Tag: blogging about breast cancer

Breast cancer lesson 136: Say goodbye to the fake menopause – and hello to a good night’s sleep

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Fertility, Zoladex2 Comments

Contrary to what my oncologist thinks (although I fear he was trying to lighten things), no woman needs a fake menopause to prepare themselves for the real thing. You may see it as an end to periods as you know them. In truth, the menopause disrupts so much more than that (sleep being top of the list) and, enduring it more than once is not something ever to be encouraged.

That is, unless you want to try and give your ovaries a chance of coming back to life after chemo!

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Four weeks ago today, I was waiting patiently in the oncology clinic for my very last Zoladex injection (click here for lesson 124 and a quick reminder). Zoladex (also known as Goserelin) is a hormone therapy sometimes offered to pre-menopausal women throughout chemo to send their ovaries to sleep. The idea is that chemo drugs tend not to attack things that aren’t actually doing anything (similar to the cold cap treatment to reduce the chances of hair loss). While its effectiveness is still yet to be proven, it is widely agreed that while taking the drug may not guarantee you retain your fertility after treatment, it certainly doesn’t do any harm (unless you see four months of sleep deprivation as harmful)!

With no Zoladex appointment scheduled, today marks the start of the waiting game. Up until now, I have not expected a period. Now, I live in hope that my body will return itself to normal and not actually send me into the official menopause (if feels strange to be wanting something like a period. I will probably regret saying that if it comes back with a vengeance). The odds, based on my age, are good. The reality? No one knows and no one dares predict. It’s saving me a fortune in sanitary products, but I would really rather just take the hit.

I haven’t written much about my feelings surrounding the prospect of infertility. I have always been a great believer that things are meant to be. I remain thankful that lots of my friends have been able to conceive and I feel lucky to have so many children in my life (if not under our roof). Whatever happens (even with seven embryos in the freezer), I just feel happy to be here. The future can take care of itself. The way I see it, childless and alive is still a good result! And, if children do feature in our future, I have Zoladex to thank for preparing me well for months of sleep deprivation.

Of course, it’s not just the periods I am willing to return. A night without a yo-yoing temperature is something about which I have been dreaming (when I get the rare chance) for a long time. I understand that Tamoxifen – my soon to be best friend for the next 10 years – is likely to cause at least some of the same symptoms (lucky me!), but given I don’t have to start taking this daily delight until radiotherapy is over, I am hoping for at least a little break (PLEASE!!!!!!). I am now pretty effective on about three hours (my usual pattern is to fall asleep straight away and then wriggle around in a few different outfits from 2am onwards) – but I really wish I didn’t need to be. When a lie-in is once again a treat, you will all know about it. The title of this post may seem a little premature, but I am hoping by expressing it publically, my body might just take the hint!

My fingers are well and truly crossed. Let the waiting game begin!

 

Breast cancer lesson 135: Why I won’t be binning my bras just yet!

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery1 Comment

Breast cancer surgery does present most women with a bust-sized dilemma. Can I – and should I – get back to wearing the bras I lovingly selected for myself before cancer stole my boob? The answer, it seems, like a lot of other cancer-related questions, is that there are no hard and fast rules.  

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Having had DIEP surgery, it seems surgeons, breast nurses and patients alike all agree that you should steer away from under-wired bras for a good six months after the operation. This I have done – in fact I can’t stop wearing my post-surgery bra in bed, which I was allowed to remove at night after six weeks!

What happens after six months, however (a marker I am about to hit), is the subject of much debate. Being a big fan of my underwear drawer, I was delighted to hear from both my plastic surgeon and a fellow survivor that, in their view, the question is not whether or not you should wear under-wired bras, but more whether wearing under-wired bras is actually comfortable. In fact, the best piece of advice I received was from an event speaker who suggested you try on everything in your underwear drawer before deciding to burn the contents (with Suzie the wig in tow, it would make an impressive fire though).

The fact my bras may get a stay of execution makes me very happy for a number of reasons. Firstly, if you’ve actually had the joy of scouring the racks in a department store for something without a wire, you’ll discover it’s not really a joy at all. The selection is limited (think 20 racks of wired to 1 rack of non-wired and you’ll get the picture) and it seems you are suddenly categorised alongside breastfeeding mothers and teenage starter bras, which is not particularly sexy for a lifetime choice. Building up a new collection is not something I fancy doing overnight either, especially when I have a tummy fat-filled new boob, which has a tendency to grow when it feels like it (if you’ve been following the blog you will know that the fat never actually forgets its origins and can grow considerably if you put on weight).

