30th April 2007

I woke early on the morning of my operation and Rach, my sister-in-law drove me to the hospital.  Before I knew it, I was lying on a trolley in the theatres transfer bay wearing my paper pants and hospital gown saying goodbye to her.  I felt quite calm, I am lucky that having worked in theatres, I know just what to expect.  I remember talking to the anaesthetist and watching him insert a cannula, (used for introducing fluids/drugs into the body), into a vein on the back of my hand and administer a drug and then the next thing I heard was a woman saying, “Louise, Louise, Looouuuiseeee, wake up now, it’s all over,”.  I remember thinking, leave me alone, I’m sleeping nicely thank you but knew I needed to reply to placate her.  I told myself where I was and why and took some deep breaths to clear my system of the anaesthetic.  Shortly after that, I became aware of a snoring sound and thought, oh no, that sounds like me.  It was and I knew by voices in the recovery room that on my right there was another patient, a man.  Now look to your left, I thought, I bet there is another man.  Sure enough, I could just focus enough to see a grey-haired man sleeping on the other side.  I was sandwiched between 2 older male patients and I was the only one snoring.  Typical I thought, at least it’s only temporary.  However, over the next 4 nights, the snoring became a permanent habit as lying on my back with 2 pillows under my head and one under my right side was the only way I could feel vaguely comfortable.  So unbecoming for a lady but also frustrating because each time I snored, I woke myself up.

As soon as I could, I had a look in the mirror, raising my arm stiffly and painfully to survey the ‘massacre’.  Although it had been explained to me, I was pleasantly surprised.  My breast looked quite normal, I could see where the tissue had been removed as there was a slight depression there and the nipple area was bright blue from the dye that had been injected into it which looked a little ugly.  There were no signs of bruising and the scar, well concealed just below my armpit was about 2 inches long, a bit ragged looking and shiny from the special glue that had been used in place of stitches.  The glue is a relatively new procedure that results in less scarring apparently.  Hmmm, not bad I thought.  I didn’t really develop any bruising.  It’s impossible to say if this was due to the arnica I had been taking.  I have enormous respect for my consultant and consider myself lucky to be assigned to him.

I slept on and off in between strangely similar phone calls from family members all asking if I wanted an immediate visit.  I said, “No need thanks, I’m sleepy and feel quite happy,” over and over.  It struck me as a little weird and after one such phone call from my brother Tom, he seemed to magically appear shortly afterwards in the room grinning sheepishly.  “What’s going on?” I laughed, “Did you get the short straw?”.  He eventually confessed that there had been some sort of ‘b*ll#cking’ domino effect taking place in the Hartley family.  Someone thought I shouldn’t be alone on waking despite me saying “I’m ok thanks.”   The b*ll#cking was then passed on to others and ended up with my younger brother visiting.  They had even asked the nurse if she thought I needed an immediate visit and she had told them that I seemed fine!  I reversed the domino effect with my own b*ll#cking of all involved!  Stop fussing, argggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!  I feel guilty when everyone worries!  Maybe it was the drugs, but I seemed to be the only one happily chilling and sleeping.  Bless them, it was all wrong but with good intention.

I saw my smiling consultant before he went home that day.  He told me the operation had gone well with no nasty surprises and that the margins of the tissue removed appeared clear.  That was really important.  I am silently optimistic but am reluctant to admit it.  This man has carried out hundreds of lumpectomies and must have a good idea of what looks good or bad.  I had asked him to take a picture of the beast and he showed me the images.  Fascinating – it looked like a gory mass of tissue but he had marked the site of the tumour with an ‘X’.  I felt pleased seeing it, it was important to see proof that the tumour had been removed.  I remember singing “Ding dong, the wicked witch is dead,” to several people just after the operation.  I thanked him.  I hope it is dead, contained within large, clear margins of healthy tissue.  Please burn it when you have finished scrutinising it, microscope people.  I told him how amazed I was that he had managed to access the front of my breast through an incision below my armpit.  He said I would have to see it in order to understand.  I am now suspicious that he pulled my breast out through my armpit!

