THE AFTER PARTY

The day after.

I sleep from 8pm to 10am. A first for me. Only problem is I’m now behind on my pain med schedule and body is not in a good place this morning. I shove the first lot of pills in asap.

I have become very fond of the little pillow the Bosom Buddies made me. At night, it looks like a curled up cat in the dark. If I lie on my left, I can nestle the poor broken breasticle in it to get some relief.

I have been instructed to wear a special bra day and night. This bad boy is definitely not from the Victoria’s Secret range – or if it is, it’s from the very very secret Victoria’s Secret range. It has no less than 6 hooks and eyes at the back – and the front. It has shoulder straps that resemble tow-ropes and elastane fabric so thick and strong, you could use it for bungy jumping or an industrial-strength catapult. It is the chastity belt of bras, no one shall pass. I hate it.

My legs feel wobbly and tingly. No doubt the fallout from the cocktail of meds.

Shower, eat, do my physio exercises. So sore.

Parcel delivery!

I walk down to get a coffee – slowly but good to be out and about and moving again.

Le soutien-gorge très moche.

Lawnmowers.

I apologise for my blogs becoming a little morose and lack-lustre.

No juicy wounds or post-anaesthetic-poo to talk about.

Where did I sign-off last time? Oh yes, I had returned from Sydney feeling sorry for myself and in the doldrums. This week I’ve picked up a little wind but I’m still feeling a bit weepy. Not curled-up-in-the-foetal-position weepy just …. melancholy. I have spacey, vivid dreams and wake up exhausted. I eat normally, I haven’t been drinking, not taking any pain meds. I have clean sheets on the bed and my bills are up to date.

1 August 2022
WFH. DIY coffee, tappety tap on the keyboard, emails, ‘fixing’ stuff, running a few excellent pivot tables. Keen for tomorrow to roll around.

2 August 2022
Today is THE DAY. Looking forward to seeing the surgeon/maestro to get the low-down on the op, the biopsy and what comes next.

Coffee

Down to Outpatient Specialist Clinic at Calvary (I’m a regular now). Go past the lawnmower which appears to have been placed in the overgrown garden as ‘art’. I’m impressed.

Bang on time. I go through to the waiting room which is not as depressing as it could be. There are a few other people (women) there who are at various stages of treatment. There are multitudes of pamphlets around the room – which everyone is too embarrassed to view/collect eg. ‘Sexuality, intimacy and cancer’. There is a little kitchenette and fridge and the tv is playing Channel 7 News (again – why?!) A woman comes through to the room with her Bosom Buddies Show Bag and a ream of paperwork to fill out. I remember that from only a few weeks ago. It makes me sad to know she has obviously just been given The News. I would like to say hi but no one is talking and it seems intrusive. I leave her to her paperwork. 40 minutes later the doctor comes through.

I take my top off so he can see his handywork. He is happy with how the wound is healing. “Make sure you put moisturiser on”.

Summary (it’s a long one ….)
The cancer in the breast has been fully removed. The tissue they removed from around the tumour is clear of cancer. No more surgery required. Yet. Unfortunately, cancer cells have been detected in one of the sentinel lymph nodes they removed. This will need to be treated – probably with radiation, perhaps chemo – it will be up to the oncologists to determine. Regardless of the lymph node ‘issue’, it is likely they will blast my poor little breasticle with radiation anyway.

So your work here is done? Yes, I’ll see you again in a years’ time. Sunday at reception will make the necessary booking. You will need to obtain a referral from your GP and get a scan a few weeks prior to your appointment in July 2023.

Thank you.

I go to reception to see Sunday who is the most lovely, efficient woman. I ask whether Karen or Tamara, the breast cancer specialist nurses are available (I am feeling very deflated – still not sure what needs to happen). Unfortunately they are both busy. I will call them later.

What was I hoping for? I wanted to know how and when it will all end! When do I get back to normal? Can I book a holiday? What is the treatment regime ie. when/what/how much?

Reality Check: no one person, in this case, medical specialist is an expert at everything. The surgeon was just that. The surgeon. They’re good at chopping things up, taking stuff out, putting things in. Opening up the human body, doing their thing then closing it up again – making sure all the bits go back in the right place, everything is working and you’re still alive. Mission accomplished.

Meanwhile the anaesthetist is making sure you don’t feel any pain, at the same time, don’t die. Success!

The nurses make sure the poor broken, cut, drugged, stressed body is comfortable, cared for and heals. Their work is never done.

The pathologists receive the juicy tumour. They slice it up. Whizz it up. Put it in stuff, place it under a microscope. Find out if it’s good or bad. If it’s cancer, what stage it’s at and how aggressive it is. Write a report. Feed tumour to the resident lab cat.

Oncologists grab a cup of tea then sit down with the report to determine what kind of treatment is required to destroy the little cancer fucker.

As a wise man once said: “set expectations low”. Which is what I should have done on Tuesday. The surgeon has completed his bit, assessed the result and all is good. He now hands the baton to the oncology team. Who I am booked in to see next week. I will see both a radiation oncologist and a medical oncologist who will by then know, after numerous cups of tea and reading the pathology report, what kind of treatment is required.

I had hoped I wouldn’t have to wait another week but that is the gig. Suck it up sister.

On my way to the carpark I see the woman from the waiting room with the blue Bosom Buddies bag. I introduce myself, offer her my number and say if she ever felt like having a whinge, a laugh, a cry, to give me a call. She’s in good spirits, just shellshocked – and pissed off she will have to come off her HRT (which could mean hellfire, armageddon for her husband). She told me her cancer had been picked up through the national breast cancer screening program so ….. get your boobs checked chicks.

