160. No breasts, no bra, no-brainer

I now feel that I've taken up position at the luckier end of the cup size spectrum.

I may have wondered about the Dolly Parton option, and such options may be right for some women, but after three months of living flat, my own verdict is final. No reconstruction for me, no prosthesis. No breasts: no bra.

It seems such a no-brainer now. Dear fellow women, let me give you just one word to explain why going bra-free is so fabulous, and you will understand: HEATWAVE.

It's a revelation. Of course many of us have gone without our bra at times (whether your reasons are for fashion, freedom or politics - for lounging, sunning, relaxing, not wanting to be restricted, wanting to go your own way). But unless you have an AA cup (and even then), as soon as you start to run or sweat, you realise that a bra is not just for looks.

I still marvel at just throwing on a shirt and nothing else. I feel as if I'm only half dressed, or ready for bed, and still need to tell myself that yes, I really can go out like this.

As a nurse, I have seen thousands of women and their breasts. In this heatwave, I think of the many women I've looked after (especially those on the generous end of the cup size spectrum) who struggled with painful redness and rashes where skin meets skin, sometimes to the point of inflammation.

But whatever your size (mine was always modest), you will know the discomfort of sweaty bra straps or jiggling to fit your seat belt comfortably. I'm explaining all this for the benefit of the men reading this.

Chaps, you don't half know how lucky you have it.

But now I know it, too. It's not just the ease of dressing. It's also the ease of movement, being able to lie on your front without shifting into the least pressurised position. Stretching and turning and swimming and cycling with the unexpected joy of physical freedom.

So for me, the no breast & no bra option really is the only option. I'm not looking back. I'm off on my bike, into the sunshine, unencumbered. Given the choice, of course I would have chosen never to have had cancer, never to have lost my breasts. But we don't have a choice, and here's a silver lining, so why not focus on that rather than on the cloud?

The outside thermometer now shows 26°C, down considerably from yesterday's record-breaking heat, so I'm off.

159. Now and then

Let's start with THEN.

April Fool's Day was Mastectomy Day. It's exactly three months since I went under the knife (as I write this, it's even exactly the same time, 11.15am on a Friday morning).

Then: Shaken up and exhausted from the emotional Here We Go Again prospect of seemingly never-ending rounds of hospital appointments, chopping bits off, being poisoned and blasted with nuclear power. The chopping/poisoning/blasting I can just about cope with. It's the uncertainty, the loss of control, and the loss of my self-pretence of being SuperWoman that was so hard. Plus the possibility (always lurking in the corner of the room, ready to jump on me) of dying before I get the chance to collect my pension or, more to the point, hold my grandchildren.

But there was grace in how I managed to let go of that SuperWoman, relinquishing all responsibilities without losing my sense of self. That was thanks, in great part, to my family - husband and children who couldn't care less how few words or meals they got out of me, how many hours they found me lying down with the curtains closed, nor how little there was left of my cleavage.

Thanks, in great part, to my colleagues who caught all the balls I dropped and gave each other crash courses in juggling.

Thanks, in great part, to all of you, sending your wishes and prayers and cards and gifts and thoughts.

Then: The utter relief of being told that no, I don't need to be poisoned or blasted. Recover from the surgery and the shock and the exhaustion, and I'll be done. Better, in fact, than before, because if you have no breasts, there's just less of a chance that this wretched cancer comes back to haunt me. (That's what I tell myself, anyway.)

The ups and downs of recovery, the infection, the knock-back, the surprising level of exhaustion. And through all that, the discovery that there is no end to the love and care of my family, the understanding of my neglected friends, and the juggling skills (and yes, also the love and care) of my colleagues.

Moving on to NOW.

I'm emerging. Not quite as dramatic as a phoenix or a butterfly, but definitely a sense of having pressed a RESTART button. I won't quite go as far as saying that I can highly recommend stepping out of your daily life for three months of cancer treatment, but it does feel a little as if I'm returning from a sabattical. That it was possible to switch off completely from work, not looking at a single email (see the above jugglers) and family (grown-up children who can make me tea) - that was a gift. 

Now that I have returned to work, I realise how much the exhaustion stems not only from the physical onslaught but also the emotional and spiritual space needed to cope with life events. It's completely wonderful to pick up my work projects again, but it takes time to emerge from my cocoon.

If you read this and think "Aha, she's back, let's send and email to ask her to do X or Y or Z", I'll have to disappoint you. My GP sat me down, listened, and decided that yes, I can go back to work, but it has to be on reduced hours. So I'm only catching a few balls back from my jugglers. Two weeks into my return, have only made a tiny dent in hundreds of emails waving at me from the screen.

Here they are, one of my teams of jugglers. I gave them all a sunflower to thank them for their growth and the way they have turned to the light.

NOW and THEN

It is only just dawning on me just how much SEWING has been, and still is, my way to recovery, acceptance and even celebration of my new-found sense of self. We all have our own ways of coping with life and life events. I think it's helpful to have something that grounds you in the moment - whether that's being in nature, listening to (or making) music, finding time for prayer or meditation or reading poetry, being with animals or children, creating art, dance or exercise... you find ways that help you come home to yourself.

Having a project always helps me. My project has been to think about the implications for my wardrobe and my future sewing projects, learn how to draft my own clothes patterns, how to remove those superfluous chest darts, and most of all (once I'd watched 55 hours of The Great British Sewing Bee and was able to get up from the sofa) to sit down and sew. Thoughts can wander, but never too far. I've made my daughter a ball gown. I've made myself trousers, tops and a dress. And in the process, I have learnt not just to accept, but to LOVE my new shape.

