Month: April 2014

Breast cancer lesson number 67: Why cancer won’t stop me eating chocolate… and it shouldn’t stop you either

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness, Reflections on cancer3 Comments

Scratch the surface of a cancer diagnosis and it won’t take long to discover that this nasty illness is not an easy one to understand. So, it will come as no surprise then that, for every piece of sound and practical advice delivered by research scientists and medical experts, there are a whole series of myths out there, waiting to prey on vulnerable cancer-dominated minds.

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The idea that cancer feeds off sugar is one such myth. As explained by Cancer Research UK in an interesting article: 10 persistent cancer myths debunked (click here for the full article), to say cancer has a sweet tooth is to oversimplify the issue and distort sensible dietary advice. While no one would recommend consuming your body weight in Cadbury’s Creme Eggs or having a piece of cake with every meal, fighting and preventing cancer isn’t about taking away all pleasures in life. It’s about adopting a healthy diet that limits sugar intake, but doesn’t eliminate it entirely. 

Science has confirmed the link between a healthy diet and reducing the risk of cancer. Yes, cancer cells have a taste for glucose. But so too do our normal cells, which use it for energy. Unlike us, cancer cells don’t have a soft spot for the sugar that derives from cream cakes and pavlova. Glucose is glucose and it also comes from carbohydrates, which are broken down in our digestive system to produce both fructose and glucose. You’re not going to hear people saying that vegetables cause cancer now are you? 

If you’re looking for a miracle cure, now is the time to stop. If it were scientifically proven that giving up sugar – or having coffee enemas for that matter – would prevent cancer coming back, I would try my hardest to stop chomping on Cadbury’s creme eggs (and would bulk buy the coffee). But, when it comes to diet, there’s a reason the oncologist said not to change a thing. 

I, for one, am going to enjoy my chocolate Easter eggs – alongside my seven a day – every year for the rest of my long and, hopefully cancer-free, life. And, I hope there’s a chocolate-covered treat waiting for you too.

 

Breast cancer lesson number 66: Always look on the ‘brighter’ side of life

On By Jackie ScullyIn Brighter Life List, Chemotherapy, Happiness2 Comments

What better way is there to spend an Easter Saturday than up a cliff on the Dorset Coast path? When the sun went in it was quite bracing, but with the wind on my face and running through my tiny strands of hair, it was a wonderful reminder of all that is beautiful and wonderful in the world.

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Standing on a cliff with no hair is number 17 on my ‘brighter life list’. I still have hair around the bald patches (although a lot less after my latest shower), so it doesn’t quite score me my first tick on the list, but as a dress rehearsal, it was pretty exhilarating. If you are ever presented with the opportunity in your life (and I hope it has nothing to do with illness), I would encourage you to get yourself to a coast path – and fast!

If today didn’t remind you of how happy you are to be alive, then make sure tomorrow does. My brighter life list is about seizing the day and not waiting for happiness to find me. I’ve spent too much of my time wishing my life away. Now I want to cherish every moment.

It’s time to stop dreaming and start planning.

Breast cancer lesson number 65: Don’t expect to make a quick getaway

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, HappinessLeave a comment

The Easter holiday weekend has brought with it a rather interesting and unexpected challenge. It seems chemo has turned the simple – and hugely tedious – job of packing for a trip away into task requiring military precision.

I was not born to pack. I like writing kit lists, but when it comes to running round the house and gathering my belongings, it’s a task from which I am always hoping to be distracted.

Packing with a chemo kit list certainly makes the process quite entertaining. Limited to a light overnight bag and rucksack, given my car is already at the destination (and heavy bags are on the banned list), I had to be selective.

For me, packing usually involves picking colour coordinated items to give me choice without volume. Trouble is, with pills and creams, mouthwashes, hats, sleep caps, scarves, a wig, big knickers and PICC armbands to pack, there’s not much room for anything else. Excited as I am about the novelty of choosing a hat to match my outfit and my mood, I almost forgot my trousers and my socks (I have one t-shirt and about seven hats with me). And, left with room for just one pair of shoes, I opted for tatty trainers over pretty pumps so I could get some exercise in. Cancer, what have you done to me?! At least I didn’t have to worry about shampoo and hair straighteners!

Thankfully, going to the family home means the digital thermometer, toothpaste and paracetamol didn’t have to travel (I can’t imagine packing for a weekend in a hotel). I’m also happy I don’t have to go through customs and undergo a bag inspection (they’d probably think I was a spy, the number of disguises I have tucked away in my overnight bag).

