29th May 2007

Yesterday, I spent almost an hour on buses travelling to the City Hospital.  I waited 30 minutes in reception before being shown to the small clinical room where I first had my diagnosis on 5^th April.  I waited another 35 minutes in there, chewing my fingers on my own, for what turned out to be a 15 minute appointment for a consultant to examine my reconstructed boob, a talk with the nurse specialist and some fluid taken off my back before catching 2 buses home again.  I resent passing my time in this way but I suppose I’ll have to get used to it.  A whole morning had gone.  I am really pleased with the new boob although it’s a bit swollen and green from the dye they injected during the first operation.  I’ve had fluid syringed off my back a couple of times now which is quite normal. I’m waiting on more hospital appointments to see the radiologist, oncologist and breast surgeon and I still have the 2% decision to make on whether to have chemotherapy or not.  I’m not convinced it’s worth it.  Is a 2% chance of increasing my survival rate from cancer a good enough reason to subject my body to a treatment that has its origins in chemical warfare?  Chemotherapy can seriously compromise your immune system too.  I don’t really know the answer. 

I think I am fed up of eating, sleeping and living cancer already.  I feel embarrassed that it’s all about me.  One of my best friends is refusing to share her own problems with me because she thinks they don’t compare to cancer.  I told her there are no comparisons to be made.  I feel like half a friend.   Anyway, I’ve decided to write about someone else today for a change.  I have already written about how great it is to have your mum looking after you.  My mum has kept herself busy since her arrival here.  On Thursday she will be catching a plane back to my dad with his new knee replacement and their blind, incontinent dog called Jess.  The dog is always getting lost, falling into a hole or being helped down the stairs, (a bit like my dad although he’s not incontinent yet).  I will miss my mum when she goes because she’s been doing too good a job and I’ve grown used to that. I would have no hesitation in recommending her as an employee if anyone wants to hire her.  If you need anything painting, she’s your woman.  She has painted everything that doesn’t move both inside my house and outside.  She is great at DIY although a little dangerous – I found her with a bloody lip yesterday.  “What happened?!” I exclaimed in shock.  She explained how she had tried to hammer a nail into the underside of a shelf stacked with paint tins and plant pots -  I think you can imagine the outcome.  On our way out later, she said, “I haven’t put any lipstick on because it will clash with the blood,”.  But seriously the only downside to having my mum stay is that my phone has not stopped ringing for her.

Most people love my mum, the next door neighbour says she just wants to take her home and cuddle her.  The neighbour is 5ft 11 and mum is 5ft 2 and shrinking fast.  Mum is well loved and most entertaining too although I don’t think that she realises this.  I took her to see the new Market Square with its millions of £’s spent on Italian slabs.  I watched her walk up to it, hands stuffed firmly into her little pink coat.  She cast an eye over it before declaring indignantly, “Well, that’s crap!”.  I laughed.  Sometimes, we have a little laugh at her, but never in a nasty way.  I laughed a lot during the back yard makeover when I could hear her, at the age of 68, singing along enthusiastically to Natasha Bedingfield on the radio.  Now this requires you to imagine a small 68 yr old singing in a posh, (she thinks she’s posh but she comes from Bestwood), operatic voice stylie; “I want to have your baby, I’m serious like crazy”.  I can still hear my brother, Tom, saying, “Muuuummmm… shut up!”.  We then created a whole make believe CD sung by mum.  Imagine it  - Mrs Hartley sings Akon and try imaging my little mum singing, “Bet you wish your girlfriend was hot like me,” in operatic stylie.  There were other songs we included with the lyrics ‘lollipop’, ‘lick my ice cream’ and ’smack my bitch’ which would be equally funny.  I think Mrs Hartley’s debut album would be a hit.

Yes, my mum has many talents.  Another one is her talent for malapropisms and spoonerisms.  She excels in these and is well known for creating the term, ‘arm candy’ as in “Ooooh, Lou, he’s a nice bit of arm candy”.  She is also able to offer you ‘frizzly squeeshed’ orange juice in the morning.  Her talent translates into foreign languages too.  I once found myself desperately trying to explain to a hurt looking Frenchman, that my mum hadn’t really meant to ask if he was ‘drunk’, (soul).  It was just a pronunciation error and she was really asking if he had come ‘alone’, (seul).  Unfortunately, the guy was clearly rat-arsed anyway so I think I ended up digging us a bigger hole.

Now, if after all this you decide you would still like to hire my mum, whatever you do, never send her to do the shopping for you.  Recently, she came home after another of her missions to buy us all a years supply of the magic ‘make yourself look younger’ skin cream people are queuing to buy.  When I asked her if she had been able to get hold of any of the magic serums, she replied quite disappointedly, “Well, they didn’t have any ‘Age Rewind Semen’ in stock!”.  I laughed intermittently for an hour over that one whilst sat at my computer and from time to time, I would heard a little voice downstairs saying disapprovingly, “I can hear you laughing at me”.  I’m secretly worried that her talent is hereditary though.  I remember once leaving a room and telling a friend I was off to “pave my shits”, (hint: underarm hair removal).  The other night, we were sat cozily watching a chick flick together by the fire with a glass of wine and some chocolate (dark, organic of course).  She asked me to put “another loaf on the flour”…  I put another log on the fire.  I’ll really miss her when she’s gone home.