The 2022 series of Sewing Bee has been my weekly tonic for the past 10 weeks. After this week's final episode, I am somewhat bereft. Perhaps I should apply to take part in some future series, just for the joy of spending time in that sewing room. Or perhaps I should just book myself an annual sewing retreat, going nowhere, just upstairs to my room full of fabrics.

And THEN...??

You will hear less from me and Otus (my owl). There may still be musings and developments to share with you. One day, I'd like to tell you about my discoveries of online groups of flat-chested women and their stories (I even found, gloriously and happily, a Facebook group called Sewing Flat and Asymmetrical, full of women sharing their sewing efforts and tips for adapting clothes to fit one breast or none).

But most of my writing will now not be with my Owl Hat, but my Professor Hat. Lots of stories in my head that may find a home on my other blog. See you there, if you're interested. Here, where Owl Had Cancer, I hope never to need a third owl.

But every now and then, I hope to return to the sense of peace and well-being that I feel right now, the gratitude for life with all its ups and downs. The sense that life is at its most beautiful when we accept each other, and ourselves, with all our imperfections.

If this feels like an end, it also feels like a beginning.

158. A new shape

There's a new shape to this blog - 8 years after starting to write it, I reckon it's time for an update - and a new shape to me. Both are (I hope you'll agree) a positive development.

The chest binder arrived as soon as I pressed Publish on last week's post.

This was, you may remember, designed to hold in all that superfluous fluid. I wore it for exactly one day. It was the first comfortable day in weeks. Did it live up to its promise of making my chest look flat? Well, sort of. Flatter, anyway, and feeling all the better for it. Was it also flattering, in line with the assurance that it would make me look cool? COOL is not an adjective usually associated with me, but I'll let you be the judge of that. But either way, this look was yesterday's news almost before it got going.

The Chief did a one-upmanship on my increasingly creative efforts to stop my chest from sloshing about.

It was the first time he'd seen me since performing the mastectomy surgery, eight weeks earlier. It's like having another breast! he exclaimed. Well, yes, tell me about it. In fact, I had been trying quite hard to tell him about it, first via the nurse who assessed my wound a week post-surgery and then via the junior doctor a week after that. Both pondered draining the wound, given its size, but word came back from the Chief that they only drain it if there's a problem.

Isn't size a problem? I asked him during the telephone follow-up last month, but the current wisdom was Grin and bear it, as the body would do its own job. I guess it's like the toss-up of whether or not you should pop a blister.

Perhaps there's a drawback to telephone consultations.This time, seeing me (and the extra bit of me) in the flesh, it took the Chief exactly two seconds to pass verdict.

Let's put a drain in it.

I could have kissed him. They'd extracted significant amounts of infected fluid twice, and each time it had started filled up again before you could say "Flat chest". With all the concern about introducing germs into the wound, I hadn't dared suggesting leaving a drain in, but it seemed eminently sensible. As an armchair scientist, it seems to me that having a permanent lake in situ does nothing to encourage the skin to stitch itself nice and flat to the chest wall, so anything that keeps the lake dry is good news in my book.

The Chief spoke nicely to Dr Ultrasound, who made time to fit my drain the same morning. Another hour lying in the ultrasound room (as they need to see that they put the needle and then the drain in exactly the right place), and hey presto, tube and bag attached, with a promising flow. It drained 300ml straight away and has been a steady trickle since then.

That was a week ago. It's been keeping my chest wonderfully flat. I went back to the clinic this morning, ready to campaign to keep the drain a bit longer (probably not a plea they often hear from patients). The nurse was already busying herself with drain-removal equipment, but I asked her to send for the Chief, so off she went. He didn't need to see it, but simply sent word that I can keep my drain for another week. Hurrah.

For the many of you who cheered me on, having stripped off to show you my scars last week, here's another pretty picture. (The lower dressing is just to protect my skin from the pressure of the drain). 

The Dolly Parton option is definitely off the table.

I am taken aback by my enthusiasm for flatness. In fact I've given the two un-used softies (fake breasts to insert in an empty bra) back to the nurse. After weeks and weeks of carrying a frontload of fluid, I want to carry a frontload of exactly nothing. All I'm willing to carry right now is a bag for my drain. As you can see, it's more Primark than Prada and definitely not cool, but who cares.

A bright & bra-free future beckons.

Thank you all again for your concern, for your understanding of my limited contributions to work and friendship, and for all your messages, cards and gift. I continue to be taken aback by how wonderful and thoughtful people are. I'm tempted to make a promise that I will be back soon, but that might be tempting fate. Let me assure you that I am beginning to see some shapes through the fog.

157. A dodgy weather forecast

Well, so much for onwards and upwards. This is a tale of woe with some seriously unflattering pictures thrown in. If that's not what you're after today, I suggest you either skip to the final paragraph or skip this blog altogether. If you're bravely reading on, I suggest you finish your breakfast first.

The outlook ten days ago: Bright and sunny.

I'd been to the office for a trial day (sitting on a job interview panel for a new member of my research team), and how wonderful that was. Being with my marvellous colleagues (utterly reassuring to see how well they are managing in my absence) I am reminded how much I enjoy my job. I managed a whole long day. Floored in the evening, yes, but definitely looking forward to easing myself back into my projects.

I felt 110% positive and happy. It was good to have six weeks not only to recover physically from major surgery, but also to give my soul time to catch up with my body. I just re-read what I wrote about that last time round, four months post-cancer-diagnosis, and the process is the same now, but it's been a bit quicker:

What have I done to help my soul catch up? Probably this: sitting quietly, being on my own, meditating, swimming, sewing, listening to the rustling trees. And also this: hearing myself say it out loud. Reading back what I have written. I have cancer. That is another reason why I am talking so much about it all, and publishing my thoughts online.

