The press today is full of discussion about Angelina Jolie's decision to have a double mastectomy to prevent breast cancer. She carries the BRCA1 gene, giving her an 87% chance of getting breast cancer and a 50% chance of getting ovarian cancer, the same cancer that killed her mother. The process has meant some pre-operative preparation, the mastectomies and then reconstruction, taking 8 weeks or so in all. During this time she has continued to work and no-one has noticed a thing. Now she has taken the plunge, others are revealing their cancer battles too. Her interview, with The Times, is incredibly matter-of-fact: I had these odds presented to me, I wanted to give myself the best chance of a future with my family so here is what I did. The articles praise her bravery - and take the "opportunity" to publish pictures of her in the skimpiest outfits possible.
This all sets me thinking - is it really that brave to take the treatment, preventative, curative or palliative? Or is it a courage born of necessity? No-one wants to go through pain and illness but when, like Angelina, you're faced with the choice between treatment pain and dying pain, between seeing your children grow up and them seeing you crumble away, that doesn't strike me as courage.
Please don't misunderstand me, I am in no way denigrating what she or any other cancer affected person has gone through. It just made me think a bit about the times people have said to me, "You're so brave, going through that horrible treatment". And I've smiled shyly, shaken my head and rejected the compliment in that terribly British way. Then I look at my children and realise there's nothing else I could have done. When cancer leaves you with only one choice you can make - between living and dying - that's no choice at all.
Thursday, 16 May 2013
Supplements
Having been pretty anti supplements previously, I've reconsidered my position. This is mostly due to feeling the effects on my body of the recovery process, on my teeth in particular. They were really sensitive, probably from the chemo stripping out all my calcium, but as the days go by they feel better and better, to the point where I can eat ice cream again (as long as it's only on one side - the other is still pretty raw). I might even stop microwaving my cereal to take the chill off it.
So I hit the Internet and my supplement list now reads:
Multi-vitamin and mineral - for general support
Ibuprofen - for the joint inflammation
Turmeric - good for bowel cancer patients, apparently (I figure it can't hurt)
Garlic - said to be good for health generally (and I happened to have some kicking around!)
Maxi green - a capsule containing wheatgrass, spirulina, chorella and some other green substances. Fresh wheatgrass is supposed to be better but as I can't be bothered with juicing it fresh and we're going away on holiday soon, this is more convenient. The whole lot are said to be full of minerals and vitamins and help with energy levels. We shall see.
So I hit the Internet and my supplement list now reads:
Multi-vitamin and mineral - for general support
Ibuprofen - for the joint inflammation
Turmeric - good for bowel cancer patients, apparently (I figure it can't hurt)
Garlic - said to be good for health generally (and I happened to have some kicking around!)
Maxi green - a capsule containing wheatgrass, spirulina, chorella and some other green substances. Fresh wheatgrass is supposed to be better but as I can't be bothered with juicing it fresh and we're going away on holiday soon, this is more convenient. The whole lot are said to be full of minerals and vitamins and help with energy levels. We shall see.
Definitely ALL CLEAR!
One week after the colonoscopy and I'm waiting for the phone call from the surgeon's secretary asking me politely if I wouldn't mind bringing my appointment forward. This is what happened last time and the part of me that can't bring myself to believe that the cancer has gone is anticipating a re-run. But I try to keep cheerful, even saying to my Mum that no news must be good news.
The very minute I finish my phone call with my Mum, the phone goes again and the surgeon's secretary's number flashes up. My heart sinks into the floor but it's good news - no sign of anything at all.
At last, the proper All Clear. Somehow this one feels like it truly might be over. There are no more areas of doubt or uncertainty. The cancer is gone and I can pick myself up and move on.
The very minute I finish my phone call with my Mum, the phone goes again and the surgeon's secretary's number flashes up. My heart sinks into the floor but it's good news - no sign of anything at all.
At last, the proper All Clear. Somehow this one feels like it truly might be over. There are no more areas of doubt or uncertainty. The cancer is gone and I can pick myself up and move on.
Friday, 10 May 2013
Moving on... Or not
The past two weeks have been hectic. Life seems to have kicked back in, but in a curious new shape governed by cancer.
In the "normality" corner we have a long weekend in the West Country with my in-laws, doing normal stuff like playing on the beach and sitting in the sunshine. Everyone - me included - relaxes. This is what life should be like.