26th May 2007

It’s Saturday, isn’t it?  I’m losing track of the days.  I got rid of the last of the dogs, (my wound drains), this week and was I glad?  Yes I was.  They were really beginning to annoy me.  I got rid of one after a few days but the remaining dog poked me sharply in the back if I sat for too long.  I tried to conceal it in my handbag so I could nip out to the pub for a quick pint without frightening anyone but then I worried that someone might decide to mug me and run off with the bag.  The thought of having the tube ripped from me was not good but the thought of the mugger discovering the contents of the bag was amusing.  I spent a lot of time sleeping this week – and am putting it down to 2 lots of anaesthetic in a short time frame, I don’t think it could be depression yet -  give me a couple more weeks!  I tried a small run on Thursday which went ok although I was a bit breathless.  The breathing difficulty triggered my first trip into cancer paranoia land where all new twinges, aches and pains are analysed in slight panic in case the cancer has spread – oh my god! – it’s lung cancer now too!!  I think it was just a touch of hay fever because the pollen count was high!

Wednesday was the best day I have had in a long time.  We set off for Cadwell Park race track to meet with Harley Davidson/Buell.  We means: Ali, our photographer, Tristan, Tom Scratchet, his friend Richard and myself.  I’ve already mentioned Tom Scratchet – he’s the man who inspired us and is helping us plan our sponsored motor bike trip around Europe next year, (champion fundraiser!).   Ali and I watched the Buell bikes speeding round the track in the sunshine whilst Tristan went round taking photos of everything looking hot, even though he was sweaty… (!)  Unfortunately, Central news couldn’t make it this time to film which was a shame but at least we have the photos to document the day.  We watched Tom and Richard attempt a skills course and they did amazingly well, (ok I’m lying a little here to make Mr Scratchet look good).

We had just finished lunch when we got the call to get changed so we could ride with a professional racer, Matt Llewellyn.  Wondering if we should have skipped lunch because it was now beginning to flip over in our bellies, we climbed into a big white van to change.  “Let me know if the lights stay on when I close the door,” said the man.  “Yes thanks, they stayed on!,” we shouted back.  We began to get undressed and then the lights went out.  It was very dark.  After trying unsuccessfully to find the lights, I located my phone and told Ali I would light up the van with it.  A pale light then appeared and I could just see the tips of my fingers.  We laughed at its puny glow but then realised we had 2 options – to shout for help, ( but then the guys thinking we were ready, would fling open the huge side door and reveal our nakedness to about 20 other guys in leathers outside), or struggle on in the dark.  When you have small pants on and you’re nearest the door, it’s best to struggle on in the dark. 

We soon began to realise the difficulty of our task.  Trying to pull on a skin tight suit with reinforced, inflexible knees and elbows in the dark with obstacles all around is near impossible.  We squeezed into the suits bumping into things.  At one point I was sure I had the suit on upside down as it felt like I was squeezing my knees into the elbow pads.  We were very hot by now and aware that people were in a hurry to get to lunch.  Finally, zipped up, I went over to help Ali.  Flipping open my mobile again I was confronted by 2 dimly lit boobs thrusting at me as Ali struggled to get the suit over her shoulders.  Her arms were pinned tightly backwards like a penguin as she jumped up and down in the van to force the suit over her shoulders.  I will never forget what I saw.  It was hard helping her whilst killing myself laughing.

Finally, with the van door now ajar we realised that the suits were different sizes and it would be better to swap them but not before Mr Scratchet had gallantly jumped out of his own sweaty suit for Ali to try on.  Apparently, this left him in socks and boxers outside the van which I missed, (must give Tristan instructions next time).  The suits were great but Scratchet’s boots looked enormous on the ends of my little legs.  I jumped on the back of the Buell with my supersize feet and was given some scary advice on leaning with Matt for the corners and holding onto the bar, (no need to tell me to do that!).  My chicken casserole was doing a rumba by now.  We hit speeds of up to 110mph and pulled a few wheelies and I was clinging on tightly all the way.  I thought well, if it really is my time to go, it’s surely now.   It was an amazing feeling but when we got back I was completely lost for words which was embarrassing.  The ride had left me mute – maybe my tongue blew off on the way round.  “Was it ok?” they asked in concern.  What can I say?!  It was totally exhilarating!  A little bit of adrenaline lets you know you’re alive!  Give me more!!

