Christmas is conventionally an incredibly busy time with parties, families but this Christmas has been slightly different.
Yesterday I was in hospital all day having scans. First the ultrasound for the liver directed by a delightful, if completely deadpan doctor who having told me that he thought me both bright and educated, then decided to hide the ultrasound screen from me. Absolutely infuriating and as soon as he started taking photographs with his scanner of sights unseen my mind was already racing to multiple spots. Then, he turned, hung up his ultrasound probe and in the most monotonous voice I have ever heard pronounced me 'free of cancer' in my liver.
I almost wept with relief.
Then on to nuclear medicine where I received an injection of radiation material into my arm. This then circulates around my body and I had to return in two hours to be scanned for the final result. In the meanwhile, I was ushered into the x ray room where my chest was xrayed for lung cancer metastases.
Finally, returning as I did from a game of Monopoly two hours later, I lay on a bed where a large square camera photographed my bones looking for 'hot spots' which shows bone changes. These will be compared against my previous scans to see if there are any potential cancer spots.
The latter two results I won't have until my oncology appointment next Tuesday.
Was it really only 15 months that I went through all this last? How many more times will this happen? Will there ever be a life free of cancer, and of its resultant checks and balances?
Every morning when I wake up and last minute before I surrender myself to sleep, I feel the hard lump just below my shoulder blade. Every day, it reminds me of the sheer immutability of cancer, of the stubborness of the disease. Just remember Mr Carcinoma before you start dancing over the embers of this flesh, that this spirit can be stronger, more stubborn and infinitely more immutable than you.
Happy New Year to all,
Minerva
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Sunday, December 24, 2006
How?
How do I begin to say thank you? How can I possibly express my thanks, my gratitude, my incredulity at the outpouring of comments that seem to have attacked my blog in the last couple of days? Isn't it wonderful that out of something so 'crap' has come something so amazing? I thank personally each and every one of you, shake you by the hand and look deep into your eyes to say the words.
And now, back to reality. It is sinking in, or rather, bits sink in. I realise that this may be my last Christmas and I am, just like last time, hoping for the best whilst preparing for the worst. I make a will in January, and have already alerted work that I won't be going back for a while. If it really is bad news then I need to start making memories with my children. If, on the other hand, it is only confined to my lymph nodes, then I need to start treatment as soon as possible.
I have always wondered what I would say to someone who was terminally ill, who was looking at her death in the face uncertain of exactly when it would be, maybe months, maybe years and the truth is that you continue to talk of the minor things in life, just like before. One jokes, one laughs and one continues because, my friends, you have to. To do anything else is to give the cancer its victory.
I can't be alone yet. That I do know. We had our special Christmas day on Friday and I took the girls to the station for the train to Daddy's house. I then returned home and in my solitary state, those demons from the shadows surrounded me, the thoughts started swimming into my mind. I called my family who came and again, those shadowy thoughts have receded. They still sit, though, in the pools of darkness in the corner of these rooms ready to attack again. I now have my love here, and he holds them back with his shield of warm arms. My children return on Boxing day and their cries, their laughter will prick those darknesses into submission.
I feel it every morning and every evening. Every day, I wake up innocent and new until I remember, remember my time is running out and my sand glass has started running. All I want for Christmas is time: time to see my girls grow up, time to see my eldest start her driving lessons, and no doubt, crash her first car; time to see my middle daughter sail into university on a galleon of academic excellence and finally, see my youngest daughter surprise me by doing anything from university to run away to the circus. That is the only time I start weeping; when I realise I won't be here...
And the fact is, much as I dare to hope, the over riding odds tell me I won't be here. That cancer does have a history and as the doctor said, the clues to the future are in the past. This cancer is fast growing, aggressive and has come back incredibly fast. I will hope, I will fight, I have so very much to live for, but I will also prepare, prepare for my absence and my passing.
To you all, a very wonderful Christmas. Hold all the minutes you have; you never know when you will start counting them.
Minerva
And now, back to reality. It is sinking in, or rather, bits sink in. I realise that this may be my last Christmas and I am, just like last time, hoping for the best whilst preparing for the worst. I make a will in January, and have already alerted work that I won't be going back for a while. If it really is bad news then I need to start making memories with my children. If, on the other hand, it is only confined to my lymph nodes, then I need to start treatment as soon as possible.
I have always wondered what I would say to someone who was terminally ill, who was looking at her death in the face uncertain of exactly when it would be, maybe months, maybe years and the truth is that you continue to talk of the minor things in life, just like before. One jokes, one laughs and one continues because, my friends, you have to. To do anything else is to give the cancer its victory.
I can't be alone yet. That I do know. We had our special Christmas day on Friday and I took the girls to the station for the train to Daddy's house. I then returned home and in my solitary state, those demons from the shadows surrounded me, the thoughts started swimming into my mind. I called my family who came and again, those shadowy thoughts have receded. They still sit, though, in the pools of darkness in the corner of these rooms ready to attack again. I now have my love here, and he holds them back with his shield of warm arms. My children return on Boxing day and their cries, their laughter will prick those darknesses into submission.
I feel it every morning and every evening. Every day, I wake up innocent and new until I remember, remember my time is running out and my sand glass has started running. All I want for Christmas is time: time to see my girls grow up, time to see my eldest start her driving lessons, and no doubt, crash her first car; time to see my middle daughter sail into university on a galleon of academic excellence and finally, see my youngest daughter surprise me by doing anything from university to run away to the circus. That is the only time I start weeping; when I realise I won't be here...
