breast surgery

Breast cancer lesson number 117: Turn your scars into stars

Having spent most of my 32 years trying to creatively hide my tummy from the world (I’ve worn bikinis on rare occasions and was once asked to ‘put it away’), I am finding it quite amusing that, now it has a nice long scar right across it, people are suddenly rather fascinated with my not-so-fleshy midriff. Only recently was I at an event where two ladies (interested in their surgery options) asked me to lift up my top. And, as soon as you mention relocating your belly button over drinks, you can tell people are trying to work out just what is going on around your knicker line.

So, for one post only, I have decided to put you all out of your misery and flash my still-flat-but-not-for-much-longer-thanks-to-chemo stomach. For those of you who have stumbled across this blog or would really rather not become acquainted with my tummy (I wouldn’t blame you, it’s still a bit angry), I am tactically posting a pictures of the baked goods that are currently in my stomach first, so that they show up on your feed. To distract myself from the dizzy spells and peripheral neuropathy, I have spent the morning baking (and, of course, licking the bowl, which for anyone not connected to me on Facebook, is today’s #100happydays moment). (Visit lesson 112 here to find out more about my #100happydays project.)

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And, here it is ­– one big smiley face, which will fade over time (and after I have massaged a truck load of cream into it). You can also see the two drain marks just above my trousers, the angry little belly button and the mole (to the side of the belly button) that had been hiding under my boob until the surgery moved everything down. It’s flat, it’s happy (although admittedly it is a smiley face without eyes) and it’s all me. I am proud of my tummy and I am proud of this scar. It reminds me every day when I look in the mirror that I was stronger than the cancer that tried to take my life away.

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It seems I am not the only one happy with my new look. At my plastic surgery check-up on Monday, my breast reconstruction nurse and the doctor on duty were pleased with what I like to think of as my recent body enhancements! The doctor did confirm she thought the right one was larger than the left (I think they are quite fixated on making me even) and we did have a laugh about tops that exacerbate the situation. But, with radiotherapy planned, the nipple and tuck chat is now on hold until the autumn. By this time next year, I should be fully reconstructed!

Don’t worry, I won’t be making a habit of flashing the flesh. My tummy can’t be exposed to the sun for a good year at least, so it is now going back into hibernation. And, as for my new boob? No chance! And, for any ladies out there considering DIEP surgery, I would highly recommend it. While, at times, the recovery can be tough, the results are more than worth it.

Thank you surgeons for finding a practical use for my tummy fat, thank you cake and chocolate supplying friends for making the surgery possible and thank you tummy for healing so nicely. I will try not to feed you with too much cake in future, so you retain your shape just that little bit longer.

 

Breast cancer lesson number 21: Scars are tattoos with better stories

I am proud of all of the scars life has chosen to give me (maybe not the one from burning my arm on the cooker while trying to make victoria sponge – that just hurt).

Scars tell stories. Scars signal strength. Scars remind us that life is hard, but that every time we hit a difficulty, we have the power to recover and that the memories do fade. Every scar I have makes me who I am – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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When I came out of my hip surgery with a drain mark, a seven-inch scar and 44 holes, I thought I was pretty hard. Looking down at each mark today, I think of the moment I learned to walk again (in my parents’ kitchen), the moment I took my first post-op cycle ride and the moment I stepped back into high heels (still look a bit tipsy in anything over a centimetre so this is still a rare occurrence). Little did I know that just over six years later, there would be a few more impressive scars fighting for the top spot as a marker of life’s challenges.

With my wound care appointment and my first trip back to hospital since surgery fast approaching, I thought I’d take a moment to assess the scars that are now covering my body (don’t worry, there won’t be any photographic evidence).

1)    The tummy tuck: appropriately I think, the big tummy tuck scar is a 38cm whopper in the shape of a smile. It is glued together (open for the eyes to enjoy) and is covered in a thin sticky mesh tape, which keeps it protected and attracts every bit of fluff possible. When I look at it I smile at how flat my tummy is and how many people contributed to the chocolate fund to enable me to have the surgery. I am very lucky. I believe it will look angry for 12 to 18 months and will then be neatly tucked away under my bikini line. Nice!

2)    The drain holes: two in the abdomen and two down the right side (with a few pinholes where the stitches were). Blink and you’ll miss them! When I do locate them I think, they were painless tubes attached to sports bottles and they did a good job. Thanks drains!

3)    The belly button: Now moved to its new position (quite what they did I will never know – cut it out and dig a hole to reposition it?) it is surrounded in stitches that look like threads of cotton. I think I get a trim tomorrow when I go in! When I look at it, I laugh at the fact they went to such lengths to keep it in a normal position. They think of everything.