As if that wasn’t exciting enough, I had a lift back with Tom on his BMW and when I got home, there I was on Central news.   The ride home was great, only this time I was thinking that I’d like to be in control – no disrespect to Tom’s driving – I wanted to feel the sense of freedom a motor bike gives for myself.  You may be thinking that I’ve always been a biker chick.  Well, you’re wrong, I know nothing about the things but I’m really looking forward to learning to ride.  We could drive a car around Europe but it just wouldn’t give us the same challenge now, would it?  We have to find sponsors first.  Well, we’re working hard at it!  Even harder now!!   The Central news report was well edited and I thought it delivered a positive message but it’s not an enjoyable experience watching yourself on TV especially when you see your socks appear on screen.

Thank you Tom at Harley Davidson and Tom Scratchet.

16^th May 2007

Well, I escaped from hospital today after 2 days but I am not alone.  I have 2 portable wound drains.  I carry them with me everywhere like 2 little dogs on leads.  I keep them in a lovely little pink bag made by former patients of the ward.  There are 2 small holes in my right side where they feed into my back, (where some muscle was removed), and my breast, (where the muscle was relocated to).  It’s amazing, there is no access scar on my back as this proved unnecessary for my surgeon so I will be left with 2 small holes, the original scar under my right arm, stuck together once more with the special glue and a tiny scar on the front of my breast from my biopsy.  I had a look in a mirror properly the day after the operation and I am very pleased.  There is a small indentation in my back where the muscle was removed but I am hoping it will be less noticeable when the swelling goes down.  My boob looks like one Pamela Anderson to me but the swelling will reduce and it will soon match the other fried egg again.  Looking at my new swollen boob, I can see the attraction of a boob job.

My care was excellent both with the NHS and privately.  No winner, except perhaps on the food front, where the private hospital won with their roast leg of lamb, apricot stuffing, chateaux potatoes and extensive wine list.  I was impressed that the City offered me soya milk, but I think they would benefit from a visit from Jamie Oliver to create some appetising and nourishing dishes.  I craved a cold salad for my first meal because I was really hot and was offered a dry tuna sandwich.  I preferred the view from my room at the city though with its big chestnut tree bearing white candles.  I daydreamed about jumping out onto it and making my escape.  My surgeon said I wouldn’t have made it.  He then said most seriously that it was a larger operation than it looked and I was to take it easy.  I solemnly promised to be good.  He has no need to worry, I can’t see me running with the dogs and I feel more tired this time.  I am planning on taking the dogs for walks but as soon as I can have them put down, I will be training for my half marathon and playing touch rugby again.

The drains use a vacuum system to suction off excess blood and serous fluid, (the clearish fluid that is formed as part of the healing process).  I have to measure the amount of fluid each morning and then when we hit 30mls or less in a drain over a 24 hr period, I can have it removed.  I think my breast drain will be out first, it seems to be winning.  I can’t wait to have them removed.  Let’s just say, I’m going nowhere in a hurry at the moment.  I have discovered the hard way, (they are held in with stitches), that my dog leads are not quite long enough for me to be able to stand up straight with the drains on the floor, so I have to position them carefully everywhere I go.  I leapt out of bed earlier when there was a knock at the door forgetting all about them.  I think I scared my visitor away with my loud swearing at the dogs pulling on their leads.  They are sat obediently beside me on the sofa at the moment. 

I am happy to report that I did not snore this time in the recovery room.  It was the first thing I asked.  I think my snoring problem is over!  I had no nausea unlike the poor woman I could hear in the room next door to me and I have had very little pain.  I’m only taking paracetamol.  I think this is testimony to the skill of my surgeon and not my superhuman pain threshold.  He is very highly thought of by everyone I speak to.
 

The day after the op I was invited to a physiotherapy session with 2 older ladies to practice our exercises.  I sat waiting with one woman who greeted me with a few of her health complaints.  I’m sure she thought I had come in for just a boob job.  I was relieved when the third lady arrived and turned out to be a cheerful character.  Later, I felt very fortunate to have been given a private room as I could hear snippets of ‘older lady’ conversations on the ward, “He said and I said…” “Ooooh!..” “My legs have been giving me trouble…”  “I haven’t managed to go yet, have you?…” etc..  I am not unsympathetic, operations must be very difficult to cope with for older people, but I am still relatively young and being stuck with a group of chattering older women when I am facing an early menopause would have had me leaping out of a window onto a chestnut tree for sure.

I had an interesting chat with Matron who came to talk to me about why we had been refused permission to film.   Apparently, it was a communication problem.  It had been assumed that a truck load of camera men were wanting to film instead of just one.  I am disappointed because it was a missed opportunity to let people see the whole picture and understand what goes on which would hopefully make it less scary.  However, I have asked about the possibility of filming radiotherapy and this is looking more positive.  I would be interested to watch this myself but wait – it will be me having the treatment!  What am I saying?!  It still feels like this is happening to someone else at times!