I stopped taking pain killers as soon as I could as I don’t like taking chemicals.  I only took the oramorph, (‘horramorph’ as I now call it), a morphine based drug, because the pain was keeping me awake at 2am and I knew my body needed the sleep in order to recover.  I told myself it would be interesting to know how opioids make patients feel.  I felt truly awful.  My blood pressure,  which is normally low anyway dropped to 82 over 42, (the recommended blood pressure for an adult is 120/80), and I felt very weird indeed.  I was woken by nurses taking my pulse and temperature every 2 hours just to rule out a bleed presumably.  It was a little like being completely trollied but not a good feeling at all.  The co-codamol I took home with me gave me an itchy rash which is now beginning to peel attractively from parts of my body including my chin.  I was warned that I would pee blue for a while due to the blue dye injected into my breast but the bright green poo took me a little by surprise.  I will find out what the blue dye is exactly although maybe I don’t need to know.  I have been busy detoxing since.  I take selenium, garlic and zinc supplements to boost my immune system since I have lost some of the nodes that help to fight infection in my body.  I am also taking brewers yeast for good circulation and stress.  Best of all, I am hoping to do a small run today to reoxygenate my system and help rid my body of all its toxins.

And yes my mum is here. I can hear radio 4 voices and the sound of a steam iron.  I was greeted by a bottom just now moving backwards as she cleaned the kitchen floor on her hands and knees.  My cupboards have been neatly rearranged and she is forcing me to eat large amounts of home made organic houmous that necessitates a lot of ‘teef’ brushing.  She is trying to build me up again as I have lost weight with my new diet.  I listen to her on the phone instructing people to read “ALL” of my blog!   Poor people.  I am basking in that “cared for” feeling you got when you were off sick from school after heating up the thermometer on the radiator. 

I managed a run, my legs were willing, breast a little sore but suspiciously quiet – no more sloshing noises from the saline injected into the empty space left by the lumpectomy.  I wore 2 sports bras for support and the only problem I had was breathing with both of these on!  On inspection at home, I realised the saline has mostly gone, presumably absorbed by my body unless I have an unsightly bulge somewhere else.  I knew this would happen, but I didn’t expect it so soon.  My breast now has a dent in it.  It looks alright to me but I am gutted I have lost my party trick so soon. 

27th April 2007

I’m back home, a bit sore but feel fine and my mum is here.  The surgeon said it went really well with no nasty surprises.  I have a small and neat 2 inch scar under my armpit and no stitches on the surface just magic glue, (a relatively new technique).  I can’t believe they managed to access the top of my breast through an incision in my armpit!  I can make great water noises with the saline injected into the space they created.  I sound like a water bed.  Results on 9th May.

Central News are filming my second op on 14th May.

Thank you for all your kind wishes.

Lou x

25^th April 2007

This week has been really busy.  I have been writing a lot and approached the Nottingham Evening Post to publicise my online diary and my aim of raising breast cancer awareness and money for Cancer Research and the Lavender Trust.  It happened rather quickly because suddenly there I was on Friday splashed across most of page 10.  Excellent result!  It’s a great start and they have agreed to carry on supporting my project.  I have put some more irons in the fire now and am approaching other contacts kindly supplied by the guys who run Touch rugby, Perfect Motion Marketing.  I am very excited about my project and it keeps me focused.  It even encourages me to add extra minutes on to my runs along the river.  

On Saturday I was in a small article again in the Evening Post.  As I turned the pages I came across a double page spread about a surgeon who is running the London Marathon in memory of Jim McCraken, a much loved GP from Nottingham who died of cancer.  About a year ago, I was on work placement on a surgical ward when I had the opportunity to accompany a cancer patient to theatres.  We got talking and he asked me to be his lucky mascot and introduced me to the surgeon.  I felt awful, knowing my reputation for being unlucky but promised him I would do my best.  He was a lovely man with a genuine interest in others.  I turned out to be the worst lucky mascot ever and I apologised to him.  However, he smiled, shrugged his shoulders and told me not to worry.  I still think about him, he was a courageous man and it was a real pleasure, not work, caring for him before he went home.  I have a duty to respect confidentiality but I am sure you can guess the identity of the man.  How ironic also – I thought back then that cancer would be something that I might have to deal with in later life only.   

