Chemo

Second floor of Cancer HQ. A long queue for reception. I was processed then sent to Waiting Room A.

Waiting Room A could quite possibly be, the most depressing space I have ever had the pleasure of spending time in. I would rather be waiting at Centrelink or the Jetstar check-in. No less than 30 people, of which I appear to be the youngest, men and women in various stages of treatment and recovery, some in wheelchairs, some bald, most bored. Nearly everyone had a ‘support’ person – some two – some three. I suddenly feel very lonely. One particularly slobbish ‘support’ person has taken one of two lazy-boy style chairs – obviously reserved for people who are frail, in pain. He lurches around, playing with the buttons. Dick head. There is a large library full of resources … again, no one wants to get up in front of everyone and have a browse lest the waiting room find out what kind of cancer/issues you’ve got. At around 12:10 I was called through by the nurse – height, weight, BP, pulse, oxygen – then back to Waiting Room A. So many people come and go, I’m still waiting. Now hungry and worried about the chunk of leave I’ll be taking from work today.

Abdullah the Medical Oncologist’s Registrar finally puts me out of my misery. A lovey, clever chap with a gentle manner and like Eric, is clear and thorough. The specialist asks, which I find odd, ‘what is it you think has happened to you'? I guess, along with name, DOB, address, they want to make sure you are who you say you are – and compos mentis. It puts me on the spot … urrrr … aren’t you supposed to be the one telling me?! We go through what has happened, again. From the initial detection to diagnose to surgery, recovery. Finally we get on to the guts of things …

The tumour was larger than initially thought. Bugger. It became apparent to me – very quickly – there was no doubt chemo would be required. Of course you always have a choice. All the doctors I have seen have been very deliberate in explaining the options, the risks vs the benefits, the side-effects etc. – from doing nothing to having your breast(s) removed. He discussed the different levels of chemo and then interestingly, ran a program (compliments of the NHS) that spits out your ‘survival odds’. From doing nothing to going full-on chemo, mastectomy, the works. I am going to put some of these on a different page – I find them interesting but the numbers may be a bit ‘yawn’ for most(!) Me: sad, maths, geek. In summary, I will have 3 months chemo followed by 4 weeks radiation treatment followed by 5 – 10 years on hormone meds. The chemo will start in the next couple of weeks – when a chair comes available (literally!)

On Thursday night I flew to Sydney to spend some time with Simon and his kids. We had planned it – knowing the appointments on Wednesday and Thursday would be stressful. Nothing like spending some time with some steak, a lovely bottle of red, a 14 year old aspiring Wallaby and an 11 year old contortionist – oh, and a white, grumpy middle-aged man with a penchant for WW II bunkers and inappropriate jokes. I finished work on the Thursday, zoomed home, chucked some stuff in a bag, jumped in the car, drove to the airport, handed the keys and P-Plates to Sam, slammed down a glass of fizzy in the lounge, got on a dash and flew off into the darkness. Up until now, I haven’t cried. I’ve been madly scheduling, writing a mental to-do list. Trying to keep it real? Denial? Fear? Acceptance? ‘Whatever’?! I don’t know. Just numb. One of my aunties who has been a nurse for 100 years was surprised I was surprised. I guess she knew the tell-tale patterns of the disease …

Update July 2023: most readers will now know what a complete c*** Simon was/is. But ... this is what happened - at this time - and it was good.

Chemo

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