All this is hard work. It may not sound like work, but oh, it is. I have had to excuse myself from my responsibilities as a mother, friend or employee.

Ten days ago, I was quite chuffed with myself. Look at me coping with all this! SuperWoman!

Husband and I decided to spend a few more days in East Sussex to relax and recuperate before going back to work. The night before disaster struck, I went swimming in the early evening rain when the sun broke through, throwing a huge rainbow over the North Sea. Here it is. It was blissful and I felt blessed.

The outlook nine days ago: Thunder

I woke up on Thursday morning with sky-high fevers untouched by paracetamol. How do people manage on their own? Thank goodness for Husband. I was unable to move, eat, drink, speak. What could it be? Not Covid (I checked). It didn't feel like flu. Could it be an infection of the wound fluid, still annoyingly sloshing around in huge quantities and showing no sign of abating? The next morning, Husband rang my breast nurse to ask. Was the area hot? Well yes, but so was the rest of me. Was it hard? Not really, sloshing etc. Probably nothing to do with the surgery then, was the verdict.

We sat it out for the day but by early evening, we were worried enough to ring the 111 NHS Helpline. They asked lots of questions I barely had the energy to answer and booked us straight into A&E. Husband drove with me lying in the back, having made it into the car, head on my pillow which would turn out to be a godsend as A&E departments only have hard chairs. I couldn't sit upright and there were no trolleys, so I lay down on the cold floor in desperation, Husband having retrieved that lovely soft pillow from the car.

By this time, it was obvious that the problem was indeed the breast wound. It had turned bright red. When I lifted my shirt to show the nurses, there was an Oh my goodness gasp.

Let me show you too, in the spirit of de-mystifying and normalising breast cancer. Is it pornographic to show one's bare breast online, if there are no bare breasts to show? I genuinely have no idea.  I may end up regretting this photo and taking it down. (Does one still have to cover up on the beach, or can one join the lads with trunks only? I have no idea about that either. There are no examples or role models out there.) Any honest thoughts or opinions are most welcome.

Long story short: emergency hospital admission, antibiotics, wound drainage.

The hospital bed felt like the Hilton after all that waiting on floors and on hard chairs.

The following day, they drained some 400ml of nasty-looking pus (bon appetit) and I was sent home with antibiotics. I can't tell you what a relief it was to be rid of the drag of all that fluid. It quickly returned though (thankfully not in the same quantities, but still enough to fill a coffee mug) and a few days later, I went back into hospital to have another 250ml drained, this time under ultrasound guidance.

I continue to be amazed and grateful for the NHS. It's nothing short of miraculous. There I was, not even in my own hospital (this was the Conquest Hospital in Hastings), and I had so many resources thrown at me, no questions asked, all free of charge. The ultrasound man and his helpmate spent about an hour carefully extracting all that fluid with an array of oversized syringes.

I spent the rest of the week just lying down.

The fatigue was (and still is) overwhelming. I feel like a deflated balloon. I've read a few novels and watched a bit of TV, but most of the time all I can do is just lie there. I've felt uncharacteristally despondent, tearful even. Being so weak and out of control has thrown me.

I missed Liz, my GP, who was a lifeline last time round (we ended up writing an article together about being a healthcare-professional-turned-patient) but she has since retired. I haven't needed a GP since then and don't know any of the current doctors at my local GP practice. Last month I just requested a sick note online and was promptly sent one by text message. This time, I asked for a telephone consultation.

As soon as she rang, I sobbed and sobbed. For goodness sake, I don't even know this doctor. But a good GP (and most of them are so good) really are invaluable, a safe space, someone to build a relationship with, someone who can get to know your story. She listened and resolutely signed me off work for another month. I was grateful. In the space of a week I'd gone from itching to go back to work, to crying just at the thought of having to get my head round those responsibilities again.

Outlook today: Expect rainfall

We went to the Conquest Hosital for a final check yesterday. The infection has settled. No more redness or pain, but frustratingly, the fluid ("seroma" by its proper medical name) keeps coming back. What to do about that long term? To drain (which would need to be done regularly, each time risking infection) or not to drain and wait for the body to reabsorb the fluid (which seems the à la mode approach nowadays)? Personally, I'd vote for drainage. What is to stop the whole thing getting infected again anyway? This week is not a nightmare I'd care to repeat. But it's probably best for my own breast care team to make that decision. So last night, we finally made it back to London, with an appointment at the breast clinic in two days' time.

I have taken the hospital's advice and tried to keep pressure on, which I hoped (in vain) would stop my breast from filling up again - but it does have the advantage of feeling comforting, reducing the dragging feeling, and perhaps (my untested theory) speed up healing by keeping everything in place.

Methods of pressure have been a bit Heath Robinson. It took me an hour to dismiss the advice to lie on my stomach. Even if I end up with a nice flat chest (which I wouldn't anyway - see above), I would have a painful permanent creak in my neck.

Next up was a corset fashioned out of an old folded-up tea towel, some button hole elastic and a bit of ribbon (amazing what you can find lying around, and the sewing machine was all conveniently set up so I could just about manage this). It sort of worked and might even qualify as a New Fashion Trend, but I ended up with an un-Jane-Austen-like bulge over the top (that fluid finding a new way in).

I've tried bandages fashioned out of an old sheet, but that was too much of an unworkable faf. The latest plan is Amazon's answer to my question about Chest Binders. I'm introduced to an intriguing and rather moving new world of young trans people supporting each other and being supported by families (My trans son is 12, what size does he need?) and ordered a contraption for Tomboy Lesbian Trans that promises to make my chest look flat and me look cool. It arrived today and was far too small, so I'm awaiting the next sizes up. We can but try.