I have been thinking about death a little this week, well, a lot actually.  On my list of things to do is ‘write will’, (leaving all my worldly debts to others of course!).  It seems a little morbid but any operation carries risks so I feel I should put my house in order first.  Of course, a diagnosis of cancer does not necessarily mean you will die of the disease soon, later in life or before others.  Life can be ironic.  Take my grandfather for example- he had an operation to remove part of his bowel in his late 70’s due to cancer and we all thought his days were numbered.  His cousin visited him in hospital on a regular basis thinking the same.  The visits would leave ‘Pop’ grumpy because he thought the cousin was very boring, (a little ungrateful of him perhaps!).  Anyway, on leaving the hospital one day after a visit, the cousin looked the wrong way before crossing the road, stepped out and was crushed instantly by a double decker bus.  You might say, “Bet he didn’t see it coming!”.  The point is, none of us did, we expected Pop to die first.  So there is really no point worrying about death, it happens when it happens.  On a real positive, I also received good wishes this week from someone whose grandmother was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer at my age and after a lumpectomy, carried on smoking and lived until she was 94. 

Oh yes, despite what I tell myself and know, I am still thinking about death!  Well, it’s late, I still have to write my will and pack my bag for hospital and reply to a million text messages.  How do I feel?  I feel as though it is the end of this life and the beginning of another that I know nothing about yet.  It’s scary but I am glad the operation is finally here.  It’s what I have been waiting for and I have no choice.   When I wake up my mum will have arrived from abroad. 

Final note: Central news may be there to film me early tomorrow morning and I am not allowed to wear make up!  Nobody is to watch the news for the next week!  Understand?!!

22nd April 2007

I had my pre-op at the hospital this week where we discussed my operation again.  I had been wondering if I had made the right choice for reconstruction.  I was considering whether a mammoplasty, (reshaping of the breast), might be preferable to an LD mini flap, (latissimus dorsi), where some of my back muscle is taken to fill the hole left by the lumpectomy.  A mammoplasty results in a small uplift of the affected breast, so, to balance this out, the surgeon then uplifts the left one too.  In effect, it’s a boob job!  I was too embarrassed to explain the real reason behind my indecision to the consultant – I have been thinking that as I am getting older, it might not be a bad idea to have a boob job!  So I lied at first and said I was concerned about being able to play sports again after losing some of my back muscle.  I’m sure the consultant realised this.  He told me that had I come to him to ask for breast lift under normal circumstances, he would have refused because I have “very good breasts”.  I think I must have grinned at this point – here was a man who saw a lot of breasts and he thought mine were good.  Marvellous!  I turned the “good” into “great” in my head and beamed proudly.  He may have added “for your age” but I have forgotten that part.

Personally, I think they could do with an uplift but I decided to stick with my original decision for the back muscle plug option.  Apparently this procedure allows for more tissue to be removed.  That’s good enough for me, I thought – just make sure you take all that cancer out.  I checked again how soon I could get back to playing touch rugby and running.  He said it was entirely up to me so I expressed concern over the healing of my scars and injury.  “Well, you could wear body armour for protection”, he said.  I pictured myself looking like a little armadillo on the touch pitch.  Hmmm, why not?  I thought.  It’s highly likely I’ll end up bald anyway, so I may as well throw vanity and conformity out of the window now.  I was happy about this but the nurse I saw afterwards was less optimistic.  “I would give it a good 8 weeks”, she said, even after I explained that touch is really a non-contact sport.  I thanked the consultant and told him to get a good nights sleep before my operation.  “And you too!”, he replied.