Of course, with the help of Google, I have found a few non-wired bras that make me feel my age (and feminine as well, which is a bonus). M&S, Gap and Fig Leaves have been my shops of choice and I am delighted to have found some that are navy and pink (rather than simply beige, beige, white and more beige). Amoena also has some nice styles, which I may try if the post-surgery bra fashion parade doesn’t go according to plan. My advice is definitely to try out some different non-wired styles in the months following surgery (for morale more than anything else) and avoid the stores (mail order is much more satisfying and you don’t risk dragging yourself round the shops to find the only one you like isn’t available in your size).

If the under-wired option does prove to be a little uncomfortable, I do have a few back-up plans. Firstly, I am attending a meeting with a bra manufacturer one evening in September to discuss wearer trials for some post-surgery bras (that don’t make you feel like you’re either 70 or 12). Secondly, I have signed up to a lingerie evening with Breast Cancer Care in October to get a proper fitting (let’s hope new boobie plays ball) and some tips on choosing right bra for your body shape. They are held across the country and come highly recommended for those looking for a bit of comfort and style! 

I will let you know how I get on when I can extract myself from the comfort of my post-surgery bra. It may take a while, given I have to minimise friction while going through radiotherapy (am just hoping I can run and wear clothes for that period at the moment).

As a quick aside, for those of you worried about whether or not there is a link between the type of bra you wear and breast cancer, please do not despair. There is a great piece by Cancer Research UK (click here to read), which explains that there is no scientific evidence to link the two. It appears that some people believe under wired bras can have a negative effect on the lymphatic system (causing toxins to build up in the breast area). Cancer Research UK explains that your bra would have to be unbearably tight to start to have any impact at all.

The underwear drawer is safe for now – and long may it remain so!

Breast cancer lesson 134: Get ready to graduate. Chemo is one test you will pass

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy4 Comments

August 8 will forever be known as the day I officially finished chemo.

Unlike most other milestones on this cancer journey, this day comes with no medical-related strings attached. No needles, no toxic cocktail being pumped into my veins, no boob job. Just me at the end of a three-week cycle NOT sitting in a chemo chair. That makes it pretty special.

How did I celebrate this momentous occasion you ask? I went to the hospital of course! This time, however, it was for an arm measurement as part of the Lymphoedema clinical trial and the last of my wonderful aromatherapy treatments courtesy of Dimbleby Cancer Care. I baked some flapjack because I was visiting the Cancer Day Unit for my massage. But, that is where the similarities end. 

As the end of a three-week cycle, you could be forgiven for thinking that I might now be symptom free. Sadly, the cumulative effect of chemo means that bits are still falling off – and may continue to do so for quite some time. It feels a little cruel that at the time you’re recovering, you can actually start to look a little worse. But then, I don’t think chemo likes playing by the rules – hence the fact we all have a different experience going through it.

With a break in the cycles at last, I thought it would be fitting to take stock and look at the aftermath. Basically, what’s left and what’s a little bit wonky. Here’s the damage (so far):

