Category: Happiness

Breast cancer lesson number 42: Make your next appointment a real treat

On By Jackie ScullyIn Charity, Chemotherapy, Happiness3 Comments

If my diary is anything to go by, I can tell you now, NHS staff are busy (and I mean busy). Let’s face it, when undergoing active treatment, a week without a trip to the hospital (or a least a series of letters) can seem a bit disconcerting.

Stood waiting for the nurse to puncture me with a giant needle and implant of Zoladex this morning, however, I was hit not by the fact it was my third appointment of the week and it was only Tuesday, but by the fact that it was before 9am and the waiting room was packed. On each warm seat was a patient (or supportive shoulder) with their own story, their own medical history and their own treatment plan. Each one of those patients needed time. But, when you have a waiting room overflowing with people, time is the one thing in short supply.

I am in awe of the NHS. This has nothing to do with the number of needles that have made it under my skin over the last 32 years, the eight general anaesthetic procedures I have now racked up or the phone system that you do occasionally get lost in. This has everything to do with the level of care that I have received – and continue to receive – on a daily basis. It’s the breast care nurse who attended my oncology appointment yesterday just because she wanted to catch up with me. It’s the surgeon who stopped me in the corridor to tell me I was looking well. It’s the student nurse who took me to the toilet seven times in one day on the ward and gave me a wonderful shower when I couldn’t move properly. It’s the receptionist who said how great it was to see me smile. See the NHS as a large, flawed, headline-making system and you miss the point. The NHS is an awe-inspiring service filled with people who give over their lives to make the lives of strangers just that little bit better. Don’t believe me? I challenge you to go and sit in an oncology waiting room. Then, you won’t disagree.

The trouble with cancer (like so many serious and debilitating illnesses), however, is that appointment times and treatment plans are only half the battle. A consultation provides merely a window into the life you are leading and each one is often determined by the way you are feeling when you get up that day. Away from the bright lights, the smell of alcohol wipes and the understanding faces, when it’s just you and the ‘big C’, it’s easy to feel alone and invisible. The experts are working tirelessly to save your life and reassure you at every stage. They can’t be there to help with through daily exercises, to rub oil into your scars or support you as you shape a new life plan.

I am a great believer that the more positive I am when I embark on a new course of treatment, the happier I’ll be both going through – and at the end of – it. That’s why I decided early on that I needed to find a place to go where I could be treated (in a pleasurable way), supported and encouraged to rebuild my body and my life (with not a needle in sight). The good thing about living in London is, it didn’t take me long to find it. It’s called The Haven, and I have just spent the day there exploring the wonders of Qi gong and discovering a few nutritional secrets – and surprises.

Haven by name and haven by nature, the centre is designed to help anyone affected by breast cancer. Here, deciding your treatment plan is less about the size of your tumour and more about whether you’d prefer to try a bit of homeopathy, Shiatsu or craniosacral therapy. Although there are currently three centres, this is a charity with no geographical boundaries. The therapists will skype, call, email or meet in their attempts to reach as many patients as possible. It’s the care that starts when the NHS consultation room door closes.

I learned some interesting things today, not least about blood sugar management. Here are a few fast facts to tease your palate:

1)    Cinnamon mimics insulin (will be sprinkling more liberally in future)
2)    The health benefits of turmeric are only felt by combining it with black pepper
3)    Cooking with lard is not always a bad thing (in fact cooking in lard is considered better than cooking with vegetable oil)
4)    My desire to have eggs with everything could work in my favour
5)    Apparently, try a bit of raw butter and you’ll never go back
6)    Herbs and spices are a girl’s best friend. Not only do they pack meals with great flavours, they’re superb for the body too.
7)    I drink too much tea (and wine)

I came away feeling relaxed, inspired and with a burning desire to eat porridge for breakfast all next week. Talking of food, I can confirm there is actually no fat to be grabbed from my tummy currently (I appreciate this has been engineered, but it still felt good to hear it). The nurse this morning remarked on it and I was enjoying this news until I realised it wasn’t actually a compliment – it was a problem (that was where the giant needle needed to go). Thankfully, my left side stepped up to the table. All I can say to anyone having the Zoladex implant is don’t look at the needle (especially not if you’re not having cream to numb the area)!