8 weeks after my 2^nd op, touch rugby will be finished.  That means I won’t get to play in the league at all with my team.  I felt a cloud descend.  I rang Ali and told her.  She reminded me that everyone is different and said if it means having to wear body armour, then I should do it.  I am determined to play again as soon as possible thanks to Ali.  There are a few doubts in my mind lurking somewhere behind all the positive thoughts.  I have pushed them to the back but occasionally they push their way to the front.  I am an active person so I don’t think I will be a patient ‘patient’ at all.  What if I am tired from the anaesthetic or the scarring takes longer to heal than I hope?  When I broke my toe recently, it drove me mad not being able to do any sport.  I considered these questions before deciding that I have no alternative than to take things day by day and find a way round any obstacles.  Most worry is for nothing or misplaced.

20th April 2007 

You might be wondering if I have made any life style changes since my diagnosis.  I am sure some people must go on as they did before, a fag in one hand and vodka in the other, whilst others go all out and buy up the local health food shop.  I am sure many turn to religion.  We are all different and that’s good.  I am working to section 2.2 of the Nursing and Midwifery Council Code of Professional Conduct here, about being non-judgemental!  Seriously, I think it is important to remain in control and do what you want.

So what did I decide?  I have to confess, I hit the beer first and even smoked a couple of cigarettes.  I don’t know why I did it and I’m certainly not going to analyse it or do it again.  Then, I stood in my kitchen and looked into the cupboards and fridge and thought, there is not one food item here that I can say is truly natural, not one food item free of chemicals and human tampering.  I decided whilst the cancer is active, I will try to starve it of anything that might be encouraging it to multiply and grow at speed.  So, I went out and bought up the local health food shop.

My cupboards are now full of expensive organic ’superfoods’ – raisins, assorted seeds, nuts, rice cakes, (no salt), porridge, peanut butter, (no salt or sugar) etc.… My fridge is packed with organic vegetables and fruit and orange juice that made us all wink at each other, (once you stop winking from its bitterness, it tastes delicious).  I drink organic green tea that smells suspiciously like the goldfish bowl at work, and each time I take a sip, I picture Craig the goldfish having a pooh.  I have given up the milk chocolate, dairy products and most sugar.  I have bought an organic real ale to try but am putting off opening it and I spent 15 minutes hunting for organic red wine in the supermarket.  There was none, only a weight watchers red wine stating the calories in each glass – how to take the fun out of drinking and relaxation.  Ban that wine! 

I have cut out meat and introduced more soya into my diet.  I drink soya milk and eat soya products and as a result have suffered griping stomach pain and wind that impressed my lodger the other day.  Thankfully, the wind has past but I think I could have set some sort of time record.  THEN… I received an email from my mum saying Dr So and So thinks some compound called phyto-oestrogen found in soya is very bad for cancer!  “Oh my God!  Stop with the soya!” I shouted.  What do I do now?!

I wear a ‘natural deodorant’, (hoping that my friends will tell me if it isn’t working), and am looking at using more natural beauty products.  I am considering throwing out all my plastic storage boxes and replacing them with glass food jars to store my food.  I no longer microwave my porridge and have started drinking filtered water.

Why am I doing this?  Well, I am secretly hoping that the cancer will have shrunk and they will declare it a miracle thanks to my new diet and heroism.  My lump is estimated at 16 or 17 mm, so, watch this space!   

Life would be so much simpler if I were Craig the goldfish.