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  • Head: arguably still bald, but now sprouting what I call ‘chicken fluff’. It’s soft like baby hair (another reason why I liken chemo to being reborn). Not sure on the colour yet, but I’m hoping it isn’t grey. These pictures hopefully give you a glimpse of the fluff – although I do appreciate the lighting makes me look a little like an alien! 
  • Eyebrows and eyelashes: clinging on for dear life still, but fading fast I fear. People do say the eyebrows are the last to go and it looks like that may be the case. I do feel lucky though because the combination of lighter hair and glasses does make it hard to tell if they are there or not. I am sad I can’t wear mascara (my one or two lashes would look a little weird if I highlighted them)! 
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  • Other hair: why is it that the leg hair is the first to reappear? As if anyone wants that back! I have heard that if you wax it early on, it may forget to grow back. If you can vouch for this do let me know before I rush off to get them waxed! The arm hair, on the other hand, is now falling off (having thinned throughout). Everything else is still pretty much absent (oh, nose hair, my runny nose misses you). I am watching my big toes carefully as I have heard they can become a bit Frodo-like in the post-chemo days.
  • Nails: Sore nails are really not pleasant. If you tap them on a hard surface (I did this once and now try to avoid at all costs) if feels as if they are coming off. They remain painted in blue and pink, but the last time I reapplied the colour, there was a lot of discolouration and my big toes were black. Thank you nail varnish is all I can say. At least this is something that can be masked.
  • Hands and feet: I have separated this out from nails because the key side effect I have been left to enjoy is peripheral neuropathy. This means I get a tingling in my hands and feet and the numbness/reduced sensation in both is very odd indeed. I can live with it, but I really hope I don’t have to.
  • Weight: A 2kg increase over seven months is a result in my book. Now just got to get rid of the steroid hamster cheeks and lovingly protect my flat-but-bulging-a-bit stomach.
  • Tastebuds: back in the game and currently devouring some homemade bread. Bread has such a subtle flavour, it really isn’t worth eating when the tastebuds disappear. I am certainly making up for it now (although ever mindful of the point before).
  • Mouth: ulcer free and no white tongue. Whoop! 
  • Liver: survived! Thank you liver. I need you.
  • Hot flushes: controlled slightly by the Clonidine (I can increase the dosage, but am not at the moment), but still a pain at night. I do love the sunshine and the summer, but think the autumn weather may help.
  • Skin: silky smooth and slightly tanned (for the first time in about a decade). It does feel as if I have been regenerated. Still on the factor 50 and think I may be for the rest of my days.
  • Fatigue: I am not sure whether this is due to the drugs or the general lack of sleep caused by the Zoladex.
  • Brain: in tact, just. I have been known to put the plates in the fridge (along with the cereal). But, I think I may have done that in the pre-chemo days, so I don’t really have any excuses.
  • Positivity level: still smiling!

Everything else is still in tact (or yet to be investigated)! I certainly won’t be scratching the surface to find out.

Am I happy to have survived four months of toxic drugs without being hopsitalised and spending even one day in bed. Absolutely! Would I go through it again? Not this month – and hopefully never again! I was reading only the other day that scientists are predicting that chemo will be obsolete within 20 years (due to a project looking at the genes responsible for cancer). To think that people may one day be cured without these drugs is a wonderful thought.

When things stop falling off me, I will be uploading my cancer kit list (along with my top tips and reflections on chemo) to help all those facing sessions in the chemo chair. One thing I will say now though is that chemotherapy doesn’t come with a textbook. If it did, we’d all be reading it. There are things we can all do to prepare, but it is far better to wake up each day and meet each challenge head on than worry about the challenges you may never have to face. Easier said than done, but it can be done!

There’s no mortarboard, gown and certificate waiting for this graduate – just the satisfaction of knowing I am out the other side (and I have good skin)!

I got there – and so will you.

Breast cancer lesson 133: Embrace those tattoos! It’s radio planning time

On By Jackie ScullyIn Radiotherapy2 Comments

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It’s official. I am a rebel. This morning I woke up a tattooless woman. Now, I have three!

Ok, so when I say tattoos, they are pretty unremarkable. Here’s one, and I must say it looks more like a misplaced biro mark or poppy seed. It certainly won’t be doing the rounds at parties, that’s for sure! But it is permanent and the hospital radiographer used the word ‘tattoos’ so I’m taking it. Surgery took my boob and tummy fat, chemo took the hair I spent 32 years learning how to style (it won’t come back exactly the same I doubt – let’s just hope it’s not grey) and will no doubt scar me in some other way, so I see this as radiotherapy’s way of getting in on the action and making its mark.

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As appointments go, the radiotherapy planning session is fascinating. Down in the windowless lower ground floor of the hospital I sat in a waiting room with just one other (a rare treat) ready for my biro dots. Here’s what happened:

  • It started with a quick pep talk from a radiographer. She talked me through the planning session, checked it was me who signed the consent form and took a photo (just to make sure they blast the right person in future).
  • Next, I was collected once more from the waiting room and ushered into a room with a CT scanner, a bed and a variety of plinths. The team of three (including a student) were really friendly and it was lovely to see them getting on so well. I was also amused by the party mix playing in the background, which was later revealed to be a playlist from someone’s younger days. Certainly livened up proceedings.
  • Once I’d taken my top off (again) and popped on a gown (best to wear a top and skirt or trousers rather than a dress so you don’t have to take everything off), I was asked to sit on the edge of the bed in a specific position. I then had to lift my legs up to rest against a metal plate at the end of the bed, before shuffling my bum to rest against something behind me. Bum in place, I was asked to lie down, clasp my hands together and raise them above my head, placing my arms into two arm rests. Finally, I was wiggled around (they ask you to let yourself go heavy in the bed so they do all the moving) to get my body in the correct position.
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  • Position sorted, the felt tip pen came out. Then started the art class all over my boobs! Here’s one of the marks (that thankfully I do get to wash off tonight). The marks were accompanied by little stickers and lots of shouting out of letters and numbers (apparently my arms are CYK). I believe this is to make sure they record accurate measurements so that I am positioned in exactly the same way for every dose.
  • Art class complete, the CT scanning began. It takes a matter of moments and is completely painless. I did start to get pins and needles up my arm at one point (I think this may have something to do with the ongoing peripheral neuropathy in my hands), but thankfully it did fade so I didn’t need to move.
  • After the scan came the fun part – the tattoos. A bit of ink, a few tiny pricks, some cotton wool to stem the slight bleeding (I bleed at the sight of a needle) and it was all done!
  • Dignity restored, I was handed a piece of material to bring with me to each session (I was lying on it so imagine it is to do with the alignment or protection – if you know please post here) and my times for the 15 blasts. I now know that 2pm on Monday 15 September is the end! 
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Lesson of the day? Don’t wear a white bra and shirt to a radio planning meeting. A bit of blood and felt tip do not clean clothes make! Also, maybe best not to wear sandals in hot weather that make your feet a little whiffy. 

I was also amused that the book I am currently reading started to allude to the children’s book We’re going on a bear hunt just before I was called in for my appointment. Regular readers may remember my connection with the book and the words inside. Click here for lesson 107 and a quick reminder! 

Biro dots in place, I am ready for my blasting!

NB: as a side note, my piece on running for Breast Cancer Care, has been picked up by The Guardian and is currently on the homepage and the Life and Style section. Duncan’s marvellous pink shorts have made it into the nationals! Click here to see them in all their glory.

Breast cancer lesson number 130: How to holiday with no hair

On By Jackie ScullyIn Brighter Life List, Chemotherapy6 Comments

First, find a cliff (preferably a windy one that is not too far from home so you don’t need to contemplate travel insurance and so that your acute oncology hotline card is still useful).

Next, enjoy a bracing walk up to said cliff (avoiding the edge so as not to add cliff diving to the day’s itinerary).

When you reach the top, expose your beautifully bald head to the elements (having liberally applied factor 50+ sun cream before the climb due to increased skin sensitivity while on chemo). I am nothing if not a health-conscious blogger!

Then, enjoy! Feel the wind blast your head. Savour the fact you can see for miles without having to remove strands of hair from your face and line of sight.

While I would never wish anyone to shave their head as a way of sharing in this truly invigorating experience, it is a pretty fantastic way to make the most of a hairless situation! My mum’s good friend recommended I seek out the sensation, and that’s why it is stands proudly at number 17 on my Brighter life list. I must say, it is every bit as exhilarating as it sounds!

I enjoyed the dress rehearsal in April in Dorset with my parents when I was still sporting a number two. And, I have to say, I am delighted to have been able to tick it off at last. Made possible by the wonderful Briggs family, who planned this adventure, it is a cliff top I (my little bald head and fellow coast path walkers) will never forget.

Of course, we don’t have to climb cliffs (physically or metaphorically) to achieve our dreams. We just need to work out what they are and then carve out the path that makes them possible. Life is too short to stand in the sidelines wondering ‘what if?’ I set up my Brighter life list because I want to be reminded of that fact every day. It shouldn’t have taken a serious illness to bring everything into focus. But it did.

If there’s something you’ve always wanted to do, then now is the time to start planning it. And, if you’ve already got a list of your own, but lack the motivation to start, now is the time to get ticking.

Today is not a rehearsal for tomorrow. Today is all we know we have.

Breast cancer lesson 129: Chemo may eat your eyebrows, but don’t let it steal your smile

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness1 Comment

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Chemo week one – by which I mean the first week in a three-weekly cycle usually reserved for grimacing, steroids and a general feeling of emptiness – has actually been unexpectedly lovely. I think this has a lot to do with the fact that it is my last ‘chemo week one’, meaning that every day I get one step further away from poison and one step closer to being able to taste something that doesn’t have the words ‘ice lolly’ in the description. But, I started out last Friday determined to enjoy even the darker days. And, that’s exactly what I’ve done.