Today taught me that it’s healthy to see more than the hospital waiting room. Fill your diary with things that make you smile and appointment times with only positive side effects and you’ll find you’re a lot stronger when it comes to facing the milestone meetings and sharp and increasing-large needles. You’ll feel better and, so too will the team dedicated to helping you get through each treatment stage.

Let the hospital save your life and the Haven (or an equivalent near you) help you get your life back.

NB: In case you’re interested, we got seven embryos. We may never have to use them, but they’re in the freezer for the next decade!

Breast cancer lesson number 37: Be a kind stranger. You never know when you’ll need one

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery, Chemotherapy, Happiness, Kindness4 Comments

If you’ve ever been at the receiving end of a random act of kindness, you’ll know that a little bit of thoughtfulness can go a very long way. Kindness is the gift it costs nothing to give and the mark it leaves often lasts a lifetime.

I’m amazed and humbled when I think of all the wonderful acts of kindness that have been gifted to me over the years. For example, I will never forget the lady in the bed opposite me when I was recovering from hip surgery. In the absence of a bed on orthopedics, I was sent to the oncology ward (maybe I should have just stayed there and had my boob off at the same time), surrounded by some people with just days to live. Unable to move properly, for fear of triggering the nerve pain in my hip, it was difficult to perform even the simplest of tasks. I remember struggling to reach my water one night, only to find the lady opposite (an elderly, frail and very sick lady) had got out of bed just to fill my glass. It may not sound like a grand gesture. But, to me, the stranger in the bed opposite, it meant everything. I was wheeled out of that hospital just a few days later. She never left the hospital again.

Roll the clock forward six years and I am still touched by the kindness of strangers. Whether it be the thoughtful Waitrose delivery man (who would restock my fridge if I let him), the nurse in recovery who extended his working hours just to make sure I was comfortable or the catering lady who slipped my mum a free lunch, it’s random acts such as these that really underline what beauty there is in the world.

Only last week was I reduced to tears by the kindness shown to me by a company called Bold Beanies (they make fantastic sleep hats and beanies to help with hair loss). I ordered one navy and one pink beanie and requested the words: ‘small boobs, big smiles’ be printed on each one. A few days later I received an email from the lovely Emilienne saying the designer had thought my slogan was so good he wanted to turn it into a logo! I was so thrilled with the results, and touched by the gesture. Certainly something to smile about when the hair starts to fall out!

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Of course, in each of the examples above, these wonderfully kind people probably guessed (or knew from the tubes and the morphine in the hospital) that I was fighting. Trouble is, it’s not always easy to know who might benefit from a smile and a thoughtful gesture. But, chances are, we’re all battling in some way.

Travelling to the assisted conception unit yesterday, I was reminded of the train journey I took to get my pathology results. Mum and I were sat facing an anxious looking couple who seemed miles away from the train carriage in which we were all sitting. I didn’t imagine I’d ever see them again and get to the bottom of their anxiety. Imagine my surprise, when I found myself sitting opposite them once more – this time in the breast clinic waiting room. You just never know. Everyone is fighting. Everyone is hurting.

To the untrained eye, when I’m travelling to hospital now, I’m just a fairly ordinary young person probably on her way to meet a friend and have a nice brunch in town. Look at my breast cancer pin, the fact I move awkwardly when I sit down and the fact I am guarding my right side and you might find the picture changes. At the moment, my illness is pretty much invisible. But, that doesn’t make it any less real or frightening.

We’re all familiar with the concept of giving back, but this is my little plea to ‘pass it forward’ too. If someone is kind to you, find a way to pass that kindness on – or better still, be the one to start a chain of kindness. It could be as simple as opening the door with a smile, offering your next delivery man a biscuit or giving up your seat on the train (I acknowledge that smiling on trains in London may get you arrested). Random acts of kindness can turn a grey day into a day to be remembered.

So, join me today. I want to be a kind stranger and make the world just that little bit brighter… one random act at a time.

 

How to make a drain bag
If you’d like some inspiration, my wonderful friend Fran, has typed out the instructions for making a drain bag. If you’re keen to dust off your sewing machine and join me in making a few, I promise to deliver them to the hospital. With just a few sheets of material (instructions below), you could make the life of someone newly diagnosed with cancer, just that little bit better. Please email me at Jackie_scully@hotmail.com, if you’re planning to pick up some thread!