17th April 2007 

It’s ironic but this breast thing has given me a new confidence –  a “do I give a damn?” sort of confidence.  It took a serious attack to take away my confidence when I was younger and breast cancer to give it me back. Last week, I smiled at a guy leaving a bar I was in, something I would never do normally as I am rubbish at flirting and he came straight back in dragging his reluctant friend with him and bought us a drink.  Of course, he turned out to be married with 2 young kids.  Shame on you tall man with the blue jumper!  Recently, I called someone’s bluff in another bar.  There is a guy who makes me propositions when he’s drunk and last time I saw him he asked me when I was going to marry him, (my only proposal up til then).  As we left, I said to the girls, “Watch this.”   As he offered his cheek for me to kiss goodbye I swung round him and went for the lips.  It was worth it to see his face!   I am on a fun seeking mission!  Bring on the fun!  I am also more aggressive and determined when playing Touch rugby.   Oh yes!  I think this could be my best season yet, (as long as the op sites heal quickly!).Sunday was a bad day.  Lance didn’t cheer me up much.  He was banging on about his wife expecting twin girls and his wonderful son.  I spoke to a friend about her wedding plans and honeymoon in Mauritius.  Then I found out another friend was pregnant.  I’m pleased for them all.  Darn it!  Where’s my good news?  I felt sorry for myself all day. I can’t complain.  I bumped into a little girl on Saturday who at first glance appeared to be wearing a hat with a big flower at the front.  In fact she had a huge tumour on her forehead.  She was probably about 2 years old.  It reminded me of the little boy who came through the recovery room on 3 separate occasions whilst I was training in theatres at the hospital.  He looked like a little cherub and I cuddled him as he cried for his mummy.  He had a brain tumour and had had numerous operations by the age of 3.  His little body bore all the scars.

On visiting my blog site today, I discovered some really great messages of support from random strangers.  There were also some dubious marriage proposals from guys in Gambia, Morocco and America.  Strangely enough, most of them seem to be sending me love poems and they are all called George.  If anyone can enlighten me on this, I would be most grateful.  Is it some strange blog scam I don’t know about yet?  Who is George?I think I am lucky to have reached 40 and I have some amazing support.  Thanks to all my friends for your hugs, messages and gifts – keep ‘em comin’!   Thank you Ali and Rach.  They check up on me.  Ali helps with research and the book.  I wish I had been more supportive during her battle, (especially later when she probably needed it most).  I have the best mum, the best dad and best brothers.  I have also been offered help with my press release from Perfect Motion Marketing Company who run Touch rugby and Rach Hartley.  I know they are all really busy so it’s very much appreciated. 

Blimey.  Started gushing a bit.  It’s late, I’m tired.  Good night.

15th April 2007

I sent an email to Tris, a photographer, just 2 days after my diagnosis because I already knew I wanted to document everything.  I met him through Touch rugby and liked him.  I felt he was the man for the job and told him what I was hoping to do.  I said I would understand if he decided not to help but he accepted.

My sister-in-law, Ali, came with me for the photo shoot, we wanted to record her scars, mastectomy and reconstruction too.  We were late setting off for the photo shoot.  Ali finished work late and then we hit road works.  We also stopped off to get some wine and beer.  At this point, I have to point out that I don’t usually drink this much.  I usually hit the shandy after a few real beers but I had been so full of nerves and emotion during the last week, that I used the beer as a crutch and sedative.  I knew I would stop.  I needed to be super fit and healthy to deal with the effects of 2 operations and 2 lots of general anaesthetic.  Tonight we needed to relax a little so we stopped off at ‘Plonkers’ to buy the wine and beer. 

Tris showed us up to his studio in an old mill. The studio has lots of character and the thickest old floor boards I’ve ever seen.  We were nervous but thankfully so was he.  We slapped on the make up and decided to start with fully clothed shots.  I am not photogenic and tend to grin stupidly in photos so it was really hard relaxing.  I felt sorry for Tris as we giggled and chatted incessantly.  He clicked away heroically and then we broke and discussed the bare breast shots.   By now I had blushed, pink as a beetroot, which is usual for me in such circumstances.  Cool I am not! 

Well the dreaded moment came and we took our bras off and well… it was surprisingly easy!  When I had last seen Ali’s scars they were relatively knew and Frankenstein like but I was surprised to see how well they had healed and the reconstruction looked good.  She had even had a nipple reconstruction and the areola area had been tattooed on after her mastectomy.  Ironically, it was only when we “got our baps out” as Tris called it that we started getting some more natural shots, (must stress that Tristan is most professional and said this as a friend!).  There was one very uncomfortable, dodgy moment when I was stood behind Ali covering her breasts with my hands.  As Tris clicked away I said, “This is wrong, Ali, sooooo wrong, I have never held onto another woman’s breasts like this.  Ewwww, can you feel my breasts against your back?!”  “Oh my god yes!” she laughed, “It’s not right!”.