Long term weather forecast: Sunny.

That's the promised positive final paragraph. I do believe in this forecast. But in the meantime, I'm going to lie down on the sofa, back to ignoring messages and generally ignoring life. See you later. 

156. Onwards and upwards

The news is good for me and bad for this cancer blog.  Let's start with the good news. The lab results are back. No more cancer found. Not in my lymph nodes, not anywhere else.

No need for radiotherapy (hurray) or chemotherapy (hurray doesn't begin to cover it).

My friends, I am done. It's onwards and upwards from here. I can't tell you how much of a relief that is, and how brightly the next few years now shine ahead. Knowing that yes, I am still put firmly in my place if I think Aha, feeling better, let's do X or Y or Z which is then followed by an all-of-a-sudden collapse - but that will improve. And then I am truly back to being able to do X and Y and Z: perhaps even all at once.

Since my last cancer, I have not taken my health and energy and enjoyment of life for granted. It is a blessing to be counted, and I have been counting. What I hadn't counted on was the outpouring of love and support from all of you. The hundreds of messages, the prayers, the cards and flowers and chocolates and thoughtful gifts (yesterday there was a delivery of a big box of muffins). I will stop short of saying that it was worth getting cancer again just for the experience of being carried on wings, but there is a truth in that too.

I was unexpectedly nervous yesterday, waiting for the Chief's phone call.

No need to come into hospital, they'd said. Better to stay away, what with Covid and all that. The surgeon will ring you at noon.

I woke up from a dream that I'd missed the call (because I had popped into work to say hello to my team), and by midday I was clutching onto my knitting with husband next to me. I feverously knitted several inches of sleeve before the Chief phoned two hours later.

It's so easy to see why people forget everything they wanted to say or ask, and don't really take in what a doctor says. Despite being a confident patient and fluent in Hospital Language, I was in real danger of simply saying Yes doctor, of course doctor, bye doctor so we'd written all our questions down. Once we got talking, it was fine and I was back to being able to discuss things intelligently, but those nerve-racking waits for results could easily reduce the most confident of patients to something small and powerless.

So, in case you remember some of my questions from last week's blog and are wondering about the answers, here they are.

Q: How does hormone treatment work? Is the job of those pills to prevent the cancer coming back in your breast - in which case, is there any point in taking them, now that I have zero breasts?

A: It is indeed their job to stop the cancer coming back in your breast, but that can include the skin of the breast, so yes, it might be worth persevering with those. "What would you prefer?" (asked the Chief). "Well," said I, "I'd take your expert advice on that, but if it hangs in the balance, then I'd rather not take any more pills." The Chief agreed but is going to discuss it with the full team. For now, the thinking about those pills (which I've taken for seven years, with three years still to go) is to sack them. Grounds for dismissal: You had ONE job...!!

Q: Now that I've got two breast cancers under my belt, would it be prudent to have genetic testing? Two daughters, you see.

A: Initially no, because I'd said that I had no family history of breast cancer. But in the past week I've remembered a relative who was diagnosed after me (I'd forgotten that "history" can also include "recent history") so now I tick enough boxes to get a genetic testing referral.

Q: What is the best way to cope with all that spare fluid sloshing around behind my new scar? It's the size of my previous A-cup.

A: Grin and bear it. I won't bore you with the details of the discussion, which included the Chief sighing Oh Lord (I found that remarkably supportive) and explaining, "You can imagine the many meetings I've been to where we looked at possible solutions! It's 2022, and we still haven't cracked it!" and, alarmingly, "There's a surgeon in Germany who puts his patients in a corset for six weeks. Can you imagine? SIX WEEKS!!?? And it doesn't even work. You wouldn't want that." I agreed that indeed, I wouldn't. I also accept that draining the fluid (a) risks introducing infection and (b) encourages the body to make more fluid. But what am I looking at? A few weeks? A year? About three months, the Chief reckons. Oh well. Grin. Bear.

We raised a few glasses last night.

I am going to be sensible, I promise. My GP has signed me off work for another month. I have gone to East Sussex for a couple of weeks and am going to spend my time watching the remaining few episodes of The Great British Sewing Bee before the brand new 2022 series starts next week (don't miss it... BBC1, 27th April, 8pm), plan my new wardrobe, make daughter a ball gown. I am going to smell the tulips, walk among the bluebells, swim in the sea (sorry nurse, I'm ignoring your advice to wait six weeks before swimming. My scar has healed so I can't see any reason why I shouldn't take a life-affirming dip). 

I am going to live. 

So, as I said, bad news for this blog... You can safely assume that no news is good news. Now, excuse me, Otus and I have some walking in the woods to do.

155. The sewing solution to feeling sad

Apologies. I promised you a week off from this blog, yet here I am again.

I thought I'd tell you about my YoYo day.

Up: Mornings are always good, as no energy has yet been spent so there's a promise of it stretching further than yesterday. The sun is shining. Let's get out of my slouchy outfits and into one of my lovely summer dresses. I even reach for my earrings. Definitely up.

Down: Last year's new dress, barely worn and perfect for a day like this, no longer fits. With nothing to filll it, the top half looks ridiculous. So do various other favourite dresses. Reach for the chocolate that a friend sent me in the post yesterday (thank you - tiny up in my down moment) and watch yet another episode of Sewing Bee. 

Up: Only 1 Sewing Bee episode, and I think I have enough energy to head for the sewing machine. I started making a dress the day before my mastectomy (yes, I know, but I'd finished all my work and still had a day's waiting to do, so I needed a project to take my mind off it). There wasn't much left to sew, but every time I've tried in the past week, I had to give up after just a few rows of stitching. Now the sun is shining into the room, the fabric feels nice & soft & cheerful, and I think I can finish this now.