I had to laugh when leaving the house. Instead of opening the door three times to check whether I’d switched everything off or packed the right chargers, I was forced to unlock the door only to retrieve my LIMBO. Without this lovely piece of plastic to cover my PICC line I would have been unable to shower for three days (without a bit of well-placed cling film). It’s amazing what suddenly becomes essential when even basic daily activities are no longer straightforward.

So, if you’re planning a trip over the coming months and chemo is still on the agenda, I recommend you start packing now (or writing your kit list). Don’t expect to travel light and certainly don’t expect to be able to squeeze in a few nice-to-haves (unless it’s a hat or seven).

Cancer brings with it a lot of unwanted baggage. I, for one, can’t wait to unpack it all.

Breast cancer lesson number 64: Music does for the soul what medicine does for the body

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, HappinessLeave a comment

Life is like a piece of music. Sometimes you’re happy just getting carried along by the rhythm, rewinding to replay the chorus or fast-forwarding to the high notes. But sometimes, you will crave a song that understands you perfectly, a song that speaks when words fail.

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That’s why I believe everyone needs a playlist. By this, I don’t mean a list of the most meaningful and profound songs of all time, carefully crafted over a series of years to offer a window into your soul (trust me, you wouldn’t get far). By this, I mean a list of songs that capture a moment in your life and that sing to your tune.

They don’t have to mean anything to anyone else to make the cut. They don’t have to be particularly groundbreaking (music appreciation is subjective after all). They just have to inspire you, compel you to smile and make you want to keep fighting, whatever it is you’re fighting for. A great playlist is one that has been written by you, for your ears only. A great playlist is never complete.

As someone who has never been wedded to one particular genre of music – and has only ever been to one music concert in a school field and one gig in her lifetime – the soundtrack to this latest period in my life is not likely to rock anyone else’s world. But, that’s not the point. For me, music is a motivational speaker singing away in my ears. Travelling into the hospital or walking around the park it makes me feel untouchable and invincible. It takes me away from cancer and gives me the strength and the confidence to tackle anything in my path.

Before you ask, Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive is not among my greatest hits. Part of me thinks it’s a crime that Nina Samone’s Ain’t got no… I got life isn’t on there. With its lyrics: I got my hair on my head/I got my brains, I got my ears/I got my eyes, I got my nose/I got my mouth, I got my smile… I got life, it sounds like it belongs in the chemo suite. And, with a song title like No Scrubs, you’d think TLC would be a definitate (but it just means nothing to me). The truth is, apart from one recent addition, it’s not a list of cancer anthems. It’s just a list that makes me smile, and that’s all that matters.

So here’s a quick glimpse into my ‘songs-to-keep-Scully-smiling’ playlist. I won’t share them all here (just my top ten) and there’s certainly room for expansion if you have any powerful suggestions. The song titles are linked to You Tube clips, so click away!

1) Stronger (what doesn’t kill you): I thought I’d start with an obvious one from Kelly Clarkson. This gets an airing in part due to the lyrics, which include: ‘What doesn’t kill you makes a fighter/Footsteps even lighter/Doesn’t mean I’m over ’cause you’re gone’, ‘Think you’ve got the best of me/Think you’ve had the last laugh/Bet you think that everything good is gone’ and ‘Thanks to you I’m finally thinking about me/You know in the end the day you left was just my beginning’. But, it was actually recommended to me as the soundtrack to a chemo-related music video on Youtube, that is worth a watch if you are familiar with the inner workings of a cancer day unit.

2) Happy: I couldn’t escape this song when I was going through tests in January. And now, I wouldn’t want to. You won’t catch me clapping, but you will catch me smiling. And, I am not sure I feel like a room without a roof (I quite like my roof). I do, however, love the title and often feel that ‘nothing can bring me down’.

3) Paradise: Every time I hear this Coldplay song, I feel like I am running the last stretch of a marathon race. We all need to believe that paradise is within reach.

4) Halo: I don’t listen to the lyrics (sorry Beyonce), I just soak up the sound.

5) Payphone: Ok, so with lines like: ‘If “Happy Ever After” did exist’ and ‘Now I’m paralysed’, it may seem like a random entry. Again, with this Maroon 5 number, it’s all about the sound and not the sentiment.

