Tag: hospital

Breast cancer lesson number twelve: The day before surgery does arrive… eventually!

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery6 Comments

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Five weeks, eleven appointments, five scans, thirteen needles, two biopsies, one arm measurement, one flu jab, seven hormone pills, one ‘dry’ January, two emotional freedom therapy sessions, one NLP masterclass, 11 blog posts, one trip to see Darius (sing in a musical not in a concert) and a lot of chocolate later, and it’s here at last! I am not sure I believe it.

So, what does the day before surgery really feel like? It feels real. As anyone who has seen me over the last two months will know, I look well, I sound well, I eat well – a bit too well. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt quite this well. That’s why trying to convince myself there’s a serious illness lurking inside me, is no easy task. Usually someone anaesthetises you to get rid of the pain – not knocks you out to bring it on!

In my mind, I am going into hospital well to come out unwell. In truth, I am going in with a life-threatening disease and coming out with my life. I should be celebrating. After all, I get a tummy tuck thrown in, a brand new body part and permission to wear big knickers and sleep for a whole day (inducing sleep will be much-needed after all those sleepless nights). I’ve had worse Fridays!  

My inbox is empty for the first time in years, my blackberry is no longer flashing constantly and my to-do list is on hold. If it weren’t for this little thing called surgery, life would be pretty special. 

Ask me what I am worried about and you won’t hear the words pain, needles, tubes, drains or PCA machines (quite looking forward to being reunited with that temporarily). The fact I can visualise everything from the drip to the catheter makes it all feel a little less menacing. What haunts my nights and occupies my days, however, is the fact that when I wake up tomorrow, I will never be the same again. I can’t prepare for how I am going to feel and, for someone who prides herself in being prepared (I would even love to make a spreadsheet for my weekly food shop if I had the time), that’s a bitter pill to swallow. I am sure bionic booby and I will get on – I am rather fond of my seven-inch scar and 44 holes from my hip surgery. But, ask me what I fear and I’ll tell you: it’s the moment I wake up tomorrow and look down.

Up until now, the cancer diagnosis (strange as it may sound) has been life-enhancing. I have taken what positives I can from the situation and it has put my life (and my constant need to always be on the go) into sharp focus. I have seen more friends and family. I have laughed more than I ever thought possible. I have taken time for myself. I have read a book on a Saturday (although really need to finish Bridget now as the book is so big to carry around). I have cut my hair short. I have experienced criminal behaviour. I have restarted old conversations. I have cried tears of joy. I have seen the beauty behind life’s clouds. I have opened the door to bad weather and danced in the rain. It may be the day before surgery but I am smiling at the fact I am here on a Thursday in February eating chocolates with my parents (can’t remember the last time I saw them in February). I can honestly say that there is very little (if any) genuine sadness behind my smiles. For that, I feel like the luckiest unlucky person in the world. I have been selected for a life and body overhaul – and I am determined to embrace it with open arms.

All I hope is that when I look down at those scars (which will fade with time, massage and a bit of love), I am reminded not of the surgery nor the cancer that was once eating away at me, but of the fact every day can be bright, brilliant and beautiful and make you happy to feel alive. It takes work. It takes strength to escape the daily routine of life when there is no life-threatening reason to do so. But, if ever there was a time to channel that inner workaholic for myself, it is now – and for the rest of my life. Up until now, I have been convinced this disease will change me for the better. Only tomorrow, will I start to find out.

On a more important note, I hope the NHS mash potato is as delicious as it was (under the influence of morphine) six years ago. If it is, I really have nothing to worry about.

I am ready to start out on the road to recovery. First stop, kick this cancer right out of my body. Let battle commence!

Breast cancer lesson number eleven: There may be leeches!

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery, Diagnosis and treatment planningLeave a comment

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

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery3 Comments

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.

Breast cancer lesson number nine: Some tears are worth crying

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery, Kindness5 Comments

I’m one of life’s criers. I shed tears at a screening of Cool Runnings. I well up on hearing the heartfelt stories on Surprise Surprise and X Factor (yes, I do realise I have admitted this publically!). Even reading sentimental verses on birthday cards in shops is enough to set me off. In short, leaving the house without a packet of tissues is a daring act.