I managed to log onto MySpace in hospital but the Patientline internet was the most challenging part of my hospital stay.  The mouse was no bigger than a pimple, (but smaller than my boil), and it took great patience and skill to manoeuvre.  The keyboard was the size of a small pencil case so typing was a challenge and the system was restricted by what it could download or access.  I gave up absolutely knackered after each 15 minutes fiddling time.  Sorry for not replying to emails, but it would have taken me all night.  Thank you to the kind female doctor who eventually signed my release form and told me I could go home and get back to my blog.  Blimey, that surprised me!  I was prepared to face disgruntled fireman who might be reading my blogs but hadn’t thought about doctors reading it!

So what’s next?  Well, a trip to Cadwell Park to meet some people with motor bikes hopefully, (that’s a race track for girls who know nothing about these things like me), and then radiotherapy and other unexciting stuff.  I still have to decide whether to have chemotherapy but I will have the opportunity to discuss this with a breast cancer specialist nurse and the oncologist quite soon.  I have numbers that I can phone if I need to ask any questions in the meantime.  I was also offered a contact for someone who can help me with benefits.  Oh joy, I had almost forgotten my bursary is coming to an end quite soon.  Don’t panic!  Keep a lid on it!   

15th May 2007 

They have the technology. They can rebuild you. Success! They won’t let me out until they can remove the wound drains but there is a large chestnut tree outside my window. I’ll make a break for it after lunch.

13^th May 2007

 I had a dream last night after eating too many fish and chips, (I said to mum, “Sod the organic, for the penultimate last supper of a condemned woman we should treat ourselves,”, so we pushed the boat out and bought fish and chips).  Anyway, the dream I had was literally about airing my dirty linen in public.  In it I went along to the School of Nursing graduation ball where I demanded a sugar free drink at the bar.  Asked if I was diabetic I said rudely, “No, I have breast cancer and am trying to avoid refined sugar, so give me a sugar free, natural drink with no additives!”  I was given a bottle of water.  “That’s water!” I shouted outraged.  I then bored all the happy revellers by talking about breast cancer all night.  I knew I was boring people but couldn’t stop myself.  The dream ended with me hanging out my dirty undies on radiators around the venue.  To my horror I didn’t just hang them out, I shook them about, waved them around, positioned them on the radiator and then repositioned them again. 

Wow, what symbolism!  I think I dreamt this because I have been feeling a little bit guilty about the hosing down I gave firemen in the blog before last.   My family joke about being ‘blogged’ and there is a new warning on the University website about defamatory remarks posted on MySpace type sites by students resulting in litigation.  I must reassure people that I set out to be honest in this blog but I have no wish to use it vindictively and I’m not really a man hater.  The fireman blog was tongue in cheek and I am confident that the fire service will not sue me for libel because what I wrote is true except that I don’t really wish gonorrhoea on any fireman.  I do worry that in sharing my thoughts and experiences, I am laying myself bare and open to judgement.  I very nearly deleted that blog but then I reasoned with myself – it wasn’t meant to be serious.  The funny thing is, whilst I may be openly sharing my thoughts here, I often avoid telling friends the truth.  Sometimes when people ask me how the course is going and when will I finish, instead of telling them I’ve had to give it up because of breast cancer, I bottle it and reply “Fine thanks, quite soon,” and change the subject.  Another friend asked me in the pub last night if anything really exciting was happening in my life at the moment.  I thought, blimey, there is only one big thing happening in my life but is cancer ‘exciting’?  Do I tell him?  I opened my mouth, shrugged and heard myself say, “No, same old, nothing new.  How about you?,”.  I guess my dream is not reality yet.  I can’t imagine ever hanging my smalls out in the pub either.  It’s too far to go with my washing basket.

I have been touched by the messages of support and advice I have been receiving from people.  I can’t believe that there are churches in Bradmore, Leicester and a small town in France where people have been praying for me!  It seems bizarre, I still don’t feel this is really happening and I feel most humble.  Thank you.  Another kind offer of support came on Friday when Ali and I met with a really interesting man who has raised a huge amount of money for the premature baby charity Bliss.  He has kindly offered to share his knowledge of fundraising with us.  He rode round Europe on a motorbike in a time challenge visiting 10 countries in 10 days, (it meant riding over 20 hours some days!).  His story inspired us to plan a trip round Europe on motorbikes too visiting breast cancer institutes, wearing breast cancer pink leathers.  We won’t be setting ourselves a time challenge as he did because we feel we will need some time for a beer and some time to stop and reapply lipstick etc.  But seriously, we hope to raise funds and breast cancer awareness as well as to gather any useful information we can.  All sponsors welcome!