6) Just give me a reason: There are some beautiful lyrics in this Pink song. It may have nothing to do with cancer, but I can certainly relate to the words: ‘I let you see the parts of me/
That weren’t all that pretty/And with every touch you fixed them’, ‘we’re not broken just bent’ and ‘it’s been written on the scars in our hearts’.

7) Diamonds: I may not shine bright like a diamond, but there is something on my left hand that certainly does! Again, it’s an upbeat song that brings a smile to my face. Like Rihanna, I choose to be happy.

8) Hall of fame: I could just listen to the intro on repeat, but the rest of this Script song is pretty special too. I’m not after a seat in the hall of fame, but I love the line: ‘You can walk straight through hell with a smile’. It’s certainly one to lift the mood and encourage action.

9) Love story: I listen to this and I don’t think of love, life or Taylor Swift. I think of the film Letters to Juliet. It’s cheesy, but it always teases a smile out of me.

10) A thousand years: Yes, there may be a small link here to my Twilight days (although I would like to add that I have moved on). This song is rather beautiful though and I feel relaxed just listening to the tone of Christina Perri’s voice.

Bonus track: Pride and Prejudice (opening title music). As far as I am concerned, there is only one adaptation of this wonderful book worth watching, and that is the 1995 Colin Firth TV version. The opening credits have always had a place in my heart and listening to the music transports me back to Pemberley and that lake scene!

There are currently 31 songs and 3 sleep tracks on my iPod mini. Whether it’s Jessie J, Gary Barlow, music from The Piano or the BBC concert orchestra, each track is designed to just one thing: make me smile. I have to say, it hasn’t failed me yet. I certainly needed it yesterday.

When you have an invisible illness, no one can see your scars or feel your pain. Music is a magic crutch that keeps you going when everyone around you can’t see that you need a lift.

Whatever challenges you face, I can guarantee there’s a soundtrack out there to help you move forward. You’ll have to find your own rhythm and lyrics that speak to you. But, once you’ve found them, you’ll never be far from a smile.

 

Breast cancer lesson number 63: You can be hair free and carefree

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness1 Comment

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Ok, so hair free may be a slight exaggeration, but as far as I am concerned, a number two with a couple of bald patches is pretty much there. While I am not sure it is right that I should have less hair than my fiancée, I have to say, I like my head shape and, as haircuts go, it was pretty exhilarating. Who needs wig Suzie when GI Jackie is in town?!

Sitting in the hairdresser’s chair (not sure I should have chosen lunch hour at Canary Wharf but never mind), I didn’t feel at all sad. Funny as it may sound, I felt privileged to have the chance to experiment and liberated at the prospect. Four weeks ago, I couldn’t imagine having a pixie-shaped do, and I loved it. One month on, and all I could think about as the locks fell was how lucky I am to a) have a head shape that doesn’t resemble an egg and b) have so many wonderful friends and family all willing me on.

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How did I prepare for my exciting turn in the salon? As well as a nice glass of wine last night to toast my old locks, I plucked my eyebrows. Now it may sound strange to be voluntarily attacking the hair that doesn’t want to fall out (yet). But, my view was that if my head was going to look a little naked, I best make an effort everywhere else. Why the leg can’t fall out first is beyond me!

This morning, after examining my bald patch, applying some eye makeup and adding a headtie, I met up with Duncan and headed for the clippers. My hairdresser was amazing. He tucked me away at the back of the salon and cut my pixie down to size (first with scissors and then clippers) before washing and oiling my head. It felt like a proper appointment. I even got time for a cup of tea. And, the best bit? It was free! I do think the lady sat opposite actually thought I was making a conscious style decision as I laughed through the whole thing. Her facial expression first had a hint of pity and then a hint of confusion (or maybe just fear). It felt good – and a little naughty.

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Surprisingly happy with the new look (and the fact that I will be saving loads in shampoo and conditioner), I left Suzie in her bag and opted for a fun blue hat. On the train on the way to work, I found myself fascinated by the lack of hair demonstrated by other passengers (style choices I might add). I also had a burning desire to whip off my hat and join in. One thing I love about London is that nobody cares. They’d probably just think I was channeling my inner Jessie J.

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The hat didn’t last long (lovely as it is, it just feels wrong wearing it indoors). My office were quick to embrace the new look and share in the excitement of the day. After that, it was au naturel all the way. Yes, people had a good look. But, the truth is, I don’t look ill. I just look like I’m making a rather bold fashion statement.

