Tag: blood

Breast cancer lesson number 34: Take one day at a time

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Fertility7 Comments

Hermione Granger (of Harry Potter fame) has something every single cancer patient needs. By this, I don’t mean books (although you get given quite a few), a wand (wouldn’t say no, though) or intellect (although it does come in handy when tackling those cancer terms). By this, I mean a time turner. Basically, if you ever need to be in two places at any time, you can.

In the absence of said magical device, this morning was a little bit challenging. My task, on the face of it, was simple. Visit the Assisted Conception Unit at 9am for a blood test with an anaesthetist and then head over to oncology for a 9.45am with a cancer doctor. You can usually get quite a lot done in 45 minutes. Not so in hospital. Blink and you can miss a whole day in cancer land.

Armed with a cup of tea (second of the day as first was one designed to warm the veins), five layers and a scarf, I was toasty and ready for my blood test at 8.50am. Little did I know, it would be 11.20am when they actually managed to squeeze me in to take it (by which time I had changed departments, undressed for the oncologist, redressed, and pretty much lost the benefit of all the tea drinking). The good news? He got the blood. The bad news? It wasn’t easy. The good news? At least I can handle the pain even with bad veins. The bad news? Even with a high pain threshold, it still wasn’t very nice.

Why is it that time always seems to disappear quickly when you need it the most? Running between departments certainly doesn’t do much for the stress levels, so first lesson of the day is: one day, one appointment. Any more and you quickly develop an unhealthy obsession with clocks (which all conveniently like to tell different times). In fact, I think my Blackberry likes to tease me by moving forward a minute a day just to play with my mind.

Albeit in the wrong order, I did get to both appointments and, am now, one step closer to the end of my treatment. Abraham Lincoln once said: ‘the best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.’ All I can say is, thank goodness for that. Today, I got one long look into the future. Eighteen weeks of chemotherapy followed by five weeks of radiotherapy. My reward for passing this endurance challenge? Five years of anti-oestrogen drug Tamoxifen. If that future came all at once in a giant high-dose injection, I think my body would probably start walking… with my mind not far behind. Put it this way, left arm certainly wouldn’t produce a vein for that one.

Having had a whistle-stop tour through the world of cancer drugs and its wonderful list of side effects (starting with: ‘you will lose your hair’), it didn’t take long for the subject of time to rear its head once more. Because the cancer they extracted so neatly from my body was high stage and aggressive, they want to get going… as soon as possible. For someone still strapped into a body corset for the next three weeks and still currently injecting herself with fertility drugs in any part of her body that doesn’t feel tender (there aren’t many of those left), the prospect of swapping one set of drugs for another lot (while also still trying to laugh and cough without my tummy hurting) is not particularly inviting. Guys, this is really hard – and don’t let anyone tell you any different.

It looks like my next two weeks will be a delicate juggling act of blood tests (both fertility and cancer), appointments (scans, tests and assessments), a quick anaesthetic to collect some eggs and possibly the insertion of a PICC line. Fertility and cancer are fighting for my attention and they both need time. Trouble is, by the looks of both schedules (and the current uncertainty surrounding egg harvesting day) neither really wants to wait in line. Far from avoiding two appointments in one day, I’ll be hard pushed to avoid two at the same time. If life can’t magic up a time turner (or just a few extra hours in each day), I will just have to get used to the fact that the day I wake up expecting might not be the day I end up experiencing. 

The future does looks brighter with a game plan, and I just have to accept that, for the foreseeable future, my time is not my own. All I can do is take one day at a time. If I can get through this unscathed, I will give myself the best chance of survival. Then, I might just have time on my hands – or on my side – once more. 

Breast cancer lesson number 20: It’s amazing what cancer will take away when you least expect it

On By Jackie ScullyIn Reflections on cancer2 Comments

Loss and cancer are like butter and toast – they belong together. So far, I have focused a lot on the positives surrounding this frightening illness (time with friends, happy memories, mashed potato and the excuse to stay in fluffy slippers all day long). The trouble is, cancer likes to give with one hand while taking something away with the other.

By loss, I don’t mean death (I haven’t gone all philosophical on you). By loss, I mean the things cancer (or its treatment) won’t let you do any more – be that temporary or permanent. We all hear about temporary hair loss with chemo (that might turn into permanent hair loss on the legs if I’m lucky). But there are other losses lurking, waiting to crop up and catch you off guard. The only loss I was actually hoping for was a bit of weight loss, so imagine my surprise when the breast care nurse said I should prepare myself to gain up to three stone while on chemo! I give you all full permission to march me to a treadmill is that happens!  

Temporary loss is easy to handle. The loss of sensation in right my armpit doesn’t trouble me and the fact walking to the station behind my house is like running a marathon is just a small hurdle I will overcome (did one giant circuit today so am gaining strength every day). And, you could argue, not being allowed to lift anything heavier than a kettle for six weeks is a bonus!

Permanent loss is a little different. I can’t say I’ve shed any tears over the fact I can no longer use a razor to shave my right armpit (for fear of lymphoedema) or the fact I won’t be able to hold my arm out straight with a weight in it (was never very good at my Bums, Tums and Thighs class anyway). I am even learning to love my new boobie (complete with a bit of my tummy skin as well as fat) after the old cancerous one was taken away (and I will get a new nipple tattooed on eventually). No, the loss that hit me, was finding out nobody wants me to donate my blood anymore.

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This wasn’t the first loss that came to mind when I thought about life after cancer. After having received two texts and a letter about a possible donation appointment last week, however, I thought I’d give them a call to explain. I did a bit of research, which said it looked like things could return to normal after a good five years (maybe more for the hormone therapy). I called up thinking I was going to save them a bit in postage costs. I didn’t worry when the lady said she’d just have to: ‘go and check’. So, I wasn’t expecting her to say: ‘I’m sorry, you won’t be able to give blood again.’

Now, don’t get me wrong. I won’t miss the little blood bus, the pricked finger and the cotton wool ball you get at the end to cover the hole (I thought a packet of biscuits, a bag of prawn cocktail crisps and a glass of squash in exchange for a pint of blood was a fair trade though). It’s the fact that when you want to do your bit to give something back and the cancer says no, it’s quite hard to take. Loss is easier to accept, when you know what to expect. What else will cancer want to take from me before my treatment is over?

I decided early on in this process, however, that cancer won’t win! So, while I may not be able to give blood any more, I can act as a blood ambassador, encouraging all of those reading this who can donate blood to donate blood. It may just be one pint. You may get the bug and sign up for life (you do get a credit card sized membership card is that sways you). It doesn’t hurt much (unless you hate needles, go white at the sight of blood and find the whole thing a little bit weird – in which case I would say back away from the blood bus). It takes half an hour and it can change someone else’s world! In my mind, that makes it a very good use of half an hour.

I appreciate that it won’t feel as positive being the back seat passenger while you hand over your veins to a nurse. But, I want to turn this loss into somebody else’s gain.

Thanks all for giving me the strength to fight in the face of loss. For every thing cancer takes I will smile twice as hard. Maybe one day, it will get the picture and stop taking things away.