Down: Did shed a few tears over that sewing. For all my positivity and optimism, this is a bumpy road.

Up-Up-Up: Tadaa!

1 new dress for Easter 2022

It somehow brings my mother to mind, in a good way. She had little money but lots of oomph, and used to sew three matching new Easter outfits for her three daughters. Thank you Mam, for giving me the skills to make my very own new Easter dress.

3 little dresses made for Easter 1969.
I think Mam used a couple of old towels for fabric.

154. A patient must be patient

 I need a bit of revision on this crucial How To Be Patient course. It comes in three modules:

1. A patient must wait patiently in waiting rooms.
2. A patient must wait patiently for test results and doctors' verdicts.
3. A patient must wait patiently to get better.

Let's go through them in turn.

1. Waiting rooms

This, I am delighted to discover, is an outdated module. I can only think it's thanks to Covid, although I'm not sure quite how that has made it consistently possible to see me within five minutes of the appointed time, whereas before I'd have to settle in with my knitting. So, moving swiftly along to module 2.

2. Test results

I really thought I'd got better at this. One day last month, the hospital sent me five letters simultaneously (clearly, Covid hasn't quite managed to sort out a way to reduce spending on postage). Each contained instructions about a different trip to hospital. (There were a couple of other trips too, including a Covid test, but for those I was summoned by phone).

22 March: check that I'm fit for surgery

31 March: get breast injected with something radioactive

1 April: get operated

8 April: get wound inspected

13 April: see the surgeon in the Breast Clinic.

That last one... that's the one I was waiting for. That's when I was going to be told whether anything dodgy has shown up under the microscope. That's when I'd find out whether it's onwards and upwards from henceforth, or whether it's back under the knife, the radiotherapy machine, perhaps even (gulp) the chemotherapy lounge.

I hadn't realised quite how much my life has been on hold until that pivotal verdict. I thought I was fairly relaxed about it all, perhaps more or less convinced that it'll be the Onwards & Upwards possibility. But you never know until you know.

I much prefer to attend tedious appointments (injections, tests, operations) on my own, but for anything involving news & information, Husband comes along as it's not just news for me, it's news for both of us. So, we duly turned up for my 11.50am slot and were called in by a junior doctor at 11.51 (see? No need for module 1). When she took us past the Chief's office to a room all by herself, I knew it was Good News - in the same way I knew it was Bad News when on previous occasions the breast care nurse called us in and accompanied us to the surgeon's office, as such reinforcements are usually needed for bad news situations.

What I hadn't counted on was that it was simply No News. The lab results hadn't come back yet. Nothing more to say. The Chief will see you next week instead, or actually, let's make that a phone call.

It was a lovely doctor, but she didn't know the answer to any of our questions (to her credit, she didn't make up any answers either, but wrote them down with a promise to pass it on to the Chief). Questions like:

How does hormone treatment work? Is the job of those pills to prevent the cancer coming back in your breast - in which case, is there any point in taking them, now that I have zero breasts? Or is it their job to prevent any cancer cells with travel plans? Also: Now that I've got two breast cancers under my belt, would it be prudent to have genetic testing? Two daughters, you see. And what is the best way to cope with all that spare fluid sloshing around behind my new scar?

It was a case of all dressed up with nowhere to go. I barely had the energy to sit upright on the bus home. I collapsed for the rest of the day, not just with the physical effort, but also (I think) with the distress of having to wait yet another week for those possibly life-changing results. Tips on how to cope with that kind of waiting, anyone?

3. Getting better

It's not easy for us, women of the multitasking generation, to go with the flow and have NOTHING on the must-do list. Now that I'm two weeks post-surgery, I realise that Do Nothing was in fact on my to-do list, but that was last week's list. For this week, and the weeks after that, there were things like Go for longer walks and Sew a new wardrobe and Sort out photographs and even (in week 5 perhaps) Write that paper you won't have time for once you're back at work.

You see, even at times like this, there are expectations. That's my own expectations, by the way - everyone else (including my colleagues and manager at work) instructed me to "take as much time as you need" and "don't worry about anything". They are right, of course, but will I listen??

Because here I am, worrying about my inability to do Restful Things, like sewing, or reading a book every day, or talking to friends.

At least I really do know now that it will get better. But when? That is not under a patient's control. Last time, I was properly back at work after a year but it took about three years before I was truly back to full health and energy. I don't even dare think about that now.

Here endeth lesson 3. I'm going to have to lie down after all that. I won't be back on this blog until next week, so you'll just have to be patient. Happy Easter everyone!

Note to self: Be patient...

153. Happy scar or sad scar?

”How are you?” I hear you ask.

A week post-mastectomy, I’m fine, really, I am. I have been amazed and rather delighted by the easy wound. How on earth can you have your entire breast chopped off without any pain or bruising?

I am unexpectedly happy about being breast-free.

Breast-free = worry-free: No breast = no breast cancer. But it’s not just that. Somehow, I feel more myself, more whole rather than less whole.

That is the unexpected part of this journey, but when I stop to think about it (and I’ve had rather a lot of time to stop and think this week) it begins to make sense. During the eight years since my first mastectomy, I have become at home with my flat half. It belongs to me and my life story. As the years ticked by, it was increasingly my breast side, rather than my flat side, that seemed out of balance. She was like part of the cast that appeared in Act II (adolescence) and rose to a starring role in Act IV (early motherhood), but whilst her sister was spectacularly killed off in Act VI, she remained in the background trying to pretend that Act VI didn’t happen.