How do I feel now? I couldn’t be happier. I took control. I no longer have to watch the strands fall. Cancer can’t take what isn’t there and just knowing that makes me feel empowered. Plus the feeling of a light breeze on my head is unlike anything I have ever experienced. It soothes me in a way I can’t articulate. I’d say try it, but that might be a bit extreme, so you’re probably safer taking my word for it.

Today I was strong. I looked cancer in the eye and I took charge. I also discovered that hair is over-rated. It isn’t a part of who I am. It’s just a little nice-to-have. I will miss it, but I know I’ll be a better person for having lost it.

Coco Chanel once said: ‘a woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life’. It’s only now I truly understand the meaning of that phrase.

All I can say is, if it’s coming off, take it off. It may not be a haircut I’ll ever choose again, but it’s probably the best haircut I will ever have – and the one you will probably always remember.

Breast cancer lesson number 62: How to bear losing your hair

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy3 Comments

Today was supposed to be a quiet day. Working at home with just a cup of tea for company, the day was there to be filled with sunshine and strategic thinking. Turns out cancer had other ideas. Today is a day I will never forget.

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I thought hair loss would be a gradual thing. There is, however, nothing gradual about scratching your head while pondering over a paragraph of text, only to be greeted by a clump of the stuff. And we certainly won’t be dwelling on what happened when I went to the toilet.

I thought I would find it amusing in some way. After all, while I had started to think it might never happen, I knew deep down it always would. I thought I was prepared for the emotions that came with it. But, the truth is, you can never really prepare for something like this. When hair you have known and loved is no longer on your head, but in your hand, there’s only one thing to do – have a good old cry.

As soon as the tears subsided, it was time to get practical. My hair (or what’s left of it) is too short to donate (if you’re about to go through this and have more than 17cm of hair, I would urge you to follow in the footsteps of this inspiring young woman Connie, who has just donated some bunches to charity). But, given I am not one to sit around waiting for something to happen (and I certainly don’t want to clog up the sink), I have already made my decision. It’s time to take back the control. It’s coming off, at 12.20pm tomorrow!

So, what started out as a quiet day at home is now the last day pixie and I will be together for quite some time. I think the hardest part is knowing that my hair may never be the same again. I’m not afraid to lose it (although there are a few marks on my head I am not particularly excited to see). I’m just worried that what grows back may be a new version of me that I may not like straight away. It may be better. It will probably be different. It’s an adjustment I never thought I’d have to make. And, now I am staring at a spring/summer season of baldness, part of me wishes I could just grab it from the sink and stick it back on. I’ve done the scarf shopping. I just didn’t really think I’d need to wear the scarf.

Every side effect that suddenly appears is a rather harsh reminder that, while on active treatment, you can’t get comfortable. You have to be prepared. Because, if you’re not, something will creep up and try to steal your happiness when you least expect it.

Tomorrow is head shaving day. Tomorrow I lose a little bit more of myself to cancer. Tomorrow is the day I may also be introducing my alter ego Suzie to the world (or not, so will be packing some fabric-based alternatives just in case).

Of one thing I am certain. With a trip to the office scheduled for the afternoon, tomorrow is going to be interesting! Wish me luck.

Think Duncan and I might be raising a glass to my mousey locks tonight! 

Breast cancer lesson number 61: Great care comes from people, not bricks and mortar

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Reflections on cancerLeave a comment

‘Never judge a book by its cover’ is a phrase that could easily apply to hospitals. With perfectly painted walls and shiny equipment often comes an expectation that the care will somehow be better. But, the truth is, when it comes to treatment, it’s the person administering it (and of course the treatment itself), and not the room in which it is administered, that really matters.

Don’t get me wrong. I smiled when I saw the comfortable chemo recliner chairs (although I never did work out how to put my feet up) and the bright cancer day unit suite with its great views. And, I’m not sure standing room only is the right look for a cancer clinic. But, when I think back over my time in hospitals over the years, it’s not the flashy equipment or the chipped paintwork I remember. It’s the people – and usually the ones that have made me smile.