In the "cancer" corner we have a colonoscopy to check out the bit that wasn't clear on the scanner. My oncologist finished the last consultation by telling me that she, my surgeon and her usual radiologist would discuss what they wanted to do at the next MDT, and she would call me. Unusually for her, she didn't, so the first I knew was the surgeon's secretary calling me to arrange a full colonoscopy. Good job I'm not a panicker... The surgeon's secretary is marvellous, not only fitting me in quickly but arranging things so that I don't have to do two days bowel prep but can "clear out" (ahem) on the ward on the day. This is important as the procedure is the day after we get back from the West Country and five hours in the inevitable Bank Holiday traffic jams whilst trying to deal with the effects of a dose of Picolax just doesn't appeal somehow.
The procedure is routine and he finds nothing alarming. There's one tiny nodule that he biopsies but nothing more than that. Back to see him in a month for results.
There is also an assessment by the Occupational Health doctor. My Mum takes me as the colonoscopy was the previous day and the sedative is still in my system. Frankly it could have been done on the phone, as all we do is chat. He asks very general questions about fatigue and emotional state, then declares that there is no medical reason I can't go back to work on reduced hours, with a mix of office and home working. I have to explain to him the peripheral neuropathy problems and the memory/cognitive capability problems.
This is good news and bad news. Good news because I do want to get back to work; bad news because I'm not sure how this is going to work. The day after I see Occ Health I'm so tired I can't think straight. There's so much to do without being at work that I can't see how it's all going to get done now, never mind when I'm trying to work as well. Nothing I've tried shakes this low - not choir, not gym, nothing. Maybe sleep will help...
In the "normality" corner we have a long weekend in the West Country with my in-laws, doing normal stuff like playing on the beach and sitting in the sunshine. Everyone - me included - relaxes. This is what life should be like.
In the "cancer" corner we have a colonoscopy to check out the bit that wasn't clear on the scanner. My oncologist finished the last consultation by telling me that she, my surgeon and her usual radiologist would discuss what they wanted to do at the next MDT, and she would call me. Unusually for her, she didn't, so the first I knew was the surgeon's secretary calling me to arrange a full colonoscopy. Good job I'm not a panicker... The surgeon's secretary is marvellous, not only fitting me in quickly but arranging things so that I don't have to do two days bowel prep but can "clear out" (ahem) on the ward on the day. This is important as the procedure is the day after we get back from the West Country and five hours in the inevitable Bank Holiday traffic jams whilst trying to deal with the effects of a dose of Picolax just doesn't appeal somehow.
The procedure is routine and he finds nothing alarming. There's one tiny nodule that he biopsies but nothing more than that. Back to see him in a month for results.
There is also an assessment by the Occupational Health doctor. My Mum takes me as the colonoscopy was the previous day and the sedative is still in my system. Frankly it could have been done on the phone, as all we do is chat. He asks very general questions about fatigue and emotional state, then declares that there is no medical reason I can't go back to work on reduced hours, with a mix of office and home working. I have to explain to him the peripheral neuropathy problems and the memory/cognitive capability problems.
This is good news and bad news. Good news because I do want to get back to work; bad news because I'm not sure how this is going to work. The day after I see Occ Health I'm so tired I can't think straight. There's so much to do without being at work that I can't see how it's all going to get done now, never mind when I'm trying to work as well. Nothing I've tried shakes this low - not choir, not gym, nothing. Maybe sleep will help...
Saturday, 27 April 2013
First steps of next steps
Three positives this week (above the all clear, obviously):
I see a recruitment consultant on Monday, to discuss possible options. I would like to be back in a client facing role and she seems to think it's a tricky one, but not impossible. She produces a list of target firms and some interesting angles of approach. Whilst it feels disloyal to my current employers, who have been marvellous, this could take months to come to fruition so there's no harm in dipping a toe in the water.
Work start being proactive in helping me back to work, so occupational health are on the move with assessments and return to work plans. At a guess, I'll be back sometime in late May or early June.
I see a counsellor on Friday. It helps to talk to someone whose feelings I don't have to consider, who is outside all this, and she and I are going to have more sessions. DH is coming along, too. It will be painful, but worth it if it helps us come to terms with our new life.
I see a recruitment consultant on Monday, to discuss possible options. I would like to be back in a client facing role and she seems to think it's a tricky one, but not impossible. She produces a list of target firms and some interesting angles of approach. Whilst it feels disloyal to my current employers, who have been marvellous, this could take months to come to fruition so there's no harm in dipping a toe in the water.
Work start being proactive in helping me back to work, so occupational health are on the move with assessments and return to work plans. At a guess, I'll be back sometime in late May or early June.