The shots were tasteful and we had such a laugh doing them.  Well worth the embarrassment.  We could see that there were some suitable pics for a press release.  I held a golf ball over my right breast in one pic to show the size of the lump that would be removed from me.  It worked well.  Outside, Ali found a small Buddha charm and gave it to me.  I took it home for good luck to keep with my angel. 

Ali handed me the journal that she had begun at the beginning of her own journey but not finished and she read out a will that she had written before her reconstruction operation.  It was both moving and funny.  It ended: ‘and don’t forget the council tax needs paying’, as a serious afterthought!  We laughed about that.  Later in bed, I read her journal entries.  She had been so angry – angry at having received the diagnosis and there was a passage that described how she had found my brother sobbing in the garden shed, the first time she had seen him cry.  It made me cry.  You’re so engrossed in your own pain that you don’t always see how bad news affects your loved ones.

13^th April 2007

My op was cancelled because the 2^nd operation needs to take place 2 weeks after the first so that the scar tissue is not too fibrous.  This proved very difficult to schedule.  The NHS nurses telephoned me and asked me to come in as they needed to talk to me.

I arranged a lift to the City Hospital, (I don’t have a car, just a push bike), and annoyingly have to depend on others or take 2 buses.  The breast cancer specialist nurse tried to persuade me to save money and have the operation on the NHS.  They were all telling me that waiting would not affect the cancer and my chances of beating the disease.  “How do you know that?”, I asked.  “Because of our success rates”, she said.  She was offering me a date of 18^th May but said hopefully it would be sooner as this was outside the 4 week target of the NHS following diagnosis.  Other dates were mentioned but there was no guarantee.

“By the 18^th May I will have had this cancer for over 3 months”, I told the nurse.  In cancer the cells are rapidly dividing and multiplying.  “By the time I have waited another 3 weeks for the results, the start of my treatment will be over 4 months from finding the lump.  I was worried I had found a lump a long time ago.  Yes, if the cancer has not spread beyond my axillary nodes that’s fine but if it has spread further, it is more serious”. 

She didn’t know about the saline that will be put into my breast in theatre saying they were not sure of what goes on in theatre now.  She showed me some photos of mastoplexies but had no reshaping photos to offer me.  I felt I could have discussed everything by phone.  I waited outside for a lift home.

A private lumpectomy operation was eventually offered for Thursday 26^th April and then the results will take 7 – 10 days hopefully.  An NHS slot has been booked for 14^th May when I will have a mastectomy or reconstruction.  Whilst I appreciate how hard people have tried to meet my wishes I feel that I have not gained much time by pushing.  The system is inflexible when you try to think outside the box.  I feel awful about the expense of it all.  It gave me a big headache to be honest and I have pushed it from my mind.  There is no way of knowing what I have gained anyway.

The afternoon picked up when as a surprise Tom drove me to pick up a new lap top and some running shoes.  I was really grateful, but I felt so dependent.  It’s not where I want to be.  I’m a financial ruin!

11th April 2007 
 
At last the long bank holiday weekend finished and I found out that on the NHS I would have a 3 to 5 week wait for the lumpectomy when they would remove the cancer and some surrounding tissue, axillary (armpit) nodes and sentinel nodes, (in the chest wall), to determine how far the cancer had spread.  The results would follow 3 weeks later.  Long wait, I thought.  If you consider that I found the lump some 6 weeks ago, it would be almost 3 months before I would start radiotherapy.  We discussed this as a family and my mum asked me to find out about having part or all of the treatment privately.  She is convinced from her own research that speed is the key to beating the beast.  I felt bad about this because it meant that I would be jumping the queue and relying on my parents to fund an expensive operation.  My sister-in-law, Ali gone through the NHS.  I was embarrassed but eventually agreed to find out costs and dates. On 10^th April – damn just remembered that was Nick’s birthday, sorry Nick!  Good excuse for once?! – Tom drove me to the private Hospital where we sat waiting with some posh looking older people for a private consultation.  I felt very conspicuous and uncomfortable.
 