I was told the last chemo would feel different. You’re not preparing your body for another round in the unit. The PICC line is out. There are no blood tests booked. The pill packets are emptying and don’t need replenishing. You’re doing things for the last time. Until you experience it, however, it’s hard to know whether that will be the case. After all, the dose is the same, the injections are still prickly and the medication still makes your cheeks puff up!

Seven days in and, touching all wood available, I am feeling good. Yes, I have pain. Yes, I have tingling hands and feet and cramps overnight. Yes, my tongue is a fluffy white colour, which makes me want to swig Difflam with every meal. Yes, the tastebuds have gone. Yes, the dizziness is here. And, yes, I still haven’t a clue what a good night sleep is. But, I feel good and that’s all that matters. I know low immunity week comes next and I also know things do have a habit of falling off (the final eyebrows and the nails being top of the list) when it’s all over. I am not out of the woods, but I can certainly see a clearing ahead!

Of course, I am putting a lot of this good feeling down to the fact the end is not just a distant dream, but a nice chunk of reality (8 August is the official chemo end date, which is now just two weeks away). But, I did also try a new tactic this time. I left London, and spent a few days at my family home. And, I have to say, it was truly magical.

Magical moments for me aren’t once-in-a-lifetime events. They are little moments that remind me just how lucky I am to be alive. It’s laughing with a friend after 14 years apart. It’s holding hands with a great aunt who nearly lost her life just two years ago. It’s sitting in the garden eating home-grown potatoes, carrots and beans. It’s lying on my parents’ bed watching TV. It’s a walk in the long grass on local parkland. This weekend taught me that I have my past to thank for the strength it has given me to move forward.

I have actually turned myself into a self-styled ‘student of happiness’ of late in an attempt to see whether there is a way I can ‘be happier’ when the business of life resumes. I was reading something only the other day about the importance of applying the airplane safety announcement ‘put your oxygen mask on first’ to daily life. Those who first look after themselves are best placed to look after others. While I hope never to see an oxygen mask again, I fully intend to make the most of the cancer’s thorough overhaul. Cancer hasn’t made me happy, but I know it has given me the time to reflect, focus on me and work out that I have been happy all along (I just didn’t always see it)!

If you have any reading recommendations to help me as I explore everything happiness has to offer, do shout.

Back in London now, I am still smiling (just a bit hotter). This has something to do with the sunshine and a lot to do with the ‘end-of-active-treatment’ date that is now penned in the diary. MONDAY 15 SEPTEMBER is less than two months away! I can almost touch it.

Whatever you are doing today, I hope you find time for a little happiness!

Breast cancer lesson 128: An arm without a PICC line is a wonderful thing

On By Jackie ScullyIn ChemotherapyLeave a comment

Tonight is a momentous occasion. Tonight is the first night since 31 March that I will be able to shower without a plastic radioactive-style sleeve covering the best part of my left arm (see below for a reminder of my recent shower style). Tonight is the night my arm gets lathered in something other than alcoholic swabs and Cavlon. And, most importantly, tonight is the night I get another step closer to the normality I so desperately crave. And, you know what? I think it might just be the most exciting shower of my entire life!

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Apart from a hard bit of, I guess, scar tissue, surrounding the entry site, the area is already healing well. Gone is the dry skin and going are the blisters and the sticky plaster residue. I thought I’d be walking round with the feeling that something is missing. In truth, the memory of the plastic tubing, the clip and the valve stopping the blood leaking out has already started to fade. I love my body’s amazing ability to forget.

We’ve had some good times (namely stress-free chemo sessions) and some not-so-good times (saline flushes and heart palpitations come to mind). But, I have to say, we’ve had a fairly uneventful relationship (I often forgot it was there) and the advantages have more than outweighed the disadvantages!

Tonight is also the night I hoover up the last of my steroids. That’s means an end to the crazy highs, swollen hamster cheeks, water retention and unfair weight gain. Woohoo! The only downside? The house might not be as tidy for a while.