I see a counsellor on Friday. It helps to talk to someone whose feelings I don't have to consider, who is outside all this, and she and I are going to have more sessions. DH is coming along, too. It will be painful, but worth it if it helps us come to terms with our new life.
Side effects review
Four weeks post the last chemo dose, a status review on side effects:
Weight gain - still there! I am being a bit more disciplined about food though and trying to be calm about it. The only point I got really distressed was when I had to take my wedding and signet rings off because my fingers had expanded (see below).
Peripheral neuropathy - still limited to my fingertips and soles of my feet, which affects my balance. No sign of improvement yet but this can take up to a year to clear, if it does at all.
Hormones - no sign of normal monthly cycle resuming, but the Zoladex is only just wearing off. The oncologist advises that if things aren't back to normal in a couple of months then I should see the GP as it will probably mean premature menopause and I'll need some help to prevent osteoporosis.
Tiredness - improving, in that I no longer need a nap in the afternoon. I still can't stay up later than 9 pm without nodding off though.
Swollen joints - this is a new one. Apparently my newly recharged immune system is in overdrive and attacking my joints, causing a slight arthritic swelling. This is a) not permanent and can be fixed with regular doses of ibuprofen or paracetamol until the problem goes away and b) not unusual in younger patients. And I thought I couldn't take my rings off because of the weight gain!
Fingernails - brittle and flaky. You can see the chemo coming through like rings in a tree trunk.
Brain function - my memory is still unreliable, but it doesn't seem to be getting worse.
I'm taking some multivitamins, minerals and probiotics, but I'm thinking about more specific supplements to help with the repair work. Yes, even turmeric is on the list.
Weight gain - still there! I am being a bit more disciplined about food though and trying to be calm about it. The only point I got really distressed was when I had to take my wedding and signet rings off because my fingers had expanded (see below).
Peripheral neuropathy - still limited to my fingertips and soles of my feet, which affects my balance. No sign of improvement yet but this can take up to a year to clear, if it does at all.
Hormones - no sign of normal monthly cycle resuming, but the Zoladex is only just wearing off. The oncologist advises that if things aren't back to normal in a couple of months then I should see the GP as it will probably mean premature menopause and I'll need some help to prevent osteoporosis.
Tiredness - improving, in that I no longer need a nap in the afternoon. I still can't stay up later than 9 pm without nodding off though.
Swollen joints - this is a new one. Apparently my newly recharged immune system is in overdrive and attacking my joints, causing a slight arthritic swelling. This is a) not permanent and can be fixed with regular doses of ibuprofen or paracetamol until the problem goes away and b) not unusual in younger patients. And I thought I couldn't take my rings off because of the weight gain!
Fingernails - brittle and flaky. You can see the chemo coming through like rings in a tree trunk.
Brain function - my memory is still unreliable, but it doesn't seem to be getting worse.
I'm taking some multivitamins, minerals and probiotics, but I'm thinking about more specific supplements to help with the repair work. Yes, even turmeric is on the list.
The wine industry owes me
24 hours post results and 12 hours after announcing the all clear on Facebook, going by the texts and comments I count at least seven bottles of champagne/sparkling wine being opened and that doesn't include ours. Any excuse...
The response is overwhelming. Both my in-laws cry. Several of my friends cry, many of them at their desks in their offices. My Facebook status is full of happy hugs, kisses and cries of delight. DH goes to work and is missile-hugged by one of his colleagues. I didn't realise so many people cared so much - it's easy to forget the world outside your own battle bubble.
DD skips home from school, singing, "Cancer got its butt kicked". DS gives me a huge hug and rewards me by sleeping through for two nights.
Emotionally, this is a weird moment. I should be on top of the world, but it all feels like a bit of an anti-climax. When I came up with the title of this blog it was in response to the original diagnosis but the "So now what?" question has been pertinent so many times since then and never more so than now. But for a few days we can all relax and celebrate.
The response is overwhelming. Both my in-laws cry. Several of my friends cry, many of them at their desks in their offices. My Facebook status is full of happy hugs, kisses and cries of delight. DH goes to work and is missile-hugged by one of his colleagues. I didn't realise so many people cared so much - it's easy to forget the world outside your own battle bubble.
DD skips home from school, singing, "Cancer got its butt kicked". DS gives me a huge hug and rewards me by sleeping through for two nights.
Emotionally, this is a weird moment. I should be on top of the world, but it all feels like a bit of an anti-climax. When I came up with the title of this blog it was in response to the original diagnosis but the "So now what?" question has been pertinent so many times since then and never more so than now. But for a few days we can all relax and celebrate.
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