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Instructions below make 40 (length) x 30 cm (width) drain bag with adjustable strap

NB: I use buttons for the adjustable strap but you could use any kind of attachment e.g. a buckle.

You will need:
½ metre pretty material
½ metre lining material
2 x big buttons
Matching thread

1) Cut out both materials 45 (length) x 66 cm (width), making sure you cut the edges off first (where the material is thicker and you see little pinpricks). Also, cut two lengths of the pretty material for the strap, both 10 cm wide (1/2 metre length).
2) Pin the pretty and lining materials right sides together. Pins should sit at 90 degrees to the sewing line. Sew both sides and bottom edge as one line of sewing 4/8 from the edge of the main bag material. Cut the corners a couple mm from the sewing line.
3) Pin the two strap pieces together along one 10cm edge – right sides together. Sew.
4) Turn the main bag material the right way round and iron (into the hem).
5) Iron the strap seam so it sits open.
6) Fold the main bag material inwards for the top seam (pretty material slightly higher than lining material). Iron and pin. Sew as close to the edge as possible.
7) Fold and pin bag in half with the pretty material on the inside. Sew bottom and side seams.
8) Turn bag right way round and iron.
9) Fold the strip of strap material in half (right sides together). Pin and sew. Turn back the right way round.
10) Fold the end edges of the strap in to form seams and iron. Sew as close to the edges as possible.
11) Pin one end of the strap to the inside of the bag. Use a strong zig zag stitch to sew a square around the edge of the strap to attach it to the bag.
12) For the other end of the strap, you need 4 button holes roughly 10 cm apart (depending on the size of your buttons).
13) Sew the two buttons 10cm apart on the main bag.
14) Done!

Happy sewing!

Breast cancer lesson 33: Smile even harder when things don’t go according to plan

On By Jackie ScullyIn Fertility, Happiness10 Comments

It’s Sunday morning. Most weeks, I would be enjoying a leisurely lie-in and a lovingly-prepared cup of tea while putting the world – and the week – to rights. On this morning, however, I have had to go to hospital to make sure I don’t have dangerous levels of hormones running through my body. Thanks cancer, first you take my boob and now you’re going after my lie-ins!

It was supposed to be a blood test. And, it certainly started like a normal blood test. Left arm tick. Needle tick. Rubber band to bring up veins tick. Lovely smiley lady in scrubs who called me ‘darling’, tick. Only thing missing? The actual veins.

With right arm (otherwise known as obedient blood giving arm) now permanently out of action due to risk of lymphoedema, left arm is left in charge. Trouble is, left arm doesn’t like to play by the rules… Ever!

So, here’s what happened on my Sunday morning (before my morning cup of tea).

1) Smiley lady preps left arm and starts tapping. Nothing.
2) Smiley lady tries in three places to draw blood from my elusive veins. Nothing.
3) Smiley lady asks whether she can try my leg. I say: ‘go in anywhere. I have a high pain threshold’.
4) I, dutifully, start taking my jeans off. Smiley lady points out that by leg, she meant ankle, so no undressing required. Oops!
5) Smiley lady heads to my ankle. All I can think of is the fact I should have shaved more closely as it looks a bit hairy.
6) Ankle does not play ball.
7) Smiley lady looks less smiley as she asks me to sit outside and drink six cups of water and rub my hands together.
8) I head to the watercooler, realising that I didn’t do my jeans up properly after the aborted undressing attempt. Quick adjustment required.
9) I drink eight cups of water for good measure and look like I am rubbing my hands together in front of a fire. To others in the waiting room, I look like I have ants in my pants. I look weird. I am now the weirdo in the waiting room.
10) I need the loo. I cross my legs.
11) I go to the loo. Oops!
12) Smiley lady, rejuvenated by my epic water drinking, tries again. Four times. Nothing.
13) Smiley lady not smiley any more. I just feel bad that I haven’t been the perfect patient. My smiling looks a bit misplaced. My mind goes straight to the chemo nurses, the blood tests and the cannulas all waiting for me in the next round.
14) No more needles. Just another appointment tomorrow first thing with the anaesthetist. I have been upgraded from weirdo in the waiting room to annoying Monday morning patient with an arm that doesn’t play ball. Lucky anaesthetist!
15) I leave hospital with instructions to keep injecting (while still wondering about my hormone levels). And, guess what? It’s two injections for me today, not one. First Menopur, now Cetrotide wants in on the action!