Now, I’m getting my balance back. I think here lies my very personal answer to the Dolly Parton question. I will not be ashamed, but proud of the story of my life. Grateful that I am not yet in the final Act, and looking forward to skipping into Acts VIII and IX unburdened by bras, Dolly-sized or otherwise.

That’s the profound answer to your How are you question. None of this comes without major adjustments, which (added to the intense fatigue - see below) is why I remain in hiding. And although my bold statements on The Future Is Flat are now on the internet, I reserve the right to change the script.

The bandages came off yesterday.

I’d been looking forward to this, as I was eager to find out whether my scar was happy or sad. Who knew there was such a distinction? When one of my surgeons popped round as I was whoozing in the Recovery Room, a few hours post-surgery, he explained that the Chief (who had wielded the knife) always tries to make a scar look happy.

“But then we looked at your other scar and thought, hm, that one looks a bit sad.”

Sad? Surely not? See above: I’m rather fond of my other scar, so I felt rather protective of her. But once I got to a ward with a bathroom mirror, I checked and saw what they saw, a down-turn at the sternum.

I’d been too taken aback to ask whether they’d gone ahead with Happy or decided to mirror Sad.

So, off I went to the breast clinic yesterday, eager to find out. I was also rather eager to have the fluid drained that had gradually accumulated in sufficient quantities to fill, perhaps not a Dolly Parton cup, but at least a Twiggy. They had to do this several times with my previous mastectomy, even after removing my drain - extract the excess fluid with the help of an oversized needle. Alas, not nowadays. They prefer to let my body do its own job, rather than risk introducing an infection in the wound.

So, I’m still lob-sided, as you can see. But the bandages have stayed off and the scar looks almost healed. I marvel at the body’s capacity to stitch together two bits of skin that haven’t previously met.

Now, let’s talk tiredness.

The word TIRED doesn’t cover it. I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel for enough energy to write this blog post, and you’re only reading this because it suddenly occurred to me that I don’t have to sit at my computer, I can write this on my phone, lying down in bed.

I’ve done some gentle daily Pilates and half hour walks, initially with the aim of getting strong again, but the real benefit is earning the right to go back to bed. I’m a bit frustrated that after a week of serious resting, I all but collapsed in the shower this morning as I’d been up for two hours.

On the upside, I shall emerge as the country’s most knowledgeable amateur sewer, as I’m now on the fifth series of The Great British Sewing Bee. That’s almost 30 hours (and counting) of watching people sew.

What I have yet to see someone make, though, is a garment that fits a breastless woman. Perhaps I should come forward to fill that gap in the market? I can feel a Project coming on. That’s assuming my energy will return, and (minor detail) I won’t find myself back on the chemotherapy rollercoaster.

I’ll get the lab results in four days’ time, and am pushing that possibility to the outer edges of my mind.

Now… Before I sink back into the pillows, here’s the answer you’ve been waiting for.  

Happy scar or sad scar?

Can’t be entirely sure yet (as it’s stretched across that mount of fluid) but I’d say it’s neither. Just straight. Which is perhaps as it should be, as life is never just happy or sad.

152. Mastectomised

Reporting in. The deed is done, and I’m amazed at the ease of it.

Here’s me yesterday morning, with cancer. 

Here’s me this morning, cancer-free. Thank you Chief, great job. Thank you NHS, you’re something extraordinary.

Flat wound, no pain, no drain.

Nurses seem amazed too: Where’s your drain? No drain. What, no drain? No.

All lymph nodes still present and correct, minus two (they inject your breast with something radioactive the day before, which travels to your armpit and lights up the Sentinel Node - that’s the first lymph node standing guard before all the others, so if cancer decides to go for a wander, it goes there first. They take it out when you’re under the knife, to check for dodgy cells on the spot. None were found so that was that.)

The Chief stuck his head round afterwards and pronounced that I could go home the same day, but that seemed a bit rash so I asked to stay the night. I was feeling rather weak and whoozy and very grateful to be looked after.

I stayed in the Recovery Room for 8 hours.

Whilst they struggled to find a ward with a spare bed, I had my very own nurse whose job it seemed to be to watch over me every minute. We ended up chatting about her nursing dissertation, on the effect on women of a double mastectomy. The fact that I had the headspace and desire to find out what makes my nurses tick, and why they chose to do what they are doing, tells me how ok I was. (It also shows how good she was. Only nurses who clearly see you as a person invite this kind of interest.)

Otus well looked after by the lovely Recovery Nurse

The lack of swelling is quite amazing.

Last time, my wound swelled up to the size of the remaining breast, no softie needed to pretend anything; and I carried a drain around for a good week. I then persuaded them to take it out, still oozing somewhat but I had to go to the Netherlands for my mother’s funeral. Altogether a different experience, that first mastectomy. It was a bigger operation then, as they did find cancer in those lymph nodes so they all had to come out.

It was the first thing I did when I woke up yesterday. Feel under my armpit, look for a drain. I couldn’t quite be sure so tried to ask, but was too whoozy and slurred. It took a while to be reassured.

The lack of pain is bizarre.

It was somewhat bad for the first couple of hours so they gave me morphine (very effective), but once that wore off, no pain returned. If any of you one can explain that, I’m all ears.

Can’t say I wasn’t somewhat trepidated. More nervous, in fact, than usual. Not sure whether that was the thought of having my breast chopped off (I didn’t even think about that last time, that seemed such a trivial worry, as there was the rather more important story of my mother dying). Or was it the worry that cancer might be with me for life? And a shorter life than hoped, therefore? Whatever it was, I am trepidated no more.

I look down at my flat chest and it makes me feel happy and positive and strong.