Finally, I was inspected and the consultant explained the 2 reconstruction options to me again.  The first was a reshaping of the breast, (a mammoplasty), necessitating breast lifts to both breasts and the other was to take muscle from my back to plug the hole left by the removal of the lump.  I looked at the sample photos, they seemed to be mostly of older women.  The mammoplasty didn’t look as good to me as the back muscle option which would leave me with scarring under the armpit and a scar along the bra line.  The mammoplasty means the nipples and areola have to be cut out and re-sited and incisions made under the breasts to help create the uplift.  I chose the back muscle option which would necessitate some physio but I knew other back muscles could be taught to compensate for lost muscle quite well. I explained to the consultant that this was my favourite breast so it was important to get it right.  He said they would need to remove a golf ball sized piece of tissue from my breast and drew it on to me. I laughed and said, “Well be frugal, I only have oranges, not even oranges, it’s not going to leave me with much!”.  He said he could fill the hole temporarily with some saline and then we would decide if a mastectomy, (removal of the whole breast), would be necessary after the results or, best case scenario, a simple reconstruction.  I got a price for the lumpectomy and decided to save money by having the second op on the NHS. I didn’t know how difficult it would be trying to book part private and part NHS at this point.  It meant waiting for people to tie up private and NHS op dates but a provisional date was mentioned as Friday 13^th!, (just 3 days away).  The secretary tried to reassure me, “It’s an afternoon slot,” she said.  “What difference does that make?!”, I asked.  “Well,” said the medical secretary, “the superstition doesn’t count then.”  I wasn’t convinced and hoped the op would be pushed back.  I was still in denial.

April 8^th 2007

I rang mum again early morning.  She answered with “Hello Love”, knowing it would be me.  We tried to search for possible causes.  It was unlikely to be genetic; our family had a history of longevity.  I had always eaten healthily and been sporty.  In the end I came up with the following possible causes:

1. I had not had children.  Apparently, leaving having children until after the age of 30 can put a woman more at risk of developing breast cancer
2. I had smoked for about 8 years but mostly as a social smoker and not heavily
3. I drink, not heavily, but like most people, it’s probably 1 or 2 nights a week and more than the recommended weekly units for a woman
4. I can consume large amounts of milk chocolate and I mean large amounts in one sitting.  Dairy products have been under suspicion
5. The proximity of Radcliffe on Trent power station – a district nurse once told me that there were high rates of cancer in Clifton and the power station was suspected.  I grew up in Ruddington, close to Clifton
6. I had also lived near the London Road incinerator for some years and walked into work every day along the London Road
7. In my last house I had a dodgy old microwave circa 1970
8. Carcinogens from my mum’s cooking.  Mum was always so busy that the only way to tell dinner was ready was the smell of burning (only joking mum)
9. Bad luck – I excel at this!

Mum said she read it was like a one armed bandit slot machine – if your 3 gold bars, (risk factors), come up together, you get cancer.  Congratulations!  You win!  We decided there was no point speculating. I went into work, for my part time Saturday job and my boss hugged me and gave me a beautiful bouquet of flowers.  This is what you get when you have breast cancer I thought!  Not bad. My phone was busy with texts and calls all day with people being supportive but I felt frustrated with the long bank holiday weekend.  I was limited as to what I could do, who I could contact.  I sent off emails to the School of Nursing.We went to the pub again that evening.  I just needed to be busy every second.   I knew Rog had told his friends because one of them leapt off his bar stool on seeing me and offered me a seat as if I might drop at any moment.  I laughed, bemused.  I could feel Rog’s friends staring at me from time to time.  Staring at the sick lady, perhaps they were searching for visible signs of cancer.  I conked out about 8.30pm.  I was so exhausted that I made my way home and slept a deep, deep sleep.