By the way, if you’re wondering where everyone is on a Sunday morning in London, I’ve found them. They’re in the Assisted Conception Unit, watching me be a weirdo.

So, thank you cancer. You took my lie-in, you took my boob and, because you decided to spread out into my lymph nodes too, you took my right arm (for blood taking purposes).

My left arm looks like a dot to dot. My bladder feels like it has been abused (the body corset isn’t helping) and I really need a cup of tea. But, you know what? Even though I had the burning desire to start wailing in the waiting room, I didn’t. Every time you knock me, I’m going to dust myself off and come back fighting. Just let me have the tea first!

Breast cancer lesson number 31: What you lose in dignity you gain in confidence

On By Jackie ScullyIn Happiness, Reflections on cancer1 Comment

I lost my dignity somewhere between getting drawn on by a surgeon with a giant marker pen (in front of another surgeon and my parents) and having an unexpected internal scan at my first fertility appointment. That’s not to say that my amazing hospital doesn’t go to great lengths to protect it with their well-placed gowns and paper towels. But, when you’re picking out your clothes based on what gives people ‘easy access’ you know it’s pretty much gone – and the chances of recovering it are very slim (I appreciate that may make me sound a little bit like a loose woman. But, trust me, it’s all in a good cause!)

Surprising as it may be to hear, I don’t want it back. In its place, the hospital has inadvertently given me something so much more important: a massive dose of body confidence. That’s not to say that I have a burning desire to take my top off or wear more revealing clothes (I don’t think the world would ever be ready for that). But, by encouraging me to undress at pretty much every appointment (sometimes just out of pure curiosity and kindness), I have realised for the first time that I’m happy with my lot.

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It may sound strange coming from someone with a large scar down her hip (and four giant metal pins inside), a scar on her neck from a old birthmark, a walk that looks like it belongs on the comedy circuit, an amputated boob (and a new imitation one without a nipple currently), straw-like hair, a scar the length of my tummy and so-called ‘child-bearing’ hips. But, every time I look in the mirror now as I massage my modifications and wash my hair, I don’t see my flaws. I just see strength.

I know I’ll never be stopped in the street or take someone’s breathe away with just one look. I know that I’ll never be able to wear short skirts and look good in a pair of shorts. I also know that when fully clothed I am just another plain Jane on a commuter train. But, what makes me smile is that, beneath the pink cardigans and the navy dresses, I am a warrior. And, if you asked me to choose, I wouldn’t change a thing (beyond getting a serious illness in the first place of course). After all, if the world wanted us all to be beautiful, it wouldn’t have invented mascara! And, I love mascara!

Beauty isn’t about having good skin, it’s about being comfortable with what you have and accepting who you are. You’ll find there’s a cream for everything else.

So, I challenge you to stand in front of the mirror this weekend and smile. Smile at the good bits (I am positive you all have something about which you are particularly proud. For me, I have always liked my eyes and my shoulders). Then, most importantly, smile at the bits that make you who you are (the childhood scar you’d wouldn’t have had if you’d listened to your parents, the finger nail that just doesn’t grow the way you want, the knee that hurts, the big toe that you always bury in thick socks).

Smile because you’re you. I wouldn’t have you any other way!

NB: if you’d like to find out more about scarring and breast reconstruction (with DIEP), head to lesson number 21.

Breast cancer lesson number 30: Life is a gift worth unwrapping every day. Make sure you share it

On By Jackie ScullyIn Brighter Life List, Happiness, Kindness, Pink hearts, Reflections on cancer5 Comments

At the end of last year, before cancer came along, took me by the heels and shook me hard, life had already taught me a really big lesson. Just before Christmas, I packaged up more than 50 individual present hampers for family and friends (please read the rest before you declare, where was mine?!). Looking down at my 200 handmade items – everything from chutneys and jams to bath bombs, soaps, candles, Christmas hearts and spiced festive biscuits for the tree – I remember thinking that all those late nights, packed weekends, paper cuts and missed film plotlines (usually lost while untangling thread) had been worth it, because I was going to make people smile.

I was wrong.

