Note to readers: this article discusses breast cancer treatment and contains some strong language.
I left the hospital as it started to snow heavily. Cold, white and serene. The beast from the East had arrived in its full glory. Driving down a steep hill, I fishtailed multiple times almost careering into a ditch and a hedge on separate occasions. Sardonically, I thought to myself: if the cancer doesn’t kill me, my driving will!
Breaking the news
My brain was racing so I rang the only person I know who has been on this journey. My Aunt, the very best of our little clan, answered sleepily. Shit. She’s on holiday in Australia visiting Mum and it’s the middle of the night there. I offered to call back at a more sociable hour but she declined so I ranted incoherently. And sobbed. And she sobbed. It was the beginning of the great sobbing party of March 2018.
She broke the news to Mum for me as I paced our lounge, bitterly aware of the 4am hurt storm that was currently hitting Australia. I felt guilt for waking everyone up – what a fucking delivery, Ness. I rang off as my husband’s key turned in the lock and braced for the live grenade I was about to drop into our lives. The weekend disappeared into a blur but by the end of it, we had a new mantra:
It’s going to be shit for a bit, then it’s going to be OK. No room for doubt.
First up: Mastectomy
I didn’t sleep very well last night but I am not surprised, really. Today is going to change my life – bye bye good boob, bye bye cancer, bye bye Big Squishy and your little friend Peanut, in the bin you go!
We arrive at the hospital and I get given a blue gown that leaves it all hanging out at the back. No dignity for my arse but at least my tits are covered. I am trying to make silly jokes to distract everyone, including myself. This is mistaken for strength but it is not. I am scared. I am terrified. I am keeping a brave face. The little girl that hides inside of me is quivering under a rock.
I’m in shock and freezing cold so I ask for some blankets and as I thaw out, I drift off to sleep. Time passes then the nurse wakes me up to take me to the anaesthetist. Yes, you heard that correctly:
I had to be woken up to be knocked out; that’s just the way I roll.
Chemotherapy next – lots of it
A few weeks go by before I have my first cocktail. Ain’t no party like a chemo party! I was a little too loud for the gentle propriety of the ward and as I sat there, I tried to make light of the situation – I tend to get verbal diarrhoea when I’m nervous.
They told me the chemo would take two hours but we ran into a few minor issues so the nurses had my delightful company for six hours instead. I’m so glad that my friend took me today, she kept me smiling and wrote all of the important information down for me to review at a later date once the intravenous steroid frenzy wore off.
I got poked, prodded and tested in a variety of manners. I saw Doctors, nurses, and had various scans. The low down is I am allergic to the Picc line dressings and have a pretty reaction flourishing on my arm. Also my Picc line is uncomfortable where it sits inside the vein just above my heart, so they had to x-ray and concluded that nothing was in fact wrong but “Some people are just more sensitive than others.” Just call me Petal.
I am now also on antibiotics, not penicillin I might add, as I am allergic to that, just to add to the chaos. The antibiotics have been prescribed due to the fact that my ‘where a boob was once found’ site is bright red. Infection? Possibly – so that also had to be inspected by every member of staff, their wives and their cousins before I finally got the go ahead for the FECing payload.
The intravenous steroids that they gave me are pretty potent and removed what little brain to mouth filter that I possess. Once these kicked in I was threatening to clean their windows amongst other absurdities! Full of silly frenzied humour I sang merrily: “Let’s get this FECing party started in here!”, my new rendition of a song by Pink.
Not that bad really…
The chemo wasn’t that bad; it was more of an anticlimax actually. I suppose I don’t know what I expected. One of the drugs, Epirubicin, the E part of the F.E.C acronym was quite colourful and I have been warned that my wee might change colour for a short while because of it. When this drug went in, the nurse sat by, vigilantly watching me. Apparently, if there was going to be an allergic reaction, this would be the drug that caused it. I mentally note this for next time with a steroid frenzied giggle. It goes well and I’m fine – apart from the misbehaviour and tone-deaf singing, obviously.
The lady next to me who is also having her treatment kept giggling at my outbursts and interjections. At this point, it’s the sane people I feel sorry for as I’m cresting a wave of steroid high.
By the end of the session the nurses call me HappiNess, I sure hope this ‘joie de vie’ lasts.
As I leave the ward I’m smiling, I feel generally OK. My mouth feels like a fur ball and I have bright orange wee but all in all, I’m not in bad shape.
Look out for the final Part 3 in a couple of weeks.
For information and support about breast cancer, see https://breastcancernow.org/information-support/support-you/online-support-services
Support for younger women can be found on https://breastcancernow.org/information-support/support-you/younger-women-together
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