It was my faith in the team treating me that made me put people before private cover after my initial diagnosis. My Breast Care Nurse admitted that the only difference between private and NHS treatment for cancer was the environment and not the speed at which things happened. In fact, if I had called in my cover, there would have been a delay while the diagnostic tests were redone and the diagnosis reconfirmed. I liked my team, I liked the way they treated me, and the blend of kindness and humour that worked well with my temperament. I wasn’t going to trade that in for a private room and artwork on the walls. Looking back now, I know I couldn’t have made a better decision.

It’s not often I leave hospital with a huge smile on my face (just doesn’t feel appropriate on most visits). Today, however, I did. Admittedly, this was, in part, due to giant carrier bag of drugs I had managed to secure for myself at my oncology appointment to help control the side effects from chemotherapy (never before have I been so excited about getting mouthwash on prescription). But, it was really down to the kindness and care shown by those around me – from the smiling barista at the café to the warm receptionist at the Cancer Day Unit.

I started the day with an early-morning reflexology and aromatherapy massage session courtesy of Dimbleby Cancer Care, a free service designed to offer support and care for people living with cancer (be that patients or family members). I don’t think I have ever started the working week by being coaxed into a state of relaxation and covered in a thin layer of lavender oil. It was amazing as both a source of escapism and a chance to chat to the lovely lady rubbing my feet and back. Instead of lying back and closing my eyes, I quizzed her on everything from her nursing past to her experiences and downloaded all my latest recommendations (from bold beanies to PICC line covers). The best part? It wasn’t the wonderful scent of the oil, the free bolster cushion (for extra PICC line protection in bed) or the fact that my back knots almost melted under the pressure. It was the moment at which she said she thought I was an extraordinary person. I’m not sure my Monday mornings will ever be as soothing again.

An hour later, I was sat in front of another nurse experiencing the easiest blood test of my life thanks to my trusty PICC line. Little did I know when I sat down for my ten-minute appointment that we’d cover everything from her singing ambitions and band to her love of children’s medicine and shift-based work. It was nice to feel like I was chatting to an individual with hopes and dreams rather than a lady in a blue dress with yet another syringe of saline solution.

Next stop, the oncologist. Three weeks ago, he told me he would be behind me 110%. And, true to his word, he was. The appointment was less about having a nice chat and more about him furnishing me with the contents of a small pharmacy. With extra Domperidone (bye bye nausea), Zoladex, Corsodyl and Difflam, plus soluble paracetamol and codeine (to experiment with as a mouth rinse because he’d seen it work before), I feel ready to tackle chemo 2. Even the oncology receptionist wanted to add in a mouth ulcer-related recommendation when I popped back to get the prescription adjusted a few moments later.

Finally, there was the smiling man at the pharmacy desk. He took great delight in both booking me in early (while I popped back to the clinic to amend my prescription) so I wouldn’t have to wait, and then walking me through my medical goodie bag. Service with a smile is often hard to find in the capital, which makes the experience even more satisfying.

I couldn’t describe the contents of the oncology consulting room, the massage seat, the pharmacy or the blood test cubicle in any great detail. That’s not because I’m not observant. It’s because, when the care is brilliant, there really is nothing else to see.

So, if you ever find yourself looking up at a tired hospital block, think not of the peeling paintwork, but of the people inside willing you on. For when you close the consulting room door one last time, it will be the kindness of those caring for you – rather than the chair they sat on – that will stay with you forever.

Breast cancer lesson number 60: Get your head in gear (but only with accessories that suit your face shape)

On By Jackie ScullyIn Charity, Chemotherapy3 Comments

I have a head for hats. This rather exciting discovery, made in a hospital consulting room of all places only a few days ago, is not one I think I would have ever made if it hadn’t been for a bit of chemotherapy-induced hair loss.

I think it’s fair to conclude ­– especially after revealing my current choice of underwear in lesson number 59 – that I am not a fashionable woman. Yes, I have followed some basic styling rules in recent years, I keep to my ‘summer’ colours and now own such things as matching accessories (I even have a copy of the What Not to Wear rulebook somewhere). But, it took me about 26 years to realise that I don’t look good in black and that necklaces aren’t just for special occasions. You wouldn’t believe I used to write a blog for a model!

It will come as no surprise for you to learn then that I have always been pretty unadventurous in the headwear department. Apart from a regular haircut (that has only recently developed into something other than a bob), my head usually gets treated to a bobble hat on Bonfire night and then a series of fluffy numbers throughout the winter months. And, if it’s very lucky, the occasional swimming cap (although I think my open water swimming days might be on hold for some time).