Firstly, I didn’t think that actually hand-delivering them (rather than leaving them secretly on desks or sending them via friends) and explaining what was in each one (apologies to my lovely colleague who mistook a bath creamer for a white chocolate treat) might have meant something to those on the receiving end. Secondly, by burying myself away for months on end I missed more than just film plotlines. I missed friends. I missed ice skating at Somerset House and a warming post-skate (or shuffle) hot chocolate (always like to dream that I am on the set of Love Actually). I was too busy to see the Christmas lights. I flew to Ireland for a wedding and was too ill to raise a toast to my beautiful friends. I woke up on Christmas Eve and wondered just where December had gone. In short, I was so busy doing, I wasn’t actually living. I was so busy making things, I wasn’t actually making memories with the people I love. I thought I was doing something kind. But, I missed the point. And then, as we all know, I discovered that lump!

I woke up on January 1 knowing this would be the year to start doing things differently. And, I think life, knowing how quickly I would fall back into the same routine, thought it would throw me a life-threatening illness just to make sure.

So here’s my conundrum. Over the past eight weeks, I have experienced a lifetime’s worth of kindness. I have tears running down my face as I think about the wonderful words, the pre-surgery chocolate and the thoughtfulness that has filled up my heart, my stomach and my living room shelves (to be honest, any surface at the moment). From the tea lady who snuck me extra biscuits to a well-timed email from an old friend, I feel truly blessed. It seems strange to think that cancer has brought me so much happiness, but it has. My task now, is to both thank all those who are helping me smile through this chapter and to learn to carry this feeling of happiness with me for the rest of my life.

I have spent a lot of time over the last few weeks thinking about thanking. I know now that life is a bit too short to bury yourself in toy stuffing all the time (even though I love my craft). That’s not to say I won’t be untangling thread any time soon (in fact, I have a new sewing machine to play with) but I think people might actually enjoy a little less stuffing and a little more time.

So, here’s my plan. Drawing on the wonderful skills of Kirsty Allsopp, I have made (and will continue to make until the world has no pink felt left) a series of pink hearts with a pink ribbon running through each one. They’re simple to make. They’re great for my arm rehab. They represent in colour and design the challenge I’m facing. They do include toy stuffing, but in limited quantities. And, yes, they’re a little bit cheesy, but anyone who knows me well will know that’s just my style.

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Together with handwritten messages and pale pink envelopes, I intend to hand deliver each one of these hearts to the people in my life who’ve made me smile. No secret gifting, no postage stamps required. Just me, giving my time so that I can give back to those who have selflessly spent time thinking about me. Yes, this may mean getting on a plane or trying to get the name of the nurse who made my stay in recovery so enjoyable. Back in lesson number nine, I said I am not sure I will ever be able to thank you all for the kindness you have shown me so far, but that I would spend the rest of my life trying. I won’t stop until I’ve delivered each and every one.

This is a heart I want you to hang (even if it’s in the airing cupboard or the downstairs loo). Every time you look at the heart, I don’t want you to think of me. I want you to think of all the people in your life that make you who you are and make you happy to be alive. I know that when the business of life gets in the way, it often feels hard to find the time to feel thankful. But, you only get one life. This is your moment and no one else is going to help you seize it. That’s how I feel right now, but all I have to worry about is my next hospital appointment and whether or not I have enough tea bags and milk in the fridge. I want to look at my heart and remember this moment – and the cancer that told me to see the beauty in others and every day.

But that’s not all.

This heart comes with a hidden extra. For every heart I give, I would like an address in return (not because I am a stalker). Yes, this will help me cleanse my address book. But, it will also mean that sometime in the future (should you not move of course), I will be able to send you a little reminder. It won’t come with a note. You’ll probably think it’s been delivered to the wrong house. But, I’d like to send you a little surprise, a little act of kindness that helps you smile through the battles in your life. After all, you’re only human. The heart will fade or get dusty in the attic. Life will get in the way. We all need something to look forward to.

I’m also going to start a brighter life list (watch out for new page coming soon). This is not a bucket list – as my consultant says, we’re aiming for the grand old age of 92! This is a public declaration of all the things I know I want to do, but have always found an excuse to push down the list. They’re not ground-breaking. They’re not all particularly special. But, they mean something to me. By posting them on my blog, I want you to help me tick them off. Please add to the list (if you know me better than I know myself), or join me on an adventure if you want to tick it off too.

Life’s a fight. But life can be kind too – and the people in it. Kindness is what I want to gift to this world, one fluffy pink heart at a time…

NB: it may take you years to receive your heart (I won’t just fling it to you at a party), but please know that if you have shown kindness, it’s on its way!