Now I’m sitting comfortably in bed with an old series of The Great British Sewing Bee on my iPad. A young occupational therapist just came round to make me gently move my shoulders, and left minutes later when I clearly needed no help swinging my arms and shoulders around in all directions. No pain? No pain.

Thank you all for your many many many messages. I still don’t feel up to responding but I’m grateful. To have so many people thinking of me feels like being carried. That’s a blessing indeed.

Doctors came round just as I was to press PUBLISH. I’m going home. 

151. The Dolly Parton option

Tomorrow is mastectomy day.

The thought occurs that today is the last day of my life when I need to wear a bra.

Loss or liberation? Will I mourn the loss of a cleavage and try to emulate the suggestion of a shapely front, or celebrate the ability to do naked star jumps without a complaining chest? I have no idea, and I'm intrigued to find out. It could go either way, but my money is on Liberation.

What I'm wondering is (a) what I'll look like flat-chested, (b) how noticeable it is, and (c) whether I'll mind if it's noticeable. I am making no assumptions here.  So far, my attitude has firmly been of the This Is Me variety, love me or leave me. Grey hair, wrinkles, mastecomy scar? They speak of a life lived long enough to have earned them, of challenges overcome, like badges I've earned.

But every woman has to find her own comfort zone.

I am not making any firm predictions. Since my first mastectomy-without-reconstruction, I have always worn a prosthesis to match the remaining breast, contrary to my general au naturel approach in life. The lob-sided look is not great, even with my modest A-cup.

Wearing a relatively small prosthesis is not a problem. Who knows, I may have been less keen on the unreconstructed look if I had been blessed (or burdened) with a more generous cleavage. When I was fitted for a proper prosthesis (there is a special clinic for such things), I picked up the largest specimen when Prosthesis Lady wasn't looking, and found it unexpectedly heavy. Choices are perhaps harder and less straightforward when your breasts are quite literally a bigger part of you.             

There are times when I couldn't care less. Swimming with a softie just feels ridiculous and unnecessary, so in the pool or on the beach I no longer bother with a matching pair. The communcal changing room is no longer the challenge it once was. In all these past seven years, no woman sharing the lido experience has ever batted an eyelid at my scarred chest - although it still strikes me as odd that I have never, ever, seen another woman there with any sign of having had breast surgery. Not sure where they all are.

I have found that doctors and nurses DO make assumptions.

When the surgeon told me I needed a mastectomy all those years ago, she described the operation: "First I do the mastectomy, then I get the plastic surgeon to do the reconstruction on the same day." She launched into a detailed description of what that was like, taking bits of shoulder muscle to mould into a nice shape, or failing that (as I protested that surely I'd want my shoulder muscle to do muscly things in my shoulder) taking a bit of fat from... from where exactly? Not much of that to spare, so I might end up with half a buttock. That smacks decidedly of robbing Peter to pay Paul. I had to be very firm about my refusal of such options ("Are you sure? You can think about it!").

I found the thought of walking around with a permanent implant of some sort equally alarming. It's a deeply personal choice, and oh, I do understand why many women choose differently.

What I don't understand is why I always had to work quite hard at convincing the hospital staff of my choices. Once convinced, though, they applauded me. "You're so right!" they'd say. "Having a reconstuction is not an easy option." (Why do you only hear about the drawbacks AFTER you've refused? Same with the Cold Cap, which is meant to stop your hair falling out. I had to keep telling the nurses that I didn't want it, after which they conceded that not only was it indeed highly uncomfortable, it often didn't work anyway).

This time round, though, there was the Chief, who took one look at my flat right side, felt the lumpy left side, pronouncd that surgery was needed, and happily assumed that I wouldn't want a reconstruction this time either. Which makes the surgery so much easier - I'm predicted to be back home the following day. (With a reconstruction, I'd be in hospital for a good week).

"You can just wear two prostheses," he said. 

"I don't think I'll bother," I told him. "Now that my flat front will be nicely matched."

He looked at me and pondered, "Well, you might want to wear it when you're going out. You could have a Dolly Parton."

My husband and the breast nurse (new to the job and looking somewhat taken aback by this conversation) probably didn't dare laugh until I did. I thought it was genuinely funny.

There's a thought, though. If you're going to pretend that you have a frontage, why copy the old building? If there's nothing to match, I can be the architect and the world's my oyster.

When it came to the follow-up discussion with the nurse - they take you into a room with tissues after you've heard the surgeon's verdict, to talk through some of the detail - she opened the drawer to give me a new softie. (That's breast cancer jargon. If you don't speak Breastish, see here.) What size did I want?

I made the rash decision not to go for the Dolly Parton option, so I reached into my bra to pull out the current pretender. Something to match this one. In the end, she gave me two of the same size, which is more generous than last time, when I begged in vain for a second softie.

Later, I passed the Dolly Parton option by my daughters. Hm, perhaps not quite your style, was the verdict. Looking at this photofit of my possible future self, I think they may be right. So, whilst keeping my options open, you'll be relieved to know that Dolly Parton is crossed off the list.

 

150. Cancer in times of Covid

I've lost count of the many times I watched the news and said, Thank goodness I had my cancer treatment THEN and not now.

All these reports of Covid-filled hospital wards whilst cancer patients had their surgery postponed. It's bad enough nervously counting down the weeks to your operation without the stone-sinking worry about what your cancer cells are up to whilst your doctors and nurses are busy elsewhere for who-knows-how-long. It's bad enough coping with chemotherapy playing havoc with your immune system, without the added stress of shielding. And it's bad enough being rushed into A&E with your husband to help you. I couldn't bear the stories of desperately ill people, all alone in hospital. Dying alone.

Thank goodness I had cancer when I did, and not now.