4)    The boob: imagine a milky mound with a saucepan-shaped scar on it. Basically, the boob skin is still the same, except for a circle where they took off the nipple (the nipple area is now a flap of skin from my missing tummy – complete with light tummy hairs). There is a line extending out from the circular scar, moving towards to the right armpit. This incision helped them reach and extract all my lymph nodes, saving me from a further scar under my arm. Currently covered in little steri-strips, I am still waiting for the big big reveal. When I think of my mound, I don’t think of what I had, I think of what I have: my life. I am grateful to those surgeons who are both trained to take the cancer away and create something that means I won’t be afraid to look in the mirror for the rest of my life. Take that cancer!

In short, it’s less Frankenstein’s monster and more a new improved me.

I read a beautiful quote earlier: ‘Scars remind you where you’ve been. But they don’t have to dictate where you’re going.’ I’d like to amend it slightly: ‘Scars remind you where you’ve been and how hard you worked to get there. They don’t have to dictate where you’re going, but they can give you the strength and determination to make sure the path you do choose is a beautiful, interesting and inspiring one.’

So make today a day to be proud of all your scars. And, if you don’t have any, start living! 

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

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. 

Breast cancer lesson number sixteen: If you know what you’re in for, the road ahead seems a lot less daunting

As one of life’s planners, I know how important it is to be prepared (by which I don’t just mean making sure you have enough big knickers to see you through your hospital stay). While no one knows how you are going to respond to the treatment, or how well your body will recover after surgery, I think it’s helpful to have an idea of what might happen in hospital and what gismos you might just find strapped to you when you wake up!

So, here’s a quick peek inside my hospital diary. One small caveat before you are immersed in a world of cannulas and heart monitors. Every cancer, surgeon, care team and ward is different. This is my personal experience and you may find you get a few extra goodies (or a few less) depending on what you have, what you need and where you are. This diary is also based on having a full mastectomy, a DIEP (tummy) flap and an axillary clearance.

Day zero (probably so-called because you miss most of it due to the anaesthetic)
Highlight of day: making the recovery team laugh (even though they were probably just humouring me)

1)    Breast reconstruction surgery is big surgery. As such, you get your own theatre list (of one) and a team of about 10 people dedicated to you for the whole day. This means you will be due at the hospital around 7.30am to get prepped. It made me laugh when we arrived at the surgical admissions unit at about 6.50am only to find a queue of about 15 people already ahead of us. It’s certainly not a case of first come first served in the surgery game!

2)    Once you’re marked off the list, you’re given a little room to wait in. I was also given a urine pot (lucky me) for a quick sample. Quick change into a gown, some disposable panties, some white anti embolism stockings, dressing gown and slippers, I was ready to be visited by two nurses, one phlebotomist, a surgeon, a doctor, a researcher and an anaesthetist. One blood pressure check and a quick art lesson on my boobs and stomach later and me and my post-surgery bra were escorted to the anaesthetic room (via a hot blanket machine). It is worth noting that I didn’t see the cancer surgeon (or removal man). Hopefully I will meet him one day to thank him for saving my life.

3)    The anaesthetic room consisted of me, my lovely anaesthetist (who came to visit me in the ward afterwards and promised me some good drugs), a surgical nurse, a bed and cupboard full of drugs. The surgeon popped in to wish me luck (at which point I wished him more luck!) before I was fitted with heart monitors, an arm-holding contraption and the first cannula. The room was really cold, but after two hot blankets and some sleep-inducing drugs, I was off in my happy place and gone!

4)    I believe there was then lots of cutting, cancer removing, fat moving and sewing up. Apparently, they put you in the so-called ‘Jesus’ position for the op, so they have full access to the arms. Thank god for anaesthetic!

5)    Recovery was a row of beds and lots of monitoring. I had three cannulas, one arterial line measuring my blood pressure, a blood pressure cuff on my ankle, four drains, heart monitors, an oxygen mask, a catheter, a moving bed and, the weirdest bit, an inflated hot blanket to keep my temperature up. Interesting to note that all the needle/cannula action was on my left arm. My right arm is now off limits due to the axillary clearance, so was having a nice rest after being attacked earlier.

6)    After four hours, enough morphine to soothe a small nation (they kept turning off my PCA to give me extra shots), two small sips of water (we pretended the first one was a good red wine and the second one beer) and lots of laughter (particularly enjoyed watching one of the recovery nurses trying out a moving mattress to check it was working), I was being prepared for transfer.