Breast cancer lesson number 26: Make every day a milestone day

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery, Fertility, Happiness5 Comments

Today is a milestone day. Ok, so it’s not exactly on a par with diagnosis day or pathology results day (just a few of the compulsory days Breast Cancer likes to throw in to keep us entertained). But, that doesn’t make it any less meaningful. No, today is the day I come off Provera (my progesterone hormone). That means, in a few days time (if my body plays ball), the fertility side of my treatment will begin. Self injecting here I come!

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Moments in time don’t have to be monumental to make it as milestones. When you are strapped into a body corset, even getting to the end of the road can feel like a huge achievement! So here is a glimpse into my world of the major – and not so major milestones – that have made a mark in my diary these last few months. I hope this will help those facing the cancer challenge in the future to understand a bit more about timeframes and what to expect.

1) 24 December: Lump discovery day
Arguably the most important day (and most valuable shower) of my life. I took the discovery seriously, but am glad to report, it didn’t put me off the Christmas ham.

2) 25 December: Proposal day
Ok, so not fundamental to the story, but it’s a lot easier talking about losing a boob and making embryos when you have a man by your side (and a ring on your finger). I am a lucky lady.

3) 27 December: GP referral day
Not the most reassuring of visits I’ll admit, but the doctor acted really fast and referred me straight away. I know a lot of young women are told to come back at another point in their cycle to see whether the lump has changed size, but thankfully, due to it being Christmas, I got my referral. Just another reason to love Christmas!

4) 9 January: Hospital appointment day
Was planned in as the morning before, but due to work commitments, I moved it to the Thursday morning. I know how stupid that sounds, but I really didn’t believe it was anything other than a breast mouse. Let’s just say, I have learned my lesson (and missed a fabulous annual client lunch that day as punishment). What started as a quick ‘feel’ turned into an ultrasound, a few biopsies and a rather awkward conversation with two consultants (they didn’t say cancer, but they did ask about my family history A LOT).

5) 17 January: Diagnosis day
Not a day I’ll forget…ever! Crying, mammogram, more crying, truck load of leaflets and, you guessed it, more crying.

6) 18 January: The day that taught me the value of friendship
Afternoon tea at the Modern Pantry was made all the more sweet with a close friend at my side. Having hidden away for months, this day encouraged me to get out my phone and start planning (trips to Sketch, nights with Darius, relaxing walks and home visits). I love my friends and the colour they bring to my days.

7) 23 January: MRI day
Four needles, one arm full of contrast dye and a noisy test to determine whether or not I could have a lumpectomy.

8) 25 January: Feeling human day
I had a facial. No one mentioned cancer. I walked into a shop (ok, so I was buying track suit bottoms and zip up tops) and someone told me I looked and smelled great. I smiled. It felt good.

9) 27 January: Diagnosis day (part two)
More cancer, another biopsy, a trip on a secret staff bus, a plastic surgeon meeting, pre-op testing and a lot of tummy squeezing. The mastectomy is on, the tummy is borderline.

10) 31 January: Fat testing day
One CT scan and one feel-like-you-are-wetting-yourself moment to check whether I had a good blood vessel in my tummy to transfer to my boobie.

11) 1 February: The day I decided to start this blog
A major mental milestone, this blog helps me stay positive, while keeping my loved ones informed and helping others diagnosed with the big C!

12) 4 February: Carbo-loading day
Ok, so with the volume of chocolate coming through the letterbox on a daily basis, this was more like a two-week period. But, on this day, at a work away session, I ate a lot. I believe this was a major step forward for tummy and will always think about it when rubbing aqueous cream into new boobie.

13) 10 February: Decision day
Tummy confirmed as new boobie. Did a little dance (away from the surgeons of course)!

14) 14 February: Provera day one
The countdown to freezing embryos begins. Won’t mention what happened to Duncan that day. More of a fertility milestone for him than me. And on Valentine’s Day!

15) 15 February: Last supper with D day
Sounds a bit dramatic, but it was actually a beautiful meal at the Cutty Sark pub that reminded me of the importance of taking time out to savour special moments with loved ones.

16) 19 February: Pre-assessment and mobile off day
Memorable not because I found out about leeches, physio moves and arm measuring, but because I turned my work emails off on my Blackberry for the first time in a long time. The red button now only flashes to alert me of good wishes.