Faced with a spring/summer season of baldness, I jumped at the chance to attend a Headstrong session. Set up by Breast Cancer Care (although I think anyone undergoing cancer treatment can book one), these sessions are designed to help people make confident choices about everything from hats and headbands to scarves and hair accessories. Beyond the odd bit of fake fringe, the emphasis is less on hair (by which I mean wigs), and more on the fabrics and styles to help turn hair loss into a fashion statement.

I wasn’t sure what to expect as I loitered in the Cancer Day Unit waiting room. I certainly didn’t expect Breast Cancer Care’s answer to Trinny and Susannah and one of the most enjoyable experiences of my entire cancer journey so far. Armed with a cup of tea (naturally), I sat back in front of the mirror as two wonderful ladies tied knots on and around my head and dressed me in blue florals, leopardprint and velvet bows. We started with headscarves (I got a beautiful pink and white polka dot one with matching grey headtie to take home as a free gift), before moving on to scarves with hidden caps underneath, turbans, berets, beanies, soft hats, sleep caps, baker boy caps, bucket hats and pearl-effect hairbands. We covered all the seasons in about half an hour.

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The whole appointment was an entertaining voyage of discovery. For example, I learned that a wig cap is nothing more than a popsock for your head. I had visions of it being more a like a latex swimming cap, but no! I now know I look like a gnome in a turban and a milk maid in an eyelet scarf. Baker boy caps and bucket hats are a must for the summer and, when I put a Mandy hat on (one of my favourites), I look like an extra in a Poirot movie. Basically, I was just born in the wrong decade. And, it’s amazing what a thin headtie can do to dress a short pixie hairdo.

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With a couple of summer hats and headties on order – to add to my small pile of scarves and soft hats – I think I am ready for SS14. Maybe this will be my summer of style (if we ignore the fact I am highly likely to be bald for most of it).

Please don’t think I am cheating on Suzie (see lesson 57) by stocking up on soft fabrics and straw bucket hats. But part of me just thinks if I’m going to lose the lot, why try and cover it up with an acrylic equivalent (other than for relevant meetings of course)?

So, if you’re about to embark on chemo and would like a whistlestop tour through the wonderful world of scull caps, jersey turbans and faux fur hats, I would book a Headstrong session as soon as you can – and certainly before you start shopping.

Cancer may be going after my hair (or so my hairbrush tells me), but it’s not going to take my confidence with it!

Breast cancer lesson number 59: Never underestimate the power of a good pair of knickers!

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery5 Comments

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Before my tummy became my boob, I had only ever bought one pair of magic knickers (by which I mean big, tight, figure-sucking Bridget Jones knickers not magical figure-adjusting knickers). I think it would be fair to say I had such limited success with the cycling-shorts-masquerading-as-underwear item, we had about one outing together. While it did eliminate certain troublesome areas from my waistline, it just repositioned them to both above and below said undergarment. Let’s just say, your typical body isn’t usually designed with a trunk that resembles the Scottish Highlands.

Having been briefed on the benefits of support knickers to help my tummy enjoy its new (if only temporary) life as an artificially-flat stomach, I approached my knicker shopping with some trepidation. These knickers are big and, if they are to be effective, don’t really have much wiggle room. They also tend to come in the imaginative black, nude and white range, meaning pink and navy don’t even get a look in (gap in the market methinks).

I must confess, I didn’t enjoy packing them in my hospital bag or putting them on at first (it took two of us to yank them up anywhere close to my stomach scar for the first five days). But, before I’d even left the safety of the hospital bay, my mum was already primed to pick up two more. Trusty old M&S. You know your underwear!

In the early days of my post-surgery recovery, the combination of big knickers and a body corset became a little bit too hot to handle (so much so, there were some rather unpleasant side effects. I will spare you the details). It felt more like a heat wrap than a support system and, in the end, the knickers had to go back to the drawer. With the corset firmly in retirement, however, the knickers are back in action and coming into their own. That is, when I remember to wear them.

The trouble is, when you have a lucky knicker drawer, it’s hard to get excited about pulling on a pair of nude cotton body suckers that don’t have quite the same effect. (Come on, I know you all have something lucky lurking in your drawers). It may sound odd, but I have knickers that have changed the course of a day by just being present. There is a priority list (mostly navy and pink) and, should one pair have to be recycled as a duster, the parting is like that of two good friends saying goodbye. My knickers have won pitches. My knickers have experienced great holidays. Of course, they didn’t prevent the cancer diagnosis, so maybe it is time to invest in some new ones!