7)    Five minutes with mum and dad and I was set up for a night of monitoring. Everything from my heart, blood pressure and temperature to oxygen levels, fluids and pain levels were checked at regular intervals. Sadly for the nurse looking after me, my PCA was playing up. Every time I pressed the button it started beeping. One other machine also kept beeping to tell him I wasn’t breathing. This was a little disconcerting at first, but we were laughing about it within an hour. Then came boobie testing. This consists of someone pressing the boob to check for blood flow and then holding an ultrasound monitor to the flap to wait for a pulse.

For a short day, it was a pretty long journey. Key aim: get through the night.

Day one
Highlight: Morphine, morphine and, oh yes, more morphine

1)    Day one was a dark day. While it was wonderful to lose the heart monitor, the hot blanket, the drips and the constant checks, it was a day defined by pain.

2)    I was visited by a surgeon and I was, at last, allowed some food. But, there was only one thing I wanted: drugs. I couldn’t even get out of bed.

3)    Rest of day was a bit of a blur. I felt like my tummy was ripping apart so got into a routine of: pain, tears, drugs, pain, tears, drugs (and tea), pain, tears, drugs! You get the picture!

4)    One piece of advice: don’t worry if your limbs swell up. My right arm trebled in size and a nurse suggested it could be permanent. I looked alarmed, but was later reassured it’s just post-surgery swelling. It eventually goes down – and it did!

Day two
Highlight: A shower

1)    What a difference a day makes! Following a ward round that it sound like I’d be going home tomorrow, I got up, got showered, had more morphine, got out of a gown and into a nightshirt, had mashed potato, had more morphine, saw family and friends, watched as 15 people crammed into the bay opposite and started praying, had more mash and more morphine (now morphine mash would be a novel idea).

2)    There was a lot of peeing. With the catheter out, I got up six times (with a nurse). By the sixth, I was pleading with my body to stop. The nurses laughed along, but did have morphine on tap!

3)    I went into hospital with a grannie leg (full of metal, hates the cold) and I now have a grannie stoop (bent double due to tummy tuck). Nurses said I had aged about 30 years.

4)    One thing that hasn’t featured yet? Sleep. Yep, there wasn’t a lot of that, but when you’re looking at the London Eye all lit up at night, it could be worse.

Day three
Highlight:
Less peeing, more mash

1)    Hospitals come alive on a Monday. I had seen my surgeon, my breast care nurse, a physio and a pharmacist before I’d even had a cup of tea! The surgeon was very kind, even though he insisted on shaking the hand on my bad arm twice (this was a very swollen arm with limited movement)

2)    When drains produce less than 30ml of liquid in a day, they’re out! As a result, two came out today. I obviously look friendly (or a bit gullible) as they requested a student take them out. She was brilliant though and will make a fantastic nurse.

3)    Glad to report, had lost a few years with less stooping.

Day four
Highlight: Taking the stairs

1)    When you’re helped to the toilet through the night, it is quite disconcerting to be told that on day four, you’re flying solo. Today was my equivalent of independence day, and I am delighted to say, I passed with flying colours. A wash, a walk, a flight of stairs and many toilet trips later and I started to doze off in my chair at 2pm. Yep, I am still 32 not 102!

2)    Slight blip came from the mirror moment I wasn’t expecting. Have suggested to the hospital that this is planned for others next time. The body has been savaged and, if you’re not ready to look, it can be quite scary. I am, however, delighted to think I might have had a slight augmentation factored in (although that could be the swelling).

3)    Drain number three came out. They don’t really hurt, but this one felt like it stretched the length of my abdomen, so was a like a worm inside my abdomen.

4)    I slept for four hours (did a little stooped dance round the bed).

Day five (to seven depending on speed at which you recover)
Highlight: A poo and home time!

1)    After many doses of Laxido (don’t be fooled by the orange smell, it tastes of gritty nothing), I have conquered the constipation. Was threatened with suppositories, so that may have done the trick!

2)    I passed the final drain test, so no need to carry it home. The doctor on the ward round said: “you’ve done really well”. Yay, big tick on my medical notes!

3)    Having cleaned out the chemist (bye bye morphine, but hello truck load of painkillers), said nice things on feedback forms, and signed my discharge papers, I am given permission to leave the building!

4)    One word of advice: use a wheelchair to get to the car park. I foolishly thought I would demonstrate my straighter posture to my mum and Duncan’s dad. The walk was fine. The lift was hell (felt like every jolt would rip my stomach apart).

5)    Back home and trying to get into a routine – but that’s another blog story!