17) 20 February: the day I tried my first ever Nandos
Ok, don’t judge me. Not quite the last supper I had imagined. Couldn’t resist. First time ever – and with my parents.

18) 21 February: Surgery day
Wasn’t around much, but hear it went well. Got a new boobie. Got rid of cancer. Not a bad day.

19) 22 February: The day I survived
Owwwwwwwwwww! It hurt, but I got through it, and that is all that matters.

20) 23 February: The day I got up
Getting out of bed is only a big event if you thought you’d never get out again the day before.

21) 24 February: The day the drains started coming out
They don’t hurt if you breathe in and out three times and follow the nurse’s instructions. Go to your happy place and you’ll be fine.

22) 25 February: Big reveal day
I don’t think I’ll ever forget the mirrors or the tears. I did manage to wash myself and pull my big knickers up though, so it wasn’t all bad. I also got rid of that moving mattress (certainly something worth celebrating).

23) 26 February: The day I got released
Hospital day 5 means home time. Felt good sinking down into our old mattress and getting settled with my home comforts.

24) 1 March: The day I did nothing
Having overworked my arm the day before, today was a day of reading and film watching. Never underestimate the restorative power of nothing. I have been too busy in life to notice.

25) 3 March: The day I finished my first post-surgery book
I love books, but could never get into them after my hip surgery. I take this as a good sign my brain is starting to fire again.

26) 5 March: The day I dressed myself
Wouldn’t have made this a milestone a few weeks ago. It’s amazing how much excitement can be gained from putting your socks on. I also passed wound care today, so one step forward.

27) 6 March: The day I walked in the park
Ok, so we had to drive there, but Greenwich Park had never looked so inviting with the early signs of spring. I even got to see the deer and admire the view.

28) 7 March: Pathology results day
The first day of the rest of my life. A big meeting that reinforced the importance of seeking out milestones and making a difference every day. Friday was also the day my wonderful nurse of a mum went back home to leave Duncan and I to fend for ourselves. I am happy to report that we are doing pretty well. Duncan is spending most of his time trying to stop me lifting things (I have resorted to painting my nails in the hope that the frustration of chipping the paint will stop me in my tracks) and we did have a rather interesting discussion about the merits of a scrubbing brush when doing the washing up (he is going to buy one this weekend).

29) 8 March: Duncan does the washing up day (and gets a quick look)
A monumental life event. Ok, so he struggled with the pan, but he did great (even without a scrubbing brush). His reaction to the ‘new’ me was thoughtful and kind. He even towel-dried my back when I couldn’t reach. I also got to remove the sticky mesh on my tummy and the final steri-strips on my boob, so am starting to look less like an accident victim.

30) 9 March: Bye bye Provera day
The window to help preserve my fertility is starting to open. Have also just had a lovely lunch outside for the first time this year.

They may not be big, but for me, each one of these milestones has made 2014 one of the busiest and most emotional yet – and it’s still only March. Each date has made such a lasting impression, I didn’t even need to consult a diary to write this post.

There will be many more cancer milestones (and more tenuous ones) to come (from chemo day one to radiotherapy planning day and the day I get my first tattoo) and I intend to embrace and smile in the face of each one. After all, a life without milestones, however small, is not really a life at all.

So, raise a glass to milestones. May you all have many happy ones this year.

 

Breast cancer lesson number nineteen: Cherish the small victories; there’s a team of people helping you achieve the big ones

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery, Happiness, Reflections on cancer5 Comments

When I think about happiness, I don’t think about two-week breaks in the sun, new cars (I still have my blue Nissan Micra from 1999), material items or grand romantic gestures (that’s lucky given I’ve only ever had one box of Valentine’s chocs in my life). Happiness to me is a little moment in time that makes me smile. It might be the smell of honey-roasted ham on Christmas Eve. It might be the warmth of the fire on a Sunday afternoon. It might be the sound of a funny TFL announcer on the way to work – or even, just a hot cup of tea and a mouthful of NHS mash. Happiness isn’t hard to find; you just need to a) know where to look and b) want to look!