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Who needs alcohol, when I have the opportunity to enjoy a lukewarm shower and feel the water trickle over ALL my weary limbs? Us chemo bods sure know how to celebrate! I’d say ‘let our hair down’, but there isn’t much of that!

I may be some gone for some time… 🙂

Breast cancer lesson 127: If you can take on chemo, you can take on life. Take that chemo and take that cancer!

On By Jackie ScullyIn Baking, Chemotherapy, HappinessLeave a comment

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I did it! By which I mean, successfully carried a really heavy sugar pill-covered cake through the city crowds to the cancer day unit, presented it to the team before presenting high blood pressure (due to the fact the cuff was on my leg), took one last dose of Docetaxel, ate a lolly, drank some tea and, most importantly, had my PICC line out and was disconnected from the saline flush for the last time.

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In many ways, although brilliant, it is a strange sort of day. I am celebrating because the poisoning is over, but I still have a good three weeks of side effects (probably even longer) to go before I can start reclaiming my body. I can’t really drink alcohol and am pretty exhausted from a sleepless night due to heat, hot flushes, thunder and lightning and general excitement. I am happy, but I’m not exactly ready to paint the town red. 

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The cake and the ‘last chemo’ sign brought with it a celebratory atmosphere. The nurse started showing all the staff (including the chief nurse), my PICC flush lady popped in for a visit, and I even got to see my complementary therapist for a good chat. Everyone wanted a picture of the 450 pills – and I just wanted them to enjoy it before the buttercream seeped through the fondant icing. It had already started to resemble a boob in shape rather than a straight-sided cake! Apt you might say.

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The highlight for me wasn’t hearing the chemo pump beep for the last time, however, but watching the PICC line wiggle its way out of my arm leaving me with nothing but a hole and a lot of dry skin. Here’s the PICC removal in action (just to show you how long it actually is). I was surprised it was a) so quick and painless and b) didn’t involve me lying down on some sort of couch. It was just whipped out in front of everyone in the bay!

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How do you celebrate the unofficial, please-don’t-drink yet, end of the chemo you ask? Well, with a walk along the river and a lovely lunch at my favourite pub, The Cutty Sark. Fishcakes and lemon posset later, and we’re now hiding from the searing heat drinking tea in the living room. I may even treat myself to a little rest.

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There is just one last three-week cycle, eight more immunity-boosting injections, 12 more steroids, two more Emend tablets, 20 Domperidone pills, 21 Fluconazole tablets, 32 Co-codamol pills and ad hoc Omeprazole to go before radiotherapy. I just hope the side effects are kind – especially now I don’t have easy access to my veins.

Chemo, you have taken a pretty huge chunk out of 2014. It’s time for me to take control.

Might just have a little sleep first…

Breast cancer lesson 126: The most memorable moments in life are the ones you never planned

On By Jackie ScullyIn Baking, Chemotherapy1 Comment

Ok, so I have slightly gone off-piste with the last cycle and veered away from ginger-related baked goods. But, given tomorrow is the last day I will have to watch chemotherapy drugs being pumped into my veins, I think it calls for something a little bit special.

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Little did my wonderful mum know when she met me at the hospital yesterday, that she’d be spending the best part of Thursday rolling fondant icing to help me make sugar pills! Each one of what must be more than 450 drug-shaped pieces is representative of the pill-fuelled journey that is chemo. From Steroids and Omeprazole to Domperidone, Emend, Fluconazole, Ondansetron, Clonidine, and Co-codamol (no to mention the obvious liquid drugs being pumped in), I think my body has no idea what normal is. If, in fact, there is to be a normal once more.

All I can say is, these pills had better taste nicer than Domperidone!

I have always liked to think of cake as having a rather medicinal quality. I think this is certainly the closest I’ll get to making it look that way and putting fuel into that argument!

After four months of poisoning, the last day of chemo is a big day (both physically and psychologically). Of course, it is not the official last day of chemo (which is Friday 8 August), but rather the last poisoning. Knowing that every day after tomorrow will be one day closer to a life without heart palpitations, bone pain, nail pain, muscle pain, a lack of taste, hair loss, dizziness, headaches, sickness, nausea, fatigue, injections, pills and, of course, toxic liquid infusions, is a wonderful feeling. So exciting, in fact, I have barely slept in days!