For a sensitive soul who wears her heart very much on her sleeve, I thought a cancer diagnosis would be my undoing (and shares in Kleenex, my pension pot). But, I must confess, beyond the odd epic wailing sessions (the boardroom at work being a particular highlight on day 4), I have shed very few tears about the unfair situation I now find myself in.  

In fact, most of my tears are due to the fact I have been truly touched and inspired by random acts of kindness, thoughtful gestures and supportive messages. These are tears worth crying in my book.

Read the news headlines, and you could be forgiven for thinking that the world is a pretty dark place, scarred by death, disaster and destruction. Scratch the surface, however, and you will discover that behind every sad story lies real beauty and tales of love that will move even the strongest person to tears. The truth is, the world is full of wonderful people – you just need to know where to look.

These wonderful people may not stop the presses, but there are so many reasons (too many for an entire blog, let alone one post) why they should. In my life right now, they are my front page and my headlines. They are the soundtrack to each day, filling up my heart and my Blackberry with the most humbling words and gestures.

Kindness takes many forms. It’s a cup of tea from a busy nurse. It’s a knowing smile from a stranger across a waiting room. It’s a thoughtful note left on my desk. It’s a touching email from someone I once helped. It’s reconnecting with an old friend. It’s a tip about wigs from a client. It’s a colleague who prints out a diagram demonstrating how a plane stays in the air (see lesson number four to see what I mean). It’s a plant with kind wishes from New Zealand. It’s a sleep CD. It’s a complete cancer care kit from teams at work – everything from an inflatable bath pillow to an overnight bag. It’s an offer of help. It’s a chemo care box from my kind soul, complete with words of encouragement. It’s cake and tea in plastic cups at Sketch (plus a pretty exciting excursion to the toilets). It’s a four and a half hour bus ride for a hospital appointment. It’s ice cream sundaes and smiles. It’s a coaster, roses, books and cookie cutters. It’s a ‘like’ and a ‘follow’ on social media. It’s an impromptu blood test (sorry Duncan). It’s a knitted teddy. It’s a knock on the door on a Saturday morning. It’s curry, cuticle cream and good chat. It’s research completed by a friend. It’s handmade bags for carrying my drains. It’s wine at lunch time. It’s chocolate and homemade treats to fatten me up. It’s a charity run – or two. It’s a never-ending list of kind acts that makes me feel happy to be alive – and ready to fight.

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Sorry cancer, in the face of such kindness and generosity, you don’t stand a chance. There are many memories from this phase that I hope will fade. There are others I will want to cling to forever – and take forward with me.

I am not sure I will ever be able to thank you all for the kindness you have shown me so far – and I haven’t even been anaesthetised yet! But, I am determined to focus on getting better, so I can spend the rest of my life trying.

So, this is my shout out to all the nice people in the world. If you’re reading this, that includes you. Thank you for being part of this chapter and for making me smile (when I am not crying about how amazing you are). You know who you are…

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Breast cancer lesson number eight: Fashion has its place, just not in the hospital

On By Jackie ScullyIn Brighter Life List, Diagnosis and treatment planning, Reflections on cancer1 Comment

Dress with confidence and you will feel good. It’s a lesson I learned with my hip surgery, having spent months in black joggers and oversized jumpers. I didn’t want to look in the mirror, not because I didn’t like myself, but because the picture never changed. Not this time!

When I started this process, I promised myself I would do everything in my power to stay true to myself. That means bright pink tops, navy dresses, pink belts and matching ballet pumps. For those of you who know me well, you’ll know I am not the least bit vain – I painted my toes for the first time ever last year and it took me years to realise that green cords and a long brown jumper are not going to get you anywhere in publishing! I only decided to match my shoes with my clothes in 2009 (maybe I have said too much)!

When it comes to fashion – by which I mean dressing up not being on trend – however, it seems cancer has other ideas. Take this morning, for example. I selected a pretty navy lace top (a birthday present from my parents) for a fertility clinic appointment, so convinced was I that I would remain fully clothed throughout. Twenty minutes in and I was wrestling to remove my top so that the nurse could take more blood. Trust me, bending over while trying to get a top over your head when you can’t reach the button at the back, is not a good look. I resembled a magician trying to escape from a straightjacket – a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by the nurse who thought my determination to get it off unaided was hilarious. I am glad to say the top survived – but it was a close call.