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This sign above on a ledge by my stairs, reminds me to seek out the small pleasures on a daily basis. When I apply this to life right now, I know there’s no point me thinking about the cancer, the chemo and the possibility of never being able to have a child (just a selection of the big things). There are far more qualified people focusing on those aspects. No, my focus has to be on filling each day with a selection of small victories and fun memories, so that each day, I get that bit stronger and that bit happier. Then, when the big things come along, I can smile even when the lights are out.

Interestingly, a great film I watched the other day reinforced this life view: About Time. I should have read the plot synopsis beforehand (front-fastening bras and cancer make the storyline – oops), but once it had finished, I didn’t think about sadness or death. I don’t want to ruin the film for those who love a good rom com, but, let’s just say, the main character learned to look for the beauty in every moment and celebrate the people and the colour that define his life. He bathed in the detail and made the most of each moment. That made him a hero in my book.

I’d be the first to admit that when times are not so hard, it is difficult to savour each moment, however small – it’s often hard to find time to do the washing up let alone enjoy the bubbles why you’re doing it. But, given it’s a Sunday and you should be taking it easy, now is as good a time as any to give it a go.

So, here are a selection of small victories and happy moments from the last few days to help you think about the little luxuries that have the power the lift you.

1) Celebrating the details: when life forces you to walk slowly, every journey is a voyage of discovery. Yesterday, on a walk up a familiar road I saw things I’d never seen before – from interesting pot plants and funny signs to funky curtain fabrics and quirky door knockers. There is a slight downside to this. I also seem to see or hear about cancer everywhere I go. When I was waiting for the biopsy results, every train carriage had a cancer advert. My mum was reading a book yesterday that suddenly became all about breast cancer. Even Eastenders is having a go. I think I may need to filter out a few of the details!

2) Conquering those socks: ok, so unless you’ve had major surgery recently or are heavily pregnant, I doubt this will be enough to raise a smile. But, for me, it is today’s small victory. Next stop is getting my trainers out and tying the laces properly (daring I know!).

3) Smiling when the post arrives: sift out the bills and the unsolicited clothing catalogues and there is usually something smiling back at me from the doormat each day. I love sending cards and letters and I vow to do even more of this now.

4) Watching a film on a Friday afternoon: now, I am not advocating a duvet day, but doing things that are out of routine, are pretty liberating. I have been subjecting mum to my back catalogue of soppy films to save Duncan and we are laughing and crying through the day. It’s perfect – and it doesn’t cost a thing.

5) Welcoming the knock at the door: salesmen, religious champions and workmen have been replaced with delivery men, florists and postmen with parcels. I almost jumped for joy when my new post-surgery bra arrived the other day. These little punctuations in the day are welcome and wonderful.

6) Cherishing the power of words: each day I am moved by a beautiful text (until my phone decides to automatically delete it), a wonderful post or even a little ‘like’ on social media. Whether it’s a close friend, someone from my past or a friendly face sharing a moving moment from their life, each one touches me more than I will ever be able to say. Messages can be a powerful thing. The best thing is to reach out to someone when they least expect it. Try it with someone you haven’t contacted for a while, it will make you smile too. 

7) Enjoying the comfort of cosy things: if there aren’t enough fluffy things in your life (by which I mean comfy cushions, slankets, fluffy slippers or fleece-lined clothes), it’s time to reevaluate. I many not be able to wear my onesie currently, but I am loving the feel of soft things against my swollen and scarred skin.

8) Smiling down at my engagement ring: getting engaged on Christmas Day will always be one of the happiest moments of my life. The Champagne may be on ice, but the cards are still up and every day I look down at my finger I look forward to day I get to walk down the aisle and thank all the friends and relatives who have helped make Duncan and I the people are today. It may not be a ring or a trinket, but having something close to you that reminds you what you’re fighting for in life and gives you hope, is something to be treasured.

9) Opening the chocolate cupboard: even with a love of chocolate, I was still unable to chomp through all the amazing treats offered to me when I was trying to fatten up for surgery. While I now need to keep the calories at bay, I am enjoying the ritual of choosing two things from the chocolate cupboard each day (may have to increase this slightly, however, given the rate Duncan is munching through J).

10) Emptying the dishwasher: not something you might wish to shout about on the average day, but when you’re stuck in a corset with a hip-to-hip scar, just picking out a pan and a mug is a revelation and a sign that a normal life is within reach.

Happiness is an ordinary day that makes you feel extraordinary. Try it, feel it, and even spotting sunshine through the clouds will make you feel happy to be alive.