Life happens. Most of the time it is average – which is ok. We are safe, content, fulfilled – and mostly happy. Sometimes it is spectacular and we wish those times – that feeling – could last forever. Sometimes it’s shit and we muddle through. Sometimes it is so shit, we don’t even want to muddle through but rather make it all disappear.

Despite Vivien Leigh being an absolute fox, I don’t believe in ‘tomorrow is another day’. I believe in survival, being human, accepting the feelings you have now. I am a fan of the recuperative powers of a good night’s sleep. Perhaps a better way of viewing it could be: what ruined your today, won’t ruin your tomorrow – though even that is doubtful because lots of stuff that has ruined my today has ruined my tomorrow as well. Bastards. I’m not going to sit here and will-away or dismiss the feelings I have now, today, because they will likely be gone tomorrow. Fuck that. In fact I think the word tomorrow should be struck from the English vocabulary. It serves no purpose. Today and yesterday will suffice.

No news on the Mirena – that is MIA and so far down the list I can’t even be bothered thinking/worrying about it.

A shout out to my beautiful workplace who have been endlessly kind and supportive. I returned to the office this week, feels so good to be productive and part of the team again.

I have sourced some new bras which are fab-u-lous. No more frumpy-post-surgery-quasimodo-elephant-man-berlei bras. Feel somewhat feminine again.

My beautiful son Sam has been terrific. Helping out with chores, shopping, lifting, laundry. Not sure where he got the genes from but I’ll take some credit. Thank you Samuel F G xxx

Radiation.

The kindly nurse informed me she had had both her tits removed so knew all about ‘what I was going through’. I think it’s nice she (over)shared that morsel of information – though I wasn’t comforted. Something I have always been conscious of is trying not to ‘compare’ experiences. Hearing some stories makes me feel like a fraud. I won’t lose both my breasts. The type of cancer I have is treatable (some aren’t). People endure horrific diseases, pain, illness every day, it’s not a competition.

Each person will tackle a life challenge differently. One person’s fortitude, endurance, resilience will not necessarily be the same as the next. Nor should we expect it to be. While there will be constants, how an individual experiences – and copes with – life’s challenges, will vary infinitely. Availability of emotional and practical support from friends, community, work, loved ones; access to medical treatment; geography; income – myriad factors will influence your experience. Self-help books are generally rubbish. They may provide a few tools that will help some but mostly they’re just another writer regurgitating some buddha-bullshit and making a ton of money out of us cashed-up, fucked-up, white, western folk.

Comedian, Jimmy Carr: what do people in the developing world (ie. the poor people) use self-help books for?

Firewood.

Work it out people. Just be a decent human being.

The kindly nurse informed me she had had both her tits removed so knew all about ‘what I was going through’. I think it’s nice she (over)shared that morsel of information – though I wasn’t comforted. Something I have always been conscious of is trying not to ‘compare’ experiences. Hearing some stories makes me feel like a fraud. I won’t lose both my breasts. The type of cancer I have is treatable (some aren’t). People endure horrific diseases, pain, illness every day, it’s not a competition.

Each person will tackle a life challenge differently. One person’s fortitude, endurance, resilience will not necessarily be the same as the next. Nor should we expect it to be. While there will be constants, how an individual experiences – and copes with – life’s challenges, will vary infinitely. Availability of emotional and practical support from friends, community, work, loved ones; access to medical treatment; geography; income – myriad factors will influence your experience. Self-help books are generally rubbish. They may provide a few tools that will help some but mostly they’re just another writer regurgitating some buddha-bullshit and making a ton of money out of us cashed-up, fucked-up, white, western folk.

Comedian, Jimmy Carr: what do people in the developing world (ie. the poor people) use self-help books for?

Firewood.

Work it out people. Just be a decent human being.

Where the breast is located (in case some of you were unsure …) means the radiation can affect the heart, lungs and ribs. The treatment requires you to hold-your-breathe for 20-30 second intervals during which, the lungs are ‘pushed’ down (I guess deflated) and hence minimises the radiation hitting them. You may be at increased risk of cardiovascular disease in the future due to the radiation. Some of the ribs can become more brittle because of the radiation which may become a concern/issue if you suffer some form of hard impact in the future eg. a car accident. He also explains there is a very very slim risk of cancer arising from the radiation treatment itself. We’re talking 1/10,000.

The maths in my head is saying: you have at least 30 years in which you want to live, work, stress, travel, plan, read, run, eat, laugh, drink, worry, be a friend, a sister, walk, wonder, have sex, think, socialise, make mistakes, swim, sit, do nothing (that’s not in order of importance by the way …) What gives me the best odds of doing all those things ….?

Yesterday we heard Olivia Newton-John died. Which made me sad. Does anyone know anyone that doesn’t like ONJ? Like, she did not have a bad bone in her body (a bad boob or two definitely). When Grease came out I was six years old. I begged my grandparents to take me. They took my sister and me to a 2pm session at the old Ngongotaha movie theatre – daggy old seats and a sloped wooden floor. It was a ripper. There were people up dancing and singing at the front of the cinema. My grandmother never forgot that scene – it was one of the most peculiar – and joyous – events in my life! For me, my sister, my grandmother… I think my grandfather was bemused/horrified/slightly confused!

I arrive back at the office about 2:45. BAU. So so much to do. My beautiful colleagues are caring but unintrusive. We listen to ‘Hopelessly Devoted to You’ for a bit of ONJ nostalgia. JP, NS and I work quietly, talk shit (mostly about the antics of teenage lads ….) until the moon comes up and it’s time to go home. Sam is out having fun with his buddies. Leftover curry in the fridge. Will sleep and find out about chemo tomorrow!

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