with my husband. Seconds of sheer terror run through me. I am trapped here and I cannot get away and I cannot NOT have this operation. I just put my bag on the floor, and sit on the typical looking high backed hospital chair. I have no clue what to do. It is quiet – the door is open and there is someone opposite me. We both make an effort not to look in case we come across intrusive.
I keep my phone on the table as my daughter has had her driving test this morning. I am desperate to hear from her. She should have finished by now but my phone stays silent and no messages are sent.
The day started off well. I was in good spirit and the messages and visitors arrived – all wishing me love and luck for tomorrow. All saying ‘I can do this’, and remind me of my strength. Sitting here now, alone in a space that represents cancer, that is the last thing I feel right now. I feel paper thin and wobbly. My muscles jitter under the strain of the anxiety that I possess. I have no idea how to rid myself of these emotions. They are crippling me.
Nurses come and go – taking obs, bloods, asking questions that seem bizarre…..’Do you live in a house’? being one! OK – that made me smile. I was also asked to show my heels to one of them and asked if they could see my ass hole. I am not joking. I can decline so I did. No thank you. All is good there. A student nurse was asking me the usual ‘How many units of alcohol do you drink in a week’ kind of question. You know the one where you are never honest??!! Well, I can be honest now as my measures have been smaller and weaker. I do let her know I had my mini blow out on Saturday – but I don’t share the full extent of the damage done with Prosecco and wine. Why do I feel so ashamed and wrong if I do? After all, here I am waiting for someone to cut me open to help save my life, when I drink alcohol possibly putting myself at further risk. I hate that thought. Doesn’t sit well. We work out I drink 3 nights a week taking in approx 5 units each time. This is still over the government guidelines.
I am eventually left in peace. I am quiet and I am still. I sit doing nothing. I never ever do this so feel myself searching in my mind for an activity I want to do to pass the time. I am having a small procedure this afternoon and I don’t want to think about that. I am also keeping the thought of tomorrow at bay too so distraction is key. I open the laptop and start to write my blog. Knock on the door. Nurse pops in – ‘Can I just check over the question you answered earlier with my student nurse about your alcohol consumption?’ I feel like I have been rumbled. Has this woman had a look into my life over the last 10 years? Shit. I have been found out. I look at her with guilt oozing from my eyes. It appears the student marked me wrong and the score I had indicated I had a significant drink problem and they wanted to check I didn’t want to be referred elsewhere for support! My answers were re-scored and I fell into the average bracket. Phew!! At that moment I swear to myself that I will never drink more than 14 units ever again in my life.
The surgeon consultant comes in and she talks me through tomorrow again. I did not feel heard by her the last time I was here and she had got the feedback from my breast cancer nurse. I appreciated her warmth now and she did let me speak and did offer up some reassurance and understanding. I am pleased I flagged up how I felt. I am learning this in all areas of my life. I have a voice and I know that with assertiveness and confidence I can now make my feelings clear and heard and so far this has been productive for me to do.
I am lying on a hospital bed, lights dimmed, tits out, as an ultrasound scan seeks out the marker that is still in my breast. The reason I am here a day before the operation is so a wire can be inserted into the breast to join the marker. As my tumour is no longer visible, the surgeon will use the wire to know where to insert and slice and remove enough breast tissue to be examined by the pathologist. Ideally we want a clear margin which will suggest they have cut enough out and the cancer hasn’t leaked in to the surrounding breast tissue. A local anaesthetic goes in, numbs the area, and in goes a needle (I think – wasn’t watching), and both the consultant and the breast nurse take it in turns to insert and push in the wire. I can’t feel a thing. Thank god. I was dreading this. I can feel the trickle of blood run loose down my back and hit the paper towel blanket I am lying on. I am determined to be brave. So I chat to them both about absolute nonsense whilst they push and pull and try and get the wire closer to the marker. It is in and she comments ‘perfect’. I breathe out and feel a slight tremor run through me. This is either fear or I am cold. I am not sure. A mammogram next to double check she is happy with her work, then another ultrasound. I am walking from room to room with a green blanket covering my boobs and my hips which are spilling out over the waistline of my jeans. I must lose this bloody chub that has become my friend since chemo cycle#6.
I am back in my room about 15 minutes later. Done. I am proud of not making a dribbling mess of myself. This all just seems so hard. I would honestly take another round of chemo over this any day. I knew where I was at with that and I was awake – I could control myself more than I can now. I am so far away from anything that resembles safety – I am wide open to the fear and it is lashing at my senses. Wave after wave. I want to run but I can’t. I want to cry but I’m sick of my wet face. I can have no one here due to COVID and that realisation is stark. I really am now on my own. My husband and I are missing each other and both cry over a facetime call. He must be so fed up and angry now. Months of treatment and uncertainty and now a big space in the home I have created for us all. I am missed and I am missing them all so badly. I cannot even think about spending another night here. If all goes to plan tomorrow I could be sent home – I do not want to be here alone if they do find any cancer in my lymph nodes. Please no. Please do no let that be the case. Surely if the chemo has wiped out a 4cm tumour it must have wiped out any cancer that may have been present in the nodes? They will do a sentinel node biopsy and wait for the result when I am under. This will save me coming back and if they need to, they can remove them all in one operation.
I am triggered over and over again by the mass of uncertainty that consumes me. I feel so torn in-between what to think. I have a pain in my neck too – so of course, being hyper sensitive right now, spend about an hour convinced the cancer has spread to that area. Crazy. Cruel, hard and painful thoughts pounce in my mind. I am suffocating and cannot get away from here. But the real truth is I will never get away from these thoughts as they are in my head. Not just in this room.
Hours have rushed by and I am still sat in the chair. I have had curry which was nice and my family have not left me alone – hence why I am still typing furiously to get this post on tonight! My son has been it hard by today and the realisation that right now, after months and months of being in the same building as him, I am miles away cooped up in a breast care hospital. He is sensitive and strong and his words and kind eyes help cut through the fear.
I am going to end this on a positive note. I will be over this second hurdle by this time tomorrow. Whatever the outcome, I will deal with it and manage the feelings that accompany it. I am grateful to have got this far and that is what I will let sit in my mind tonight when I close my eyes.
Love to every single person facing this. You are not alone. There is a whole bunch of us with you x x
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PS – My bloody amazing daughter passed her driving test!! I am so pleased for her – she wants her independence and more than that wants to help me when I get out of hospital. I love her very very much.