Yesterday was a lucky knicker day – and it was a good day. It was also a day that introduced me to a quite unexpected nemesis: the stool. After an enjoyable session of work and a lunchtime visit from a good friend, I decided to brave the city centre for a meal. Aware of it being low immunity week (7-14 days after each cycle your white blood cell count is at its lowest), I diligently googled the restaurant and checked for illness in the group, before setting off on the train. (Duncan did point out that he was amused at my checking for illness, when I didn’t think twice about getting on a train, but I did argue that I would move if I spot a coughing commuter.)

On the chemo-related front all went well. Even the food was conveniently cut into small pieces, so the fact that I can still not open my mouth wide enough to eat anything larger than a cherry tomato, went largely unnoticed.

It was only after moving downstairs to the cosy bar area that it hit me. My scar had been rubbing against my jeans for a good few hours. While I look normal, beneath my clothes, my body is still hurting and crying out for a comfy sofa. It suddenly felt quite phased by the prospect of a stool. All I can say is beware the backless chair. It may not look menacing, but when your stomach muscles are still coming out of hibernation, sitting up straight is a workout. 

It wasn’t long before I started to feel quite naked without my magic knickers for company. It wasn’t long before I was back on the sofa, trapped back in my body suckers once more. I’m writing this with the black cotton tugging at my tummy, and I couldn’t be happier.

Next step is trying to turn a pair of these beauties into lucky knickers. Could a nude pair become my new pitch-winning panties? Bridget Jones would be proud.

Breast cancer lesson number 58: If in doubt, just ask. Kindness is never hard to find

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness, Kindness3 Comments

Cancer has done one thing for me for which I will be forever grateful. It has restored my faith in human nature and forced me to not just see and appreciate, but actively look for the beauty in others.

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In lesson number nine, I talked about the fact that kind people rarely make the headlines, but that if you looks beyond the stories of sadness and destruction, you’ll find a real beauty that will move even the strongest person to tears. I am delighted to report that nearly three months after my initial diagnosis, these people remain my front page and my headline news.

I was reminded of this only yesterday, when I returned home from hospital to find a parcel waiting for me on the doormat. It had come all the way from the US and it contained a creative solution to a PICC-shaped problem.

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Anyone who has seen the picture accompanying lesson number 48 will know that a PICC line is basically a piece of plastic tubing poking out of my left arm. Yes, it’s practical, yes it’s clamped into position with another piece of clinical-looking plastic and no it doesn’t actually bother me (except in bed when I try to sleep on it).

The trouble is, I think it bothers everyone else. It certainly is no oil painting and Duncan won’t even let me show him the tubi-grip style bandage protecting it. In fact, I had a few messages from friends telling me they couldn’t even read that day’s post because the photo looked a bit menacing. While I am fond of my pink cardigans, I’m not sure I want to wear them all summer.

So, what can turn my patient-looking arm into something a little more palatable? The answer, even if you spend hours diligently googling, is not very much. If you want a radioactive-style armband for the shower (see lesson 51) or a waterproof swimming cap cover, you’re in luck. If you want something made out of fabric that looks more like an iPod holder sleeve, you won’t get far.

Enter Courtney, otherwise known as Riley Jane Designs. This wonderful ER nurse from the US makes beautiful PICC line chemo cuffs. Having experimented on patients to get the design just right, she has been shipping them across America in an attempt to bring a splash of colour to the arms of those undergoing treatment.

That is, until now. Unable to find a UK equivalent, I contacted her on the off chance she might either be able to make some for me or send me the pattern so I could have a go myself. Within hours she had replied. Within days she had bought the material and just one day after supplying my arm measurements, they were packaged up and travelling across the Atlantic to my doormat. She didn’t know me at all. She didn’t question why I needed one. She just picked some fabric and, in so doing, made my day. Goodbye tubi-grip and hello handmade chemo cuff (they are reversible too, so with two cuffs, I get four different styles to choose from).

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Courtney is a beautiful person and all I hope is that, every day, someone reminds her of that fact. Thank you for being a kind and thoughtful stranger. You make the world a beautiful place just by living in it.

So, this is my little way of reminding you to seek out and thank the people who bring happiness and a smile into your lives.

Kind people matter and they shouldn’t be allowed to forget it.