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So the euphoria of the surgery going well, and me feeling remarkably well afterwards, has worn off. As I write, I’m waiting to go and see my surgeon to find out about the histology of what they removed, i.e. has all this treatment got rid of the cancer, or is there still some there? Whatever they tell me, I’ll have to come to terms with a new reality. A reality that I can’t prepare myself for, because I don’t know what it’ll look like.

I’ve shed some tears over the last few days. There’s obviously the loss of a boob, which has been replaced with, what appears to be, a disproportionately large flat section of chest. It looks like more than half of my chest is empty, while the remaining boob hangs forlornly next to it. Weird.

I thought I’d cry when I came round from the surgery and looked down and saw a dressing in place of a breast. In actual fact, I was fine and pretty pleased with it. The mourning set in a week later when the dressing got soggy in the shower. I’d avoided removing it any earlier because I was afraid of seeing the “naked” wound. I had wound clinic later that day, so I knew the moment would come, but I’d have my husband with me and I wouldn’t have to face it on my own. The dressing was sopping and I sobbed as I peeled away at the edges that were still well and truly attached.  Thankfully there was a smaller dressing along the suture line, which is still there now. Apparently they will remove that this afternoon, so the naked-scar viewing still awaits. To me, seeing it will be part of my new reality.

The other thing that has made me cry and feel sick, in equal measure, over the last few days, is numbness. I currently have no sensation in my armpit, parts of my affected arm or either side of my mastectomy wound. To me it’s grim- especially the armpit bit! I’ve tried two deodorant-application tactics: my husband doing it and me not looking. Made me feel sick. Me looking in a mirror and doing it. Made me feel sick. I guess I’ll get used to it and there’s a chance the sensation could come back, but for now this is my reality. It’s making me pull a face just writing about it.

So here I am, in limbo land. I don’t know what I hope they’ll tell me later today. I’ve now been undergoing cancer treatment for six months. I’ve got used to a new world of appointments – tests, treatments, results. I’ve got used to living life in constant anticipation of the next thing that will happen. I don’t feel like I’m battling cancer, but my doctors are. Waging a series of war-like tactics to rid my body of a deadly imposter.  But what happens if they win? How will I feel then?

I’m worried that, if they do give me good news later, I won’t be suitably elated. I have no idea how I’ll feel if they tell me something else. Right now, I don’t know what the something else could be or what it could mean. In any case, both are temporary.  Good news now means I will soon be out of the comfort blanket of constant surveillance. Who will be looking for if it has spread or presents as a new primary in the other breast? If they have found active cancer in the nodes they removed, what will that mean? In the flesh, I don’t know what I hope for. I guess I’m feeling numb from more than just the surgery.

My melancholy musings remind me of one of my favourite Bible verses.

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain about what we do not see. (Hebrews 11:1)

Here is where I’m grateful to have a faith in all of this. In the flesh I hardly know what I think or feel today. But, spiritually, I’m sure about what I hope for and it can’t be taken away from me. God loves me and my hope is in Him. For deep joy in whatever this life throws at me, and glory that is beyond my imagination in eternal life with Him. I read this, this morning & it lifted me:

If God is for us, who can be against us?

(Romans 8:31)

I know He is for me. My hope is in Him to carry me through the next few hours and whatever ensues thereafter.

So I haven’t posted for a while because I’ve been observing my journey. Reflecting on all sorts really. Dr Rosanna and I started off this blog with a view to looking at the effect of optimising my microbiome on my wellbeing throughout treatment. Ironically I haven’t commented at all on that, but six cycles of chemo down (and finished- woohoo!), I can genuinely say that, when my side-effects have allowed and I’ve been able to eat foods that I know give my microbiome a boost, I’ve felt at my best. Continue reading “Chemo Comfort Zone?”

So here we go again, three weeks have flown by and my next round of chemotherapy is imminent. Number 4 of 6 woohoo, I’m halfway through! I have to say, I’m a bit apprehensive about it this time. Annoyingly I’m finding myself experiencing all sorts of unhelpful psychological association “symptoms” ahead of this next treatment.  Just little things; the word, chemo; the smell of certain hand soap and washing up liquid; the sight of glitter on my nail polish Continue reading “Poo emoji”

I don’t even want to touch it. Even looking at it makes me feel sick. If I wash it, webs of it wrap around my fingers and collect on the shower floor. If I dry it, it cascades across the room. My scalp hurts. Every sensation causes me to run my fingers through it, grasping for the inevitable strands that have come loose. This week, my hair is my torment.

 

Continue reading “Losing my hair, just don’t care…..”

“You might be a bit tetchy”, they said.

“Be honest with your children”, they said.

It turns out the two are a dangerous combination! Day 5 of my first chemo cycle found me devastating my 10 year old with the news that Father Christmas isn’t real and neither is tooth fairy!

“But how do you get presents?” he protested forlornly.

“We buy them ourselves, what do you think we do?” Continue reading ““Chemo Helen””

“And away we go!”

That’s what my year 8 chemistry teacher used to say as he launched into some kind of chemical explanation! Quite apt really, considering the cocktail of chemicals I’m receiving during this 48 hour period.

I’m coming towards the end of day one of my treatment for the invasive ductal carcinoma that I have been diagnosed with in my left breast and in one of my lymph nodes. Aged 38, fit, healthy and with none of the known risk factors for breast cancer, the events of the last month have been unexpected, to say the least. Continue reading “Day One”