Tag: chemotherapy

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 28: Don’t forget your toothbrush… or the dentist

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy1 Comment

There’s one thing I fear more than giant needles, mean cancer-fighting drugs and surgeons with sharp scalpels ­– and that’s the dentist. Don’t ask me why. I have never had invasive procedures, don’t have a clue what real toothache feels like and I have been blessed with lovely dentists (my childhood dentist even had a photo of the town on his ceiling to keep us patients entertained). I know it’s irrational. I know it sounds truly bonkers when I seem to be smiling in the face of everything else. But, there is something about the prospect of sitting in a dentist’s chair that makes me feel a little bit sick! Maybe it’s the fact that when someone has their hand in your mouth, no one can hear you scream.

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I have to admit, however, that following today’s early-morning appointment, I may have to reconsider my view of the dentist. I still hate the chair (more so today because I had to raise my knees to stop it pulling on my tummy ) and the fact every time I go to swallow I fear the dentist’s tools will end up in my cheek! But, I have now discovered a word that makes dentists roll up their sleeves and forget the flossing lecture. The word? CHEMO!

I felt sorry for my dentist this morning. No one wants an 8.30am patient with more problems than can fit on a medical history form (they should make the boxes just a little bit bigger though. Am not sure having room just to put the words ‘breast cancer’ is enough). A few minutes racing through new boobs, fertility, chemo and radio and my check-up turned from a quick blast of dentist speak: ‘one, two, upper part erupted etc’ into a 20-minute ‘let’s-fill-and-seal-what-we-can-to-stop-the-chemo-getting-your-teeth’ session. I reckon my teeth are now so well reinforced, I could make a stick of rock feel like a stick of celery.

I would never have summoned up the courage to go to the dentist two weeks after the introduction of new boobie, had it not already been penned in the diary (I don’t like crossing things out). But, having had such a pleasant and supportive experience, I’m already booked in to go back in June (with the hygienist in a few weeks time).

Humbled again by the kindness of strangers, it’s amazing just how many people there are willing you on and arming you with the tools to stay strong.

Read booklets about chemo (which my breast care nurse did warn me is like reading the list of side effects in a packet of paracetamol) and they talk about the possibility of getting a sore mouth, dry mouth, ulcers, tooth decay, infection, bleeding gums, oral thrush and taste changes! Nice. They also advise people to use a soft toothbrush, brush after every meal, use an alcohol-free mouthwash (which Listerine in photo isn’t by the way), avoid spicy and acidic food (if mouth sore), take regular sips of water and chew sugar-free gum.

Hopefully, with a combination of toothpaste treats and dental checks, I’ll get through this next phase with happy – if not pearly white – teeth.

So, today is the day I say goodbye to ‘the fear’ and hello to mouthwash! My teeth are ready for battle – now I just need to work out what else needs a bit of reinforcement!