And the fact is, much as I dare to hope, the over riding odds tell me I won't be here. That cancer does have a history and as the doctor said, the clues to the future are in the past. This cancer is fast growing, aggressive and has come back incredibly fast. I will hope, I will fight, I have so very much to live for, but I will also prepare, prepare for my absence and my passing.
To you all, a very wonderful Christmas. Hold all the minutes you have; you never know when you will start counting them.
Minerva
Friday, December 22, 2006
Bugger, it's back.
Bugger it's back and apologies to all you wonderful people who hate swearing. Yes, Mr Carcinoma got so fed up with his bungalow that he upped sticks and moved into my lymph nodes up near my shoulder.
This isn't good news, it isn't even bad news, I think it is one step further than that. This means that my breast cancer is spreading and to have a recurrence/spread less than six months after the end of aggressive treatment - well, it speaks for itself, doesn't it?
So what next? Scans in the next two weeks to check if I have tumours in my bones, my lungs or my liver, all of which are places that breast cancer tumours like to move to. I meet the oncologist next on the second of January to discuss which chemo I will be going on. So thank goodness I didn't get this interim growth cut and highlighted a couple of weeks ago as that would have been a complete waste given that it will fall out again!
The biggest shock? When the doctor told me that surgery was not an option; the main scapulaic vein is underneath and would make it too risky. That makes my cancer inoperable and therefore incurable; treatable, but not curable. I find that incredibly scary.
I have checked out the prognosis for secondary tumours in my other organs. Bone cancer will take a while to kill me but liver and lung will be very quick. The average life span for someone who has been diagnosed with liver cancer is 18 months. And that scares me absolutely stupid.
I feel I have so much still to do; cancer to beat, books to write and above all, and most importantly my own dear daughters to guide, look after and love....
That is when I start crying. It is also when I remember that it is Christmas, and that what my children need most of all is a fun Christmas with memories of their mother laughing and having fun and that is what is going to happen.
To you all, I wish you a very merry Christmas. May your family bring you all you ever need or want ,
Minerva
This isn't good news, it isn't even bad news, I think it is one step further than that. This means that my breast cancer is spreading and to have a recurrence/spread less than six months after the end of aggressive treatment - well, it speaks for itself, doesn't it?
So what next? Scans in the next two weeks to check if I have tumours in my bones, my lungs or my liver, all of which are places that breast cancer tumours like to move to. I meet the oncologist next on the second of January to discuss which chemo I will be going on. So thank goodness I didn't get this interim growth cut and highlighted a couple of weeks ago as that would have been a complete waste given that it will fall out again!
The biggest shock? When the doctor told me that surgery was not an option; the main scapulaic vein is underneath and would make it too risky. That makes my cancer inoperable and therefore incurable; treatable, but not curable. I find that incredibly scary.
I have checked out the prognosis for secondary tumours in my other organs. Bone cancer will take a while to kill me but liver and lung will be very quick. The average life span for someone who has been diagnosed with liver cancer is 18 months. And that scares me absolutely stupid.
I feel I have so much still to do; cancer to beat, books to write and above all, and most importantly my own dear daughters to guide, look after and love....
That is when I start crying. It is also when I remember that it is Christmas, and that what my children need most of all is a fun Christmas with memories of their mother laughing and having fun and that is what is going to happen.
To you all, I wish you a very merry Christmas. May your family bring you all you ever need or want ,
Minerva
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Silence
Silence can be a herald of good news. Like an angel from on high, silence can unfurl its banner and lie there like an obedient dog. And indeed, for the past two months, the silence has been a sign of good things. My love continues to infiltrate my life, my children have done so well at school and my own career has been building block upon block to create a normality.
All until about five weeks ago when I found yet another lump on my shoulder. A quick appointment to the clinic where I couldn't have an ultrasound but was told it was either a fibroid from the radiotherapy or a lipoma or 'fat lump'. Neither of which are treacherous, just an embarrassing foray away from the path of cancer.
But all that changed yesterday.
Yesterday, I had my ultrasound. The look of concern on the doctor's face deepened when he ran the colours which show blood flow over the lump. The lump is taking in and expelling blood, neither of which are seen in an inert lump, but which is seen in cancer.
Probably a swollen lymph node, it looks as though my original cancer friend has packed a suitcase and gone on holiday near my shoulder. Let's hope this is a quick holiday and that it isn't planning to emigrate full time as that might end the holiday that I am currently really enjoying..
Final results tomorrow and then a decision as to treatment and the way forward.
And how do I feel? A combination of heroic ( I have done it before, I will do it again...) and tearful especially when I heard the brass band heralding Christmas in the street today.
Will my body betray me yet again?
All until about five weeks ago when I found yet another lump on my shoulder. A quick appointment to the clinic where I couldn't have an ultrasound but was told it was either a fibroid from the radiotherapy or a lipoma or 'fat lump'. Neither of which are treacherous, just an embarrassing foray away from the path of cancer.
But all that changed yesterday.
Yesterday, I had my ultrasound. The look of concern on the doctor's face deepened when he ran the colours which show blood flow over the lump. The lump is taking in and expelling blood, neither of which are seen in an inert lump, but which is seen in cancer.
Probably a swollen lymph node, it looks as though my original cancer friend has packed a suitcase and gone on holiday near my shoulder. Let's hope this is a quick holiday and that it isn't planning to emigrate full time as that might end the holiday that I am currently really enjoying..
Final results tomorrow and then a decision as to treatment and the way forward.
And how do I feel? A combination of heroic ( I have done it before, I will do it again...) and tearful especially when I heard the brass band heralding Christmas in the street today.
Will my body betray me yet again?
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