But now? Well, I'm amazed. The words COVID and BACKLOG are enough to send any cancer patient into a mild panic, but I only heard those once, when I first tried to get seen at the breast clinic. Since then, I've been whizzed through the system faster than you can say Hello.

Eight years ago, there were six weeks between showing my suspicious lump to the surgeon and the surgeon taking it out. This time, it's just five weeks.

Last time, I sat in overflowing waiting rooms for hours. I learned that patients have to be patient: 

Sometimes it seems that appointment times are simply academic: a vague indication of whether you should come in the morning or in the afternoon. 

This time, I can take my pick of empty seats and have yet to wait longer than 15 minutes. Popping down from my office to the scanning department, at exactly the allotted time, the nurse was already waiting for me. Quickly done, she sent me to the CT scanner nextdoor: "Might as well get you through that now, saves you having to come back later."

Last time, my pre-operative appointment consisted of hours of waiting to be poked and prodded and asked endless questions. This time, the questions were asked over the phone at exactly the agreed time, taking just 15 minutes. I had to go into hospital for the podding and poking, but barely had time to sit in the waiting room (which, incidentally, had a rather interesting choice of entertainment - no break from work topics here!).

So from where I'm sitting, it seems that Covid has actually improved my hospital experience. When I compliment the staff on this stellar service, they tell me they like it too. "It's one thing we're going to keep up," said the nurse who did the pre-op assessment by phone.

The breast care nurse tells me that they even managed to keep going with seeing cancer patients, all the way through the Covid crisis. Hats off.

In the meantime, I have to try and stay Covid-free until Friday.

They do a PCR test three days before surgery, after which I'm meant to isolate with my entire household. I don't want to run any risks of a positive test, so I've been working from home and semi-shielding along with my husband. The rest of the house emptied a week ago. Covid is rampant in London at the moment, with almost daily reports from son and daughters (and indeed my own office) of people testing positive. My son, who had been staying with us for a few weeks, returned to his own home. My daughters, who still live here, moved out until surgery day - taking Bear and Pig with them. 

We said our goodbyes, and now it's strangely quiet.

It could have been nicely restful if it wasn't for the 1st April looming like a bad joke. Let's just hope that my next blog post isn't called Cancelled in times of Covid.

149. The cancer blog

I am utterly flabbergasted (and rather flummoxed) by the response to my blog last week. I thought people might be interested and perhaps concerned to know why I won't be around for a while, but I really didn't expect this... Over 5000 people have read it in just a few days.

I have received HUNDREDS of personal messages.

Hundreds of friends, relatives and complete strangers who took the trouble to reach out to me on email, whatsapp and social media. Some of you even sent me flowers and cards (how on earth did you find greeting cards with owls on them, so quickly? Love them!).

I have read all your messages, but do forgive me for not responding to each one. This blog is my response, and I'm not promising to keep that up either. Here is one message that made me reach for my hanky:

Blog & write a diary if it helps you - if it doesn't, enjoy your garden and your music & leave us to look after ourselves for a bit.

Thank you Pink Champagne Friend (you know who you are), I shall take note - and if anyone is disappointed by my lack of blogging, they can blame you.

But for now, blogging does help. It's my way of distancing myself a bit from the difficult parts of having cancer, looking at it like a story-telling researcher (shout-out to Richard and colleagues: that's called ETHNOGRAPHY. I'm my very own ethnographer here!)

I do feel a bit of a fraud though. Yes, cancer is bad, but it's not that bad. I'm glad my cancer blog was appreciated by so many people, but I'm not sure it deserves the status as My Most Read Blog Post. I'd much rather that honour goes to my work blogs, so let me send you in the right direction... HERE's one I wrote a few days ago.

Which also shows you how I'm coping. Since my cancer diagnosis, I've spent every single day working. So many great projects that I'm sorry to have to step away from for a while, so I'm trying to cram in lots of things I was planning to do over the next few months. On Saturday I told myself that enough was enough, time to stop and rest, but it was no good. Stopping doesn't mean resting. Stopping means finding my breathing goes a bit too fast and my fingers start tingling. Best to keep staring at my computer screen so I don't see the elephant in the room, sitting right behind me.

Perhaps cancer is quite bad after all, and blogging is justified?

148. Another cancer, another owl

 

Well, hello again. If you have been here before, perhaps even right from the start in 2014 when I was new to blogging and new to cancer: Long time no see. Can’t say I’ve missed you.

If you’re new to this blog: A bitter welcome. I’m not sure how rocky this ride is going to be, so best be prepared to buckle up. Anyone wanting to get off now, please do and I don’t blame you.

I have breast cancer again.

There it is, my headline news. I’m not sure why it comes as such a shocking surprise. I should know better than anyone that cancer can appear in any woman’s breast, just like that: You’re fine one day, then you chance upon a little lump, you think “Hang on a minute, what’s this?” and get it checked out, and BANG. You’re still feeling fit and well but everything has changed, and before you know it you’re waved onto the cancer treatment rollercoaster that brings your fitness & wellness, indeed your entire life, to a screeching halt.

That happened before, so why shouldn’t it happen again? I’ve still got one breast after last decade’s debacle, so it’s a case of one down, one to go. But somehow, your subconscious decides that cancer is for Other People. Once that myth is busted by the unexpected arrival of your very own breast cancer, you adjust. OK then, cancer is clearly also for me, but cancer staying put and carrying on – well, that is definitely for Other People. Me? I shall live happily until I get knocked of my bike aged 102.

I had genuinely forgotten all about it. When people asked (in that meaningful concerned tone of voice) “How are you now?” it took me a while to figure out what prompted that question. Ah yes, of course, cancer, ages