The sad thing is, it seems one wardrobe malfunction is but the tip of the iceberg. Then there are the knickers. Recommended post-op knickers for those who are having the rather glamorous tummy tuck (or DIEP flap to be scientific) are big. And, by big, I mean HUGE! Bridget Jones would be proud. I was hoping my artificially flat stomach would stay in on its own, without the extra support!

Only piece of good news is that I can’t wear them when the two drains sticking out my stomach are still in place.

Let’s not forget the bras! As I am opting for immediate reconstruction, I must confess, I didn’t think I’d need a special bra. How wrong was I! While I admire the care and science that goes into creating post-surgery bras for women, I have to say, my heart sank when I went to a department store on Oxford Street yesterday to pick up a couple. For starters, you need to go up a back size because of the swelling – and no woman wants to go up a size in anything other than cup size. Visiting a lingerie department for a post-surgery bra is like going to a sweet shop and coming out with an empty paper bag. You feel special for all the wrong reasons and you generally don’t get lace or ribbon or silky bits. They also don’t come in navy or pink, which, as explained above, is just not part of the Scully colour palette.

The lesson here is, don’t go to the high street – shop online. From the sofa, it is easier to admire the craft and healing fibres without feeling like you’re missing out.  You are even exempt from paying VAT, which is a bonus (just make sure you call customer services to claim back if the option to remove VAT is not available).  I also have brand recommendations if you’d like them, courtesy of my lovely breast reconstruction nurse.

One interesting discovery in this rather unfashionable episode, was that around 80% of women are wearing the wrong bra size. Having discovered this fact, I promptly dug out the tape measure (useful bra fitting guide link should you wish to follow suit). I have been a 34B for as long as I can remember (even though my dress and top sizes have altered). Thankfully, I passed the test and have saved myself from the shame of having to admit to hospital staff that I had over inflated my assets.

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I am pleased to report, however, it’s not all small boobs and big knickers. Determined as I am to feel myself in hospital (after the morphine has subsided), I have splashed out on lovely nightshirts (not my first choice in nightwear, but if you ever need a button down shirt for easy access, I have some good tips), a soft dressing gown and fluffy slippers. I now also have a rather stylish selection of zip-up sweatshirts, which I think will be getting a bit too much wear post-surgery.

Cancer, you can have my right breast, but you won’t take my style – what little I have of it. I plan to dress to impress, even if it’s only for the lovely ward staff!

Breast cancer lesson number six: If Dr Google really had the answers, we’d all be camping out at A&E on a regular basis

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery, Chemotherapy, Diagnosis and treatment planning, Reflections on cancerLeave a comment

Dr Google should be struck off! Far from reassuring us with his wit and his wisdom, one session on the computer is enough to make us run a mile – preferably in the direction of a general anaesthetic! (Please note, I have nothing against Google the colourful brand and the usefulness of its search functionality, just the medical company it keeps.)

In the fight against cancer, however, it doesn’t take long to learn that knowledge is power. And I’m a big fan of power. I walked into the hospital on diagnosis day thinking about my latest publishing deadlines and whether or not I had enough chorizo left to make a risotto for dinner. I came out armed with a small forest worth of paperwork and the determination to read and understand every word.

As far as I am concerned, cancer is just another client – albeit a rather impatient and demanding one that doesn’t seem to like my scheduling! It has its very own notebook, to-do list and meetings calendar. It also has its own agenda – which currently doesn’t quite match mine!

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So, having discharged myself from Dr Google’s rather unsteady hands, I took it upon myself to plough through more than 400 pages on the subject in just one day (it was a particularly fun day!) I am at last learning the language of breast cancer – and fertility for that matter. From lobules to lymph nodes and stages to systemic treatments, my brain is now a giant glossary of specialist terms that sound like they belong in a science fiction movie. I am also comfortable talking openly about boobs (hence the name of this blog), which has been a little alarming for the men in my life. 

Knowing that you feel well, but also knowing that there is something inside you trying to take your life away, is a hard thing to process. For the first few days after my diagnosis, I found it so hard to sleep. As irrational as it may sound, I thought that if I shut my eyes and let my body take charge, the cancer would take me. That’s why I quickly realised, it is so important to stick to what you know and what makes you feel like you are in control. For me, that’s hard work – and lots of it.

If you’re as interested as me about the little battle going on inside my angry right breast, here are the facts (as I currently know them). I must add here that two weeks does not a cancer surgeon make. I have a degree in English, not medicine, and this is my take on the information provided to me.

The Scully guide to Stage 2, invasive lobular carcinoma

1)   It wants to make friends: invasive (rather than ‘in situ’ or non-invasive cancer) means it has the ability to spread. It has already teamed up with the lymph nodes under my arm, so they’ve all got to come out on surgery day. I can assure you this is one invasion that won’t make the history books.

2)   It all started in the dairy: the lobular bit in the name means that cells started to divide and grow abnormally in my milk-producing glands or lobules (rather than my ducts – tubes that carry milk to the nipple). 

3)   It knows the score: whether you like it or not, your cancer gets a grade (and trust me, this is not the time to be top of the class!). The scoring system used grades the cancer (from 1 to 4) by looking at the size of the tumour, whether the lymph nodes are affected and whether there is any spread to other body parts. I have a tumour that is around 40mm (there are two other suspicious areas and I get the biopsy results tomorrow) and there is evidence of cancer in my lymph nodes. That puts me at stage 2. I’ll take that thanks.

4)   Oestrogen is keeping the cancer well fed: this is actually one of the hardest parts of the diagnosis to take in many ways. It feels like my own femininity is leading the charge. The only good thing is that there are more hormone drugs available to join my side of the battle.

There will always be more to learn but, for now, I think I know my enemy. Cancer, it’s time for you to be afraid, not me! 

Breast cancer lesson number three: Good things do not always come in small packages!

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery, Chemotherapy, Diagnosis and treatment planning, Reflections on cancer8 Comments

As a pint-sized person, I have always been an advocate of the little things in life – Cadbury’s Heroes being a particularly good example (why would you eat a full-sized chocolate bar again?!). My breasts were no exception – until now!

It pains me to say it, but small is not always beautiful. In fact, in breast cancer land, small is pretty annoying.

My world view was crushed on what I truly believe to be the weirdest and most surreal day of my entire life. Thankfully, I wasn’t alone this time – although I think my amazing mum (hello mum!) could have been forgiven for wanting to go and lie down in darkened room about half way through. Massive credit to her for laughing along with me throughout – even without lunch.

It was supposed to be one 10am meeting with a surgeon and a breast nurse to discuss the MRI results and plan what I thought would be a wide local excision or lumpectomy (in other words, chop it out, move on to chemo). I thought I’d be back at work within the hour.

Here’s what happened:

1)   Surgeon (who is hilariously funny and witty for a surgeon) explains that the tumour is more like 40mm than 28mm and there are two other suspicious areas that need investigating (just to qualify, this part was not funny or witty). Still smiling though!

2)   Surgeon examines me – and brings mum in too for a quick feel – and confirms that my breast is just too small to save (thanks nature). Bit scared and annoyed with nature!

3)   Surgeon explains the two ‘reconstruction’ routes, one of which involves taking out my tummy tissue to give me a new mound. Has a feel of my tummy and thinks they might just be able to use it. Laughing now at fact tummy is being squeezed!

4)   Surgeon refers for second biopsy to investigate findings and my kind breast care nurse loads me up with breast reconstruction literature. Still smiling… just!

5)   Care staff at biopsy number two turn out to be very entertaining and lovely. Smiling lots to block out fact my boob is yet again being explored – trying not to laugh otherwise might disturb procedure.

6)   Lovely breast care nurse points us in direction of secret staff bus to whizz us to another hospital. Mum and I laugh while trying to look like serious hospital staff.

7)   Meet nurse quickly and get weighed! Best weight in three years (yay for dry January and losing my Christmas podge). Feeling pretty smug!

8)   Meet next nurse who makes us tea and explains that the Dutch only put milk in their children’s tea. Smiling at having discovered something new!

9)   Meet plastic surgeon, three nurses and a doctor who explain tummy procedure and give me a quick squeeze. Check leg and bum and confirm just too tight (oh yes!). Feeling pretty smug again at weight loss.

10)  Plastic surgeon thinks tummy might have enough fat to go ahead with procedure, but needs to do a CT scan to check. Feeling less smug and starting to regret losing Christmas weight. Maybe need to make a batch of mince pies!

11)  Surgeon refers me to pre op assessment (why not, while I’m here)!

12)  Behind door number one, nurse one takes blood pressure. It’s high (I would say this wasn’t surprising)! Second time round, I pass and move on to MRSA testing. Smiling due to the fact I like passing tests!

13)  Behind door number two, nurse two (who told us a lovely story about buying herself a dressing gown for Christmas and wrapping it up under the tree because she’d always wanted one and never got one) talks me through op day. Smiling lots at having met a friendly lady who would have otherwise remained a stranger!

14)  Behind door number three, nurse three takes blood. Uneventful. Smiling at fact needle went in vein and was uneventful!

15)  Op date confirmed: 21 February. Phew! Bit tired of smiling now.

So three waiting rooms, two surgeons, 15 care staff, six appointment rooms and six and a half HOURS later, and my mum and I are hugging and laughing at the tube station as we say goodbye.

While neither the day nor the results were what I was expecting when I woke up that morning, I was a) humbled and inspired by the amazing hospital staff and the way they fast-tracked me and b) happy to have spent the day experiencing and laughing through it all with my mum. Every cloud…

Tune in on Monday to find out if I passed the ‘fat’ test…

Breast cancer lesson number two: No matter how tough it gets, there is no excuse for criminal behaviour

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery, Diagnosis and treatment planning, Reflections on cancer5 Comments

Ok, so ‘criminal behaviour’ might be a bit strong, but absentmindedly walking out of a Camden café without paying for a cup of tea before the MRI scan is not my usual style! (Having said that, being presented with tea in a cafetiere is enough to send anyone into shock!)

The MRI scan is not something I thought would ever make a blog post. While clever in determining the size and scope of the cancer (the ultrasound suggested it was an ill-defined highly suspicious mass measuring 28mm), strong magnetic fields and radio waves are not exactly the stuff of headline news. For anyone who has had one, lying still as you head into a long tube with earphones on is a pretty simple procedure – if you’re not me that is!

My history with the ‘simple’ procedure is chequered to say the least. This has nothing to do with my ability to lie still, but the injection part, where they put contrast dye into the body. I was kind enough to let a student practice on my hip back in 2006. This was a decision I immediately regretted when they injected the wrong part of my leg with the dye and I had to wait another three months for them to try again.

Convinced that lightning wouldn’t strike twice, I turned up after a client meeting (alone again, but will say nothing about my inability to learn from ‘lesson number one’) and was expecting to be in and out in no time. I was initially amused by the fact no one (not me, a GP, a consultant nor the radiographer) could work out the true ‘day one’ of my ‘cycle’ (and still can’t for that matter). I was also amused by the fact the man before me had the deepest combat trouser pockets I had ever seen and spent at least five minutes emptying them of coins and other bits of metal.

The amusement started to subside, however, when I was faced with my old friend Mr cannula! I have great veins, a high pain threshold and haven’t a clue what fainting feels like, so was still smiling when the first one went in – until it wouldn’t flush.

I was laughing and describing my engagement ring to the surrounding party of nurses when the second one went in. All looked good and I lay face down on the rather odd breast scanner bed (one nurse joked that you could tell it had been invented by a man as it looks more like a torture device than a bed).

I now know why they give you one of those buzzers to press in case of problems. As soon as the contrast dye went in, my left arm really started to hurt. I was soon pressing the ‘I want to get out of here’ button like it was going out of fashion. I was initially comforted for being brave until they realised they were filling my arm (rather than my veins) with the stuff.

I have always wanted to know what I’d look like with bodybuilder arms. Now I know – and it wasn’t pretty. Determined to see it through, however, we tried to get two more cannulas into me. On the fourth attempt in a vein on my wrist, it worked! Thanks have to go to the amazingly talented and patient nurses and radiographers who worked so hard to complete the procedure, even when my body didn’t want to play ball. 

There’s one form you certainly don’t want to see after an MRI: Patient advice in the event of extravasation. Sounds rather exciting, but it just means your arm is full of dye (and a bit larger than normal). I wish now I had taken a picture (photos will start soon when I am up to date). Let’s just say, it’s amazing how much work can be achieved with your arm in the air! Thankfully, my oversized bingo wing started to go down after a few hours of massage so no trip to A&E was required.

For those of you who are now worried that my moral compass is broken, do not despair. Having identified my crime in the hospital waiting room, I immediately texted my wonderful colleague Laura, who contacted the café. While I don’t think she will ever thank me for the conversation that followed (and the ridicule), she did confirm that the true cost of the tea was about 5p and the café could cope. Starting to think it would have been a bigger crime if I had paid, given the mark up!