Central News came to film again this afternoon.  Their reporter is following Ali and I to help us raise awareness.  It is a shame they were refused permission to film in theatres by the hospital.  The reporter, who has been really keen to publicise what we are trying to do, was very disappointed and so was I. On a lighter note, I developed a bubonic type boil on the back of my neck especially for the filming.  I thought, at least they will only film me from the front but to my horror they filmed me from the back too.  I asked them to edit the boil.  The news story should be on in a couple of weeks.  It will be embarrassingly cringe worthy, especially this time as I tried to ignore mum mouthing words and gesticulating helpfully at me behind the cameraman from the kitchen whilst I was being interviewed.

Well, tomorrow I have my reconstructive surgery.  I am feeling quite nervous as although I decided it would be the right thing to do, there is still a part of me that does not want another operation with more drugs and this time I will have wound drains too as well as the inconvenience of having to stop running for a while, rest up and do rehab exercises.  I decided that I should have the operation because I feel I should be making an effort to look my womanly best with a decent looking boob as it feels like I am having my ‘woman juice’ extracted early due to drug treatment that will force me into an early menopause.  I am so thankful it’s not a mastectomy I’m having.

Well, I must pack my bag, I’ll be staying in for a night.  The NHS wanted me to go in tonight but I have cunningly avoided that by going in this morning to fill in forms and see the doctor.  Ironically, whilst I was there I had a chat with an older member of staff who kindly asked me to excuse her absent mindedness caused by the antidepressants she is having to take due to “the change” (the menopause).  “Oh well, I suppose it has to happen to us all sometime,” she said gaily.  I smiled.  Some sooner than others, I thought.

10th May 2007

I woke to a beautiful blue sky this morning and thought, that’s a bad sign because the 5^th April, the day of my diagnosis, had been a beautiful sunny day too.  When mum arrived she said it was going to rain in the afternoon and I felt relieved.  Today lasted forever.  I had to wait until 6pm for my results and I started a million jobs and finished none.  I couldn’t concentrate and I was irritable.  I would run up the stairs to fetch something, forget what it was only to remember on the way down, run back up and come down with something completely different.  It was frustrating and I’m ashamed to say I was nasty to my lovely mum.  I apologised.  She said she understood.

Tom took me to the hospital.  He is calm or at least he appears so.  It was raining by now.  I felt sick and my head and chest felt like they were being clamped in a vice.  Tom asked me what I thought the best case scenario would be.  I replied, “Sorry Miss Hartley, we made a dreadful mistake, you don’t have cancer and here is £50,000 compensation. Goodbye,”.  Then he asked me if I had prepared myself for the worst case scenario.  I said “No, I’ll face that if it happens.”  I had discussed strategies with a friend the night before.  She told me she always found it useful to think ‘worst case scenario’ throughout life.  I understand her, I have always done this for exam results – think failure and hopefully you’ll be pleasantly surprised.  It’s positive pessimism.  Since my diagnosis I have stopped thinking like this.  If you think worst case scenario with cancer, you may as well give up.  

My smiling breast surgeon was waiting in the consulting room.  Straightaway he said it was good news, and only good news.  I told him I had thought so.  He said the tumour was smaller than first estimated – only 13mm not 17mm.  I felt sure my new diet, (thanks Jane Plant), had shrunk the bstard!  The margins of the tissue removed were clear, so I don’t need a mastectomy, (removal of the whole breast).  No cancerous cells were found in the sentinel lymph nodes under my armpit which is excellent news because the sentinel nodes are the first 2 nodes in the armpit that tend to ‘capture’ cancerous cells from the breast.  These bad boy cells can then proliferate and pass around the body.  If they do this, they tend to grow as secondary cancers in the lungs, liver, bones and sometimes the brain.  I thought of Ali and how she must have felt when she learnt that cancerous cells had been found in her lymph nodes.  I know she is convinced they will turn up somewhere else one day and is just waiting to see where.  I asked if cancerous cells could have passed into my body undetected.  My surgeon said it was less likely but yes it was possible.  I knew that like Ali and many others, I would become more aware of every ache and pain in my body from now on.  That’s cancer for you, for each piece of good news there is a but or an uncertainty.  It’s a strange game with no guaranteed outcomes.

I have a grade 3 cancer, not grade 2 as previously thought.  The grade, (from 1-3), indicates the speed at which the cells are growing and the likelihood of the cancer coming back again.  Grade 3 is common in younger women because their cancers tend to be more aggressive than in older women.  This makes sense because in older women the cells are dying faster than they are multiplying due to the aging process. -Are you still following this?!! –  We talked treatment.  I will have 5 weeks of radiotherapy – sessions of 30-40 minutes each day.  I may feel tired, have sensitive, sore skin in the area treated, perhaps permanently or I may feel no effect.  I have hormone receptive cancer which is apparently the easiest to treat, although more rarely found in younger women.  I’m changing my name to Lucky.  I will be offered 2 drugs: Tamoxifen for 5 years which brings on an early menopause to inhibit the female hormone, oestrogen.  An excess of this hormone is thought to contribute to my type of cancer.  I will also be offered Zoladex injections for 2 years which stop the ovaries from working and compliment Tamoxifen.  My consultant said I will also be offered chemotherapy but it would only increase my chance of survival by a negligible amount.  I asked about the common and rare side effects of the treatments but I already know what they are and I’m not happy about them.