Phew! That was a long six days. Am tired just thinking about it – and I’ll bet you’ll have sore eyes if you manage to get to the end of this post. 

Breast cancer lesson number eleven: There may be leeches!

Ok, so what’s the word I was least expecting to hear today at my pre-assessment clinic? Yep, you’ve got it: leeches (followed swiftly by ‘glue’, ‘girdles’ and, that old favourite, the ‘catheter’!

You could be forgiven for thinking that the introduction of leeches into the breast surgery mix is a bit random. I certainly did. The good news is, the chances of meeting them are slim. The bad news is, they tend to come in pairs (or worse threes) if they do make an appearance.

A fascinating tissue reconstruction fact for you. New bionic boobie (sounds better than tummy fat shoved up top) gets checked every 15 minutes or so for around a day after surgery to make sure it’s still alive. If it’s looking a bit sick, in come Mr and Mrs (and possibly auntie) leech to have a play and help things along. This is a party to which only the boob gets invited, but I have been reliably informed that they will be monitored closely in case they fancy going travelling.

Today was fascinating in many ways. Here are some fun facts of the day:

1)    My lovely breast care nurse mentioned that, because the tummy is tight, it is likely I will be fitted with a band or girdle to keep it all in and make sure the ‘glue’ sticks. That and big knickers! Oh, cancer you are spoiling me.

2)    I am now a research guinea pig. I am participating in a clinical trial with the exciting title of: Multifrequency Bioimpedance in the Early Detection of Lymphoedema. This basically means they will measure the volume of liquid in my arm at certain intervals over the next five years to see whether or not they can spot changes that may lead to a rather nasty arm swelling

3)    I currently have 2.5 litres of fluid in my right arm. This means nothing (yet), but I thought it sounded like a lot of liquid for a little arm.

4)    They use a giant old-fashioned called a perometer to measure your arm. You even get to hold a plastic tool that looks like a cake polisher while you are holding it up in the air (oh the glamour). Note to self: when they say sleeveless top they mean a sleeveless top. The other test lasts about a minute and involves three stickers (one on each wrist and one on the right ankle) and a few electric wires. I was intrigued, as was the nurse getting a lesson in taking the test.

5)    Today’s blood test was completely painless. I didn’t even know when the needle had gone in. Amazed, I applauded her on her incredible skill. Her tip: she used to practise by sewing socks. A skilled phlebotomist, a seamstress and a thifty lady (who also had a similar bag to me) = my kind of lady!

Aside from the leeches and the well-sewn socks, I have established that there are many positives to being on the surgeon’s slab for about a day (beyond the induced sleep):

  • I will have a flat tummy by Saturday
  • I get breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed
  • I get a compulsory week of no exercise
  • Having the lymph nodes out on the dominant arm is actually better because you are more inclined to start moving it more quickly. Less fear of ‘robot arm’
  • There is a good month before I can do any heavy lifting (I would put kettles, groceries and hoovers on that list. The physio did suggest this could be a ‘flexible’ deadline if that helped me avoid tasks for a little longer. Lovely physio, nice tip!
  • I can wash my own hair
  • I probably won’t need to use a bedpan (quiet whoop)!
  • Some pilates moves are already part of the post-op exercise plan (albeit lighter than my normal Wednesday early morning reformer class.

Only real shame is the op part. Let’s not dwell on the seromas, nausea, wound infection or, best yet, dead boob!

Tune in for the post-surgery hospital ‘I-wish-I’d-known-that-before-I-went-in’ checklist!

Breast cancer lesson number ten: There is such a thing as a cancer survival kit

Aristotle was a clever chap. In one of his works On The Heavens, he said: ‘it is not once nor twice but times without number that the same ideas make their appearance in the world’. Basically, if you think you’re being original, think again.

Every day, someone is taken into a room and told they have cancer. Every day, someone starts out on a journey, looking for their own ways to find strength and keep fighting. Every day, someone learns a practical tip that is new to them, but that has been discovered thousands of times before by other inspiring people determined to tackle this frightening disease head on. So, today, I want to share a few of the tips that have already made an appearance in my cancer story, so that you – or someone close to you – can get a bit of a headstart.

If every cancer sufferer were able to pass on just one tip to those newly diagnosed, there would be a few more smiles in those hospital waiting rooms. That’s my aim. I am a great believer of strength in numbers. Together, we may not be able to stop cancer affecting our loved ones (I think the experts are doing an amazing job of that). But, by sharing our knowledge, we can make the journey a much more comfortable and bearable one. Happiness is infectious, so help me start a pandemic!