I have learned a lot over these last few months about surviving a chemo cycle. I have Ribena at the ready for when water tastes horrendous. I have frozen smoothie ice lollies and extra strong mints for a low-calorie sugar kick when the taste buds disappear altogether. I am armed with packets of Emend and Fluconazole to avoid the sickness from cycle two and the throat infection from cycle four. I have Difflam for mouth ulcers. I have a bran-based breakfast planned to avoid the Senna. I have a rainbow of nail varnish for those blackening nails. I have my mum to help me through the ‘emptiness’ days. And, I have a huge smile, which is probably my biggest weapon! Whatever this round is prepared to throw at me, I am ready.

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I never thought I would be celebrating the end of chemo. I never thought I’d get cancer. I never thought I would cover a cake in hundreds of fondant tablets and capsules. But, I have. And I am a lot stronger – and stickier – for it.

The 18 July 2014 is not a day I will ever forget. And, I fully intend to enjoy it! Let’s hope the cake doesn’t melt before I get there!

Breast cancer lesson 125: Active treatment is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer you get to the end, the faster it goes

On By Jackie ScullyIn Radiotherapy2 Comments

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Today was a big day. One last weigh-in. One last meeting with the oncology nurse (who loved her pink heart). One last chemo blood test. One last trip to the hospital pharmacy. And, one whistle-stop tour through the world of radiotherapy with an oncologist, my mum and two work experience students.

For me, the word radiotherapy means end. Yes, I will have to take hormone therapy drug Tamoxifen for ten years. But, when I walk out of the hospital on the last day of radio, active treatment will be officially over. And, just knowing that that day is no longer a day buried far in the future, is a fantastic feeling.

Radiotherapy is radiation treatment, designed to damage the body’s cells in a specific area. In my case, there are two specific areas. One is the chest wall and the other is the area above the collarbone where more of my lymph nodes are currently hiding. The two treatments are going to be run side by side, which means only 15 days of blasting! WOOHOO!

It does feel in many ways that they are saving the best treatment for last. For starters, the PICC line is coming out on Friday, so there won’t be any drugs involved. Secondly, the list of side effects is contained to one sheet (I think the seven-page chemo consent form will be imprinted on my memory for life). The main side effects are skin reactions and tiredness, both of which I would take tomorrow if it meant I could taste, sleep and not have to watch toxic drugs travel through a tube into my veins.

There are, of course, a number of other less common side effects that can present themselves even years afterwards. These include breast swelling, chest tenderness, the creation of scar tissue, rib fracture, breathlessness and, yes, more cancer (extremely rare as you can imagine). But, the benefits (risk of recurrence reduced by two thirds) make the risks more than worthwhile.

The appointment was an interesting one, with everything explained in full for the benefit of the two work experience students (and me of course). We started by talking through the treatment, the fact I have to have a planning session with a CT scan and some tattoos (the rebel I am!), followed by a ten-day wait before treatment can start. We then tested out the radiotherapy position (basically arms in the air) and had a good look at the area. The oncologist was very complimentary about my new boob (thankfully this part of the appointment wasn’t open to the 16-year-olds!). She even thought I was looking pretty symmetrical! I’ll take that!

No course of cancer treatment would be complete without the obligatory ‘banned’ list. And, unsurprisingly, there are a few comforts on there that are about to be taken away (should be used to it by now). Here’s a quick run down:

1)     No hot water when washing and no long soaks in the bath (that’s a shame now I have learned how to blow up my inflatable bath pillow)
2)     No shower gel, bath oils or bubble bath in treatment area (lovely!)
3)     No rubbing with a towel (ok, patting it is)
4)     No talcum powder (no real loss)
5)     No shaving under the arm (there’s no hair there anyway at the moment!)
6)     No perfumed moisturiser on the area (Doublebase or E45 is recommended)
7)     No tight-fitting clothing (what will I do with all those boob tubes J)
8)     No under-wired, lacy or tight bras (surgery sorted that out long ago)
9)     No swimming (the opening of the Olympic pool so close to my house still hurts me)
10)  No sun exposure for a YEAR (probably a good thing given my tendency to go red just looking at the sun)
11)  No hot water bottles (I think I should be ok in August!)

One radiotherapy planning appointment, one CT scan, three tattoos and 15 blasts of radiotherapy stand between me and the end of active treatment (please note the distinct lack of needles or scary tubes). That is, once I have navigated a little thing called THE LAST CHEMO on Friday! Wish me luck!