My surgeon studied the results of the lumpectomy and agreed the breast shape looked fine at the moment.  I said I would rather avoid unnecessary surgery and perhaps I might be able to live with one good and one wizened breast.   However, he explained that as there was still some saline left in the hole, (as a temporary filler), there would be a greater degree of deformity later when this is absorbed by the body.  He explained that if I waited to have reconstruction, I would need a skin graft and there would be more scarring as a result.  He offered to cancel my operation on Monday so I could think it over but I said I’d decide overnight.  He also offered to talk to me again in the morning if needed which was good of him.  He squiggled a breast diagram to explain things to me and I smiled because he draws really artistic and beautiful breasts.  I’ll have 2 of those, I thought.

I asked about survival rates and he searched for precise figures, joking that if I was going to tell Central News he needed it to be accurate. I told him that my own family are now scared of being ‘blogged’ by me!  I’m wondering how I can use this new power.  Anyway, with radiotherapy and drugs, I stand an 85% chance of still being here in 10 years.  If we include chemo in the package, this rises very slightly to about 86%.   That’s 15 women out of 100 who don’t make it roughly.  He said people reacted in different ways to this news.  I thought, who knows whether they will be here in 10 years time?  It’s not worth worrying about.  Live like you have cancer even if you don’t!  “Nice haircut,” I said as I left the room.  He laughed.  When we had been sat waiting for Central News to turn up and interview us after my first operation, he said he wished he’d had time to have a haircut.  I looked at him from my bed and said, “You should worry, look at the state of me in my hospital gown with no makeup!”. I don’t know where he found time to have a haircut, he’s always working.

I let people know the good news and a few people I know stopped pacing their kitchen floors to open a bottle of beer or wine.  Mum got me a glass ready at home.  I sent a text to Ali saying I knew I had received the best news but we were still in it together.  I will keep kicking your ass and you must do the same for me.  There’s no giving up, I said, we have work to do and adventures to plan.  Lance said cancer was the best thing that happened to him.
 

I felt good, my body relaxed again.  We toasted the good news at home and laughed.  I read on about radiotherapy.  People drifted home.  I sat on the sofa with mum and began crying.  “It’s good news but it’s all bad news really,” I said.  The side effects of the drugs and treatment are harmful and you may decrease the risk of dying of cancer but increase the risks of dying from other causes.  People get depressed.  I hate filling myself with harmful drugs but worst of all I’m facing an early menopause.  For the next 5 years at least I will be menopausal.  Even if I had the time to have a child after this and had wanted to freeze my eggs there is no funding for single women to do this.  My eggs are nearing their sell by date anyway.  “I so wanted to have children,” I said.  “I know, I wanted you to have children too”, she replied.  I needed to be alone and I think mum realised this.

I went to bed and had a really good blub.  For the first time ever I felt real loss over a miscarriage I had when I was 30.  On the same day I found out I was pregnant, I began to have a miscarriage.  The doctor said he found a heart beat during the scan and in that split second I knew I really wanted that baby.  My boyfriend and I loved each other.  Perfect…  A second later the doctor said he was mistaken – there was no heart beat.  I was upset of course but back then I told myself miscarriages were very common and at least I knew I could get pregnant.  One day, I will have a child, I thought, but it just didn’t happen and ironically this could have caused my cancer.  Women who have not had a first child by 30 are at risk of developing the type of breast cancer I have.  I realised last night that a miscarriage was probably the closest I had come to having a child of my own.

I also realised that with cancer you are given many choices about surgery and treatment but in reality you have very few.  For the past 40-50 years people have been taking everything they are offered because they want to survive.  Most of us follow the same path of radiotherapy, chemotherapy and drugs despite harmful side effects because that’s all there is.  Most of us, except for a few brave ones.  I thought of the little boy with the brain tumour I had cuddled in the hospital recovery room.  He was on the front page of the local paper this week.  He has a rare, inoperable tumour that gives him headaches.  His only treatment option is radiotherapy but this will give him permanent brain damage.  His mum has taken the brave decision to wait for a medical breakthrough before subjecting him to this.  It put things in perspective.  Bloody hell, I’ve been made a modern day spinster and lost my fertility overnight but I’m going to be just fine!  It’s time for that motorbike ride I’ve been offered!…  Pass me a helmet!  The spinster is coming out!

8^th May 2007

I am sure each cancer victim or indeed any unfortunate person asks ‘Why me?’ at some point.  I read Ali’s angry rant at the beginning of her journey so I know she felt the same.  On hearing my bad news somebody asked me, “Why does it always happen to nice people?” and I replied, “I’m sure nasty people get cancer too.”  But do they?  Perhaps cancer has something to do with personality types?  Are there as many nasty people with cancer as nice people?