The day after diagnosis day, I made a decision. I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want sympathy (although hugs are lovely). I wanted tips – and lots of them. Since then, I have been inundated with thoughtful messages. In just a few weeks, I have been inducted in the benefits of acupuncture, emotional freedom therapy, life coaching, mindfulness and massage. I have accepted every offer of help (NLP next week) and I feel great – in fact better than ever.

So, here’s the first installment of my cancer survival kit. One small caveat. This is not a substitute for a patient checklist and you may disagree with some of the below. This is me, just trying to be helpful and pass on the kindness of others. Don’t worry, I’m not on commission!

Work out what sends you to sleep now: ok, so this isn’t rocket science, but after having had an irrational fear of dying for the first five days after being diagnosed, I realised quite quickly that, without sleep, I was pretty useless. So here’s a quick tip for you. There are loads of apps and CDs out there to help you sleep, so start experimenting. I have already tried Patrick Browning’s apps as well as a great disk from a psychotherapist friend. I love lying in bed, focusing on different parts of my body, tensing them and releasing them (it feels like they are sinking into the mattress when you let go). Even if you can sleep now, it pays to be prepared.

Talking pillows are great: so listening in bed with headphones on is not great. I went to bed the other day, drifted off and was then jolted awake by a loud piece of music. That’s where a Sound Asleep pillow comes in. It’s a speaker, it’s a pillow, it’s a revelation. In short, it means I can drift off to sound of peaceful chants without Duncan hearing a word. A thoughtful gift from a thoughtful friend.

Protect that boob: I was amazed when a friend at work presented me with what looked like an oversized jelly bean. It was, in fact, a Tender Cush pillow to help me feel comfortable at night and sleep on my side post surgery. Of course, I haven’t put it to work yet, but it is so soft and should be pretty handy.

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Post-surgery bras aren’t just for those with a breast prosthesis: best get a specific recommendation from your breast care nurse, but I wouldn’t have known to ask if some kind soul hadn’t pointed it out. I went to Royce (shop online as the experience of shopping for post-surgery bras on the high street is quite disheartening) for mine and was quite taken with one that says it has healing fibres. I have heard that underwires may be out forever for those who have had reconstruction. Is that true? Can anyone confirm or deny? And remember no VAT to be paid on these beauties!

Buy big knickers: a DIEP surgery recommendation (as discussed in lesson x). They’re really big, they hold it all in. Let’s move on… No photographic evidence required.

Don’t forget to accessorise: I must confess, a bag for carrying around one of my four drains didn’t even feature in my initial hospital kit list. It was only when a friend asked me about them – and I then saw a lady in the hospital carrying one – that it got a look in. Imagine my delight when two handmade bags arrived through the post yesterday from a wonderful friend. The only trouble is, they are far too beautiful to waste on a drain!

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Lip balm and wet wipes are an in-patient’s best friend‏: standard stuff, worth remembering. Bit like preparing for a camping trip – just a lot less fun. No scent, no sting!

Power up: one worry I have is keeping my mobile phone charged when going in hospital. With my right arm compromised due to the lymph node clearance, I think turning around to plug in a charger might be a bit too energetic. Fear not, there are some pretty great external power packs on the market that will charge your phone many times over from the comfort of your bed. Mine has so many different phone and device connectors I reckon I could power the ward!

Reevaluate your wardrobe: apart from my coat and the odd shirt, most of my clothes involve some sort of body contortion when dressing. That’s why I’ve spent the last few weeks stocking up on new navy and pink items to help me feel nice – and not naked. If it zips up or buttons down, it’s in. I have also replenished my stocks of tracksuit bottoms, given most of mine are covered in paint from decorating last year. Not sure the nurses would approve of those.

Don’t be afraid to ask: whether it’s from a breast nurse, amazing charities, such as Breast Cancer Care and Macmillan or fellow patients, ask away! There are superb booklets on offer covering everything from fertility and chemotherapy to specific types of drugs. Macmillan also produce a great Feel More Like You booklet. You can order them online, so keep donating, so they can keep producing and posting them!

Ok, so this is not an exhaustive list, but it’s a start (there are plenty more, but don’t want to blow your mind too early on). Plus, I didn’t think it would be right to talk about health foods, when I am currently feeding my new boob (AKA the tummy) a lot of unhealthy things. Read it, share it and please add tips here if you want to pass on your great advice.

This my little way of giving back, before I get started. Thank you to all those who have contributed to the cancer survival kit so far. Let’s hope it keeps on growing.

Every cancer journey is different. But, chances are, someone out there has a tip to help reassure you it’s all going to be ok.