Tag: Hospitals

Breast cancer lesson number thirteen: Time is a great healer… and morphine helps too

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery5 Comments

So, Friday was an interesting day. It started in the darkness of the early hours with a short train ride and a relaxing stroll along the Thames. It finished in the darkness of the night with a bucket load of morphine, a dedicated nurse, a giant monitoring chart and a view of the river (along with the London Eye). It started out with the cancer trying to take charge. It finished up with an army of amazing doctors and nurses (ten in theatre alone) all determined to make sure the cancer didn’t stand as chance.

I am happy to report, there is life after surgery. When it comes to life in hospital, however, the day asleep on the slab was the easy part. I won’t sugar coat it. The last few days have been hard (very hard). I woke up in recovery and was in pain (and shivering uncontrollably). We knew the tummy tuck would be tight. It actually felt like my stomach would rip open if I moved. I lay in bed clutching it tightly and crying through the morphine. No one could help me. Not even Mr morphine and his magic cocktails.

As with everything, however, the writhing agony has subsided and I am now left with a rather trendy abdo binder corset holding it all in (not forgetting my friend the big knickers). My right arm is limp and swollen from the lymph node clearance, my four drains are down to two and still draining into sports type bottles (all held up in the most beautiful handmade drain bags in the hospital) and my body looks at bit like it has been savaged! (Tip for those about to go through this, there are very few dressings used in plastics, so you see pretty much everything, including the glue). But, you know what, the boob is alive (complete with a bit of stomach skin), the tummy tuck was worth it, and I am still me (just a more well-thought through version).

Time can do wonders to heal and erase the memories, but if you think hospital is the chance for a decent rest, then think again – even the bed is timed to move around, so when you think you’re comfy, it sets you off guard again.

Three days is a long time in body recovery terms – although you know you’ve already been here too long when they are struggling to find a vein (the good arm is now out of bounds for life). I won’t talk you through the tests, the hourly checks, the pain, the pills the detail of the flap that is now my breast (being referred to as the flap in bed 11 is a bit weird). What I want to talk about is the positive side and, most importantly, progress.

Here are the highlights and the I-cannot-believe-this-is-really-happening lights:

1) NHS mashed potato is still pretty special: not sure I should be ordering it for lunch and dinner, but when something is that good, it is rude not to. Not sure I’ll be going in for seconds of the milk jelly though.
2) The beds are alive: nobody warns you of this and it was the cause for some amusement when I got a bit worried and explained I thought the bed was eating me. I think the guy looking after me in recovery thought I was hallucinating. At least I have been burning a few calories from the mashed potato while sleeping. It’s a special mattress for preventing pressure sores. Just wish I could have a proper ‘still’ mattress now.
3) Some drugs, when flushed through a cannula, feel like they are flooding your hand. Again in recovery too, I screamed out that I thought I was leaking. The nurses looked alarmed until it happened an hour later and they realised what I meant.
4) The recovery room was like the stuff of dreams: this feeling had little to do with the drugs or the general anaesthetic and a lot to do with the fairy tale castle and doodles on the walls. If you’re wondering why, it used to be a children’s ward. I just thought they’d consulted the wrong decorators and were attempting to transport us far from our bodies.
5) Blanket-warming machines are a revelation: they look like glass fridges and they produce the most wonderful warm blankets for theatre. If only they were available on the high street. I would buy shares.
6) I think my flap might be pregnant: flap testing involves running an ultrasound probe over the breast to check for a pulse. It’s often disconcertingly loud and the heartbeat sound it produces makes you feel like there is more than just fat up there.
7) It is possible to eat a roast dinner with one hand: a lymph node clearance makes the arm feel a bit useless (and tingly), so being faced with a lump of meat in gravy for lunch yesterday was a bit challenging. Undefeated, I worked away with one hand and managed to complete the challenge in about 40 minutes. Those who know how much of a fast eater I am will find this amusing.
8) I have a new belly button: apparently it would be too far down south if my old one hadn’t been relocated. This should go some way to explaining just what they took out.
9) Showering in a chair is so relaxing: while my new body will take some getting used to, this new way of cleaning is completely therapeutic and comforting.
10) Expect the unexpected in the consulting room: when my surgeon arrived to talk me through the operation, he did some drawing to explain – on me. To say I was a human doodle by the end of it, is an understatement. Think my parents got a bit more than they bargained for.

The strangest thing about this whole experience is the fact I am under plastics. I didn’t meet my cancer surgeon at all on the day, the surgeons I do meet are focused on new boobie, the ward is all plastics (skin grafts and skin flaps) and no one has mentioned the ‘C’ word. I think people might actually think I am a little bit vain with my boob and tummy tuck. My surgeon joked today that people elect to have tummy tucks. I grimaced and replied: ‘I guess they usually have something to remove in the first place.’ Should have had just a few more cakes, although it is nice to think my boob is part Hotel Chocolat treats and part apple and banana cake!

The one thing I miss the most? Being able to make a cup of tea. Three cups a day just doesn’t touch the sides.

The road to recovery may be a bit bumpy, but it’s the right road and I am happy to be on it at last.

I’ll be out once I am down to just one drain. Watch this space and thanks for the messages of support.

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

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery6 Comments

Image

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.

Image

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!

Image

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.

Image

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…

Image

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.

Image

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 seven: Cake is good for the soul and great for the boob!

On By Jackie ScullyIn Baking, Breast reconstruction surgery, Diagnosis and treatment planning5 Comments

Ok, so this isn’t an official medical recommendation. But, for someone who has a rather unhealthy obsession with hundreds and thousands and Green and Black’s vanilla white chocolate, it’s nice to know that the sweet stuff does have its uses!

Image

As you’ve probably guessed, I did pass the ‘fat’ test. But, in the words of my plastic surgeon, it is ‘tight’. That means, a week on Friday, I will be having a mastectomy (right boob off), axillary clearance (lymph nodes out) and immediate reconstruction (boob job) with, you guessed it, my tummy fat (a DIEP flap). I have always wanted to know what a flat stomach would look like. Now, for six weeks at least (post-op), I’ll know.

Today was an odd day to say the least. I did, however, learn two interesting things. Firstly, wear good knickers at all times because you never know when you are going to be asked to flash them. Secondly, don’t let anyone book your appointments the wrong way round – even if they say it won’t matter.

I started the day with the cancer surgeon, who revealed that the second biopsy confirmed the presence of even more cancer. At first he said: ‘I think it’s benign.’ Then he checked the notes and said: ‘ah, actually it’s more cancer.’ Interesting fact though, it doesn’t matter how many tumours you have in your boob, the treatment is based on attacking the largest one! So, no change then – just more cancer (nice).

The trouble is, because I hadn’t yet had the results of the ‘fat’ test, it was very hard to discuss the planned surgery. So, a completely hypothetical ‘what-happens-if-I-am-not-fat-enough-this-afternoon?’ discussion followed. One implant-measuring session and one consent form later and talk turned to surgery dates. ‘If we can’t use your fat, we can squeeze you in this week,’ the surgeon added. I am ashamed to admit, my immediate panic was more due to the fact I have conference calls, meetings, presentations and dinners planned for next week – not the fact I’d be starting to kick those cancer cells even earlier!

Thankfully, after spending lunch counting all the people that would be affected by this date change, I was relieved to discover that my commitment to cake eating had paid off. The most amusing part of all of this is that apparently tummy fat never forgets its origins. So, if I don’t cut back on the white chocolate and Cadbury’s Heroes after surgery, my right boob will make a rather ‘large’ statement. Almost worth trying just to see if it’s true.

Nothing if not obedient, I now have exactly 10 days to bake like Mary Berry before I am sentenced to six weeks of no exercise. I can’t even lift a supermarket shopping bag (he was quite specific, so that must mean other shopping is just fine). Every cloud… If only there was a way of bypassing the thighs and just channelling those calories into the abdomen.

One small aside before I finish. I have a first contender for Cancer Room 101 – people who moan in waiting rooms. There should be a big sign that says: ‘rejoice when there are long queues. It means the people caring for you are taking time to look after you and other people.’ Loud huffing and audible sighing is not cool. Next time, when you’re waiting and that clock is ticking, smile and say thank you for the dedication of the care team working tirelessly to fix you.

So let’s all raise a glass to flour, water, sugar and butter (preferably mixed and baked). It’s only taken a decade in the kitchen to realise just how important a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon are when your life is on the line! 

Breast cancer lesson number one: Bridget Jones shouldn’t be the only company you keep in the hospital waiting room!

On By Jackie ScullyIn Diagnosis and treatment planning3 Comments

Sorry Bridget. It’s not you and your incessant calorie counting. It’s the fact you’re fictional! 

Diagnosis day is not something I imagine I will ever forget. When the highlight of the day is going to the hygienist, you know there’s something not quite right in the world!

Of course, ever the optimist, I didn’t think for one minute Friday 17 January 2014 would actually be diagnosis day. Dr Google had already convinced me the chances were slim and that I was more likely to have a fibroadenoma (if you want a bit of a science lesson) or ‘breast mouse’. 

That’s why I went to the hospital alone for the results of my biopsy and lymph node cell test. True to form, I was more worried about the fact there are only about two chairs in the breast clinic waiting room that have phone reception than I was the appointment itself.  Having spent enough time ‘guessing the illness’ with fellow waiting room visitors, I decided I would at least try and move chairs – all because I wanted to reply to a few work emails.

Benign lumps don’t need breast nurses to care for them. So, when a nurse came to collect me for my appointment, I already knew the result wouldn’t match my own rather amateur diagnosis. The appointment itself was a bit of a blur. I have just received the diagnosis letter in which the doctor describes me as being both ‘pleasant’ and ‘very shocked’. I am not sure inconsolable crying could ever be considered ‘pleasant’.

Amusingly, my thoughts didn’t turn to pain, suffering or surgery. In fact, I was more worried about the fact I hadn’t done my homework, researched the disease and constructed a detailed to-do list of actions and questions!

I don’t really remember the mammogram that followed (I didn’t have one at the start of the process, because women’s breasts tend to be too dense for the screening under the age of 40).  All I do remember is the kindness of those around me and the cups of tea, the tissues and my desperate attempts to reach family and friends. The phone reception is so bad at the hospital that I ended up mounting a very large window sill in the corridor to try and call my parents, Duncan and my amazing GP friend Hannah. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t long before I was scooped up and ushered into a room – I think I was making the corridors look untidy!

I am happy to say that even on one of the darkest days in my entire life, there was still space for humour. The funniest moment, however, came from a rather unusual source: Waitrose. Not content with the bottles of champagne flooding in to help us toast our engagement, Duncan and I took advantage of Waitrose’s January offer of a free bottle with every online shopping order. Needless to say, the delivery wasn’t the first thing on my mind when Duncan and I got home. Imagine our surprise, when I opened the door at 6pm, only to be greeted by one of the happiest Waitrose employees I have ever seen clutching our free bottle and beaming from ear to ear. ‘What are you going to celebrate?,’ he declared. ‘So many things,’ I replied. The bottle may still be sitting unopened, but whoever you were, thank you Mr Waitrose man for making me smile.

I have always said that if you want something done, give it to me in January. You may have caught me off guard on one day nasty cancer cells, but I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure there’s only one winner!