I bumped into an old flame on Saturday night.  Now, usually, I’m unimpressed by men in uniforms as I’ve always felt that when certain, (not all), uniforms are handed out they are lined with large egos and hemmed with arrogance.  However, I did once succumb to the charms of a fireman and so did a friend of mine, (different ones of course).  I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they both turned out to be lying, arrogant womanisers with a lack of self awareness.  I understand that there are a lot of attractive women about and they want to have fun but I feel they could show a little more respect for the women they prey on.  The last time I bumped into the fireman, it was like watching Michael Douglas, (famously treated for sex addiction), starring as ‘Predator’.  He was desperate to take home any woman at the end of the night.  I watched him moving up on his victims.  It was frightening.  As for my friend’s fireman, we heard recently that his girlfriend had found him out and thrown him out.  Justice?!  Well no, she took him back and they are buying a house together.  Give him some credit – he waited a couple of weeks before trying to seduce my friend again.

I think we women have ourselves to blame sometimes.  I once read that whereas a man sees a spotty, overweight, unattractive woman with bad dress sense and thinks ‘Hmmm, here is a spotty, overweight, unattractive woman with bad dress sense.’, a woman seeing the male equivalent thinks, ‘Hmmm, here is a man who, given some spot cream, the right diet, a new haircut and jumper could be quite nice – he has potential’. Who is right?  Are we wrong in giving men a chance? Perhaps.

Although I might have been stupid, I never really wanted a relationship with a selfish man nor did I ever believe I could change him.  I thought he had moved south, (presumably because he had exhausted the supply of women up north).   He used to give me butterflies, (wind), whenever I saw him but this time when I saw him, (with an adoring woman stuck to his face), I just felt sad.  Later on, I bumped into ‘Hey gorgeous’ too and had a really uncomfortable 5 minutes trying to work out if he had read my blog spilling the beans about his bad behaviour!  I was lucky.  He hadn’t.

Anyway, the whole evening left me wondering where is the justice?!  Yes, where is it?!!  I’m a good person, I try to treat people respectfully and I know I fail in this sometimes but at least I spend a lot of time feeling guilty about it!  I bet the fireman doesn’t get cancer.  Secretly, I think that if life was fair, he would get gonorrhoea and his knob would drop off.  Sorry mum – she wanted me to keep that thought in my head.     

I woke up far too early the following morning with a better perspective on life.  Why me?  Hey, why not me?  I still have a text that a friend sent me many years ago.  It says, ‘Who said life would be easy?’  I keep it to remind me there was never any guarantee of an easy life.   To counterbalance the bitterness of my 2am self-pity and unknit my furrowed brows I wrote a list of things I would like to accomplish:

1. See the aurora borealis, maybe in Norway
2. Go deep sea diving
3. Conquer a big mountain
4. Go white water rafting on a really wild river
5. Raise lots of money for charity
6. Qualify as a nurse and work in the community
7. Write a book
8. Return to New Zealand
9. Never lose my sense of humour throughout this experience
10. Remain positive, (never bitter)

At least a diagnosis of breast cancer makes you more focused and active.  We finished a back yard makeover at the weekend complete with a unique water feature – as we sit with our backs against the toilet wall, we can hear people pee and listening to the flushing cistern is very therapeutic.  In typical Hartley style, we also managed to go to the wrong car boot sale twice in search of my sister-in-law and ended up at a dog jumping show instead.  There is something very fascinating about people who spend their spare time teaching their dogs how to jump small fences.  You need to see it in order to understand.  The commentator referred to the dog owners as mummy or daddy.

I am trying hard to stick to No. 10 of my list at the moment because I get my results on Wednesday evening.  I will have some idea of my prognosis although there will be no guarantees.  I keep thinking there are people who already know what my results are and it feels strange.  Another lady, Helen, who had her lumpectomy on the 14^th April, will learn her prognosis today.  I am keeping my fingers crossed for her.  She has been waiting 24 days for her results whilst I will have been waiting 13.  I have prepared a long list of questions.  My thinking is – question everything – my poor consultant!  A large part of me is convinced that my news will be good.  Why am I convinced?  I have no idea whether it is optimism or denial.  I just hope I am right.  I’m feeling stressed because I don’t know who to take with me for this one – who to inflict it on!  It might be easier to go in alone.

1^st May 2007

I am keeping busy after having to defer for 6 months from my nursing course.  I was diagnosed just before I was due to begin my final work placement on an Ear, Nose and Throat ward.  My bombshell landed during the Easter holidays so it was difficult getting in touch with the School of Nursing.  I eventually received a sympathetic email suggesting that I arrange a meeting after my surgery.   I explained that I really needed to know about funding now as I have a mortgage and eventually I telephoned for advice.  I was told that in circumstances like this, students had been able to receive their bursary for 6 months.  I felt relieved but I needed to be sure of my financial situation so eventually a meeting date was agreed.  The day before my surgery I met with the same person who told me I would be eligible for sick pay for only 2 months and then I would need to phone student grants for a letter and approach my local benefits office.

I was worried and still am.  I felt misled.  I had black clouds gathering over my head.  I need to sort this one out quickly because I will have officially been off sick for 1 month very soon and by the time I have had my second operation there will be just weeks left of my bursary.   I have found a flexible cleaning job but there will be periods when I have to rest my right arm like now.  Chemotherapy, (if I have to have it), can make you feel very ill too.  I scraped paint off the house wall with my left arm yesterday but it was slow work and too tempting to use my right arm.  If only it had been my left breast, I thought. My mum dropped items into her supermarket trolley whilst merrily singing yesterday and without looking too closely at prices.  I have to be more careful.  I was reaching the end of my tether as a student and now I find student life extended by 6 months.  Life is like a game of monopoly at the moment and all my chance cards are crap.  I still have a Saturday job and I know I will find something else but it does worry me.

Thankfully, one worry I seem to have forgotten is being single and dating.  I have been touting my wares on the love market for many years now but recently I had been thinking about retiring.  I couldn’t seem to meet any normal men for a long time – they were either bitter about their ex, still in love with their ex, married or asked if they could think about it, (i.e. check out some other women), and get back to me in 2 weeks.  On one memorable occasion I even received a text meant for a guy’s ex.  I suppose it was an easy mistake to make because ironically we both have the same name.  She’s called ‘Hey Gorgeous’ too.  Then, I heard a solicitor speaking on the radio recently.  She claimed that in a UK survey that she had carried out, 60% of men now admitted to cheating on their partner and 43% of women!  So, I gave up and went back to eyeing up young men.

When I found my lump I had been seeing a guy from a dating website.  I used internet dating because as you get older you have less time to separate the wheat from the chaff and sometimes you need to make things happen.  It is rare to bump into a good man in a bar or anywhere else.  He was a nice, normal guy, well mannered and clearly looked after himself.  We had common interests.  I decided to take it very slowly and I think the unidentified lump made me hesitant and perhaps a little protective.  He liked me.  My mum would have liked him and even persuaded my dad into liking him.  Things were looking good but… there was no spark.  I told myself this didn’t matter, I was going to let love grow so give it a good chance Lou!  I gave it a chance and then I found out I had breast cancer.  I told him and he was sympathetic and even said this didn’t change anything.  I wasn’t convinced and I felt sorry for him as he had surely drawn the shortest straw on Dating Direct.  Part of me felt I should leap into bed like a condemned woman at every opportunity, grabbing every last chance of happiness I could, but finally a conversation about camels ended any possibility of a relationship with the guy for me.

We went for a long walk one day along the river and he admitted that he was scared of horses and thought camels were nasty, vile creatures.  I love nature and happen to think camels are very beautiful.  I have a friend who agrees with me about camels; he loves their dark eyes and lovely long lashes.  I think he is holding out for the perfect camel to come along.  It wasn’t just about camels of course but that was the last straw.  He had nearly done a skydive once but backed out at the last moment.  There were other ’scary’ things he mentioned like being seriously scared of aging that put me off.  I thought, I have breast cancer - I don’t want a man who’s scared.  ‘Scared’ cannot be part of my vocabulary at the moment.  I want to try new things and feel the adrenaline pumping around my body and know I am alive.  Life affirming stuff.  I politely told him that now was not the right time for me.  It probably wasn’t anyway.  He took it badly, labelling dating websites ’seedy’ and exclaimed he was giving it up because he had been turned down by the only 2 women he had met and liked since his last long relationship ended.  I asked him how many women he had met through the site.  “6 or 7,” he said.   Hmmm, 2 knock backs out of 6… not bad, I’ve lost count. 

So, I’ve given up dating for the moment.  I worry that I am now damaged goods.  The scars will be visible and I can’t lie about having the big ‘C’ and its implications.  Relationships are hard enough when the participants are healthy.  My brother and sister-in-law are now separated and I think it may have been different for them if cancer had not been part of their lives from very early on in the relationship.  Even long, established relationships must suffer under the strain of stressful events like serious illness.  I know I am not necessarily a condemned woman but I have to be realistic too.  If a relationship happens, then great.   Of course I still look.  I am receiving a lot of offers on MySpace, many of them from strange people with the same model-like photo and some who can’t possibly have read my profile.  I may take the ‘dating’ word out of my profile because although I have received some great messages too, perhaps it’s not the right time.  I have accepted one great (innocent) offer though from Mr Scratchet, of a ride on a Buell motorbike which I am very excited about!  

Now just before I strike the word dating from my profile, if any older women would like an 18 year old toy boy, I can supply an email address – older women in the 40 to 70 year bracket only, must have lots of energy.  Watch the replies roll in!  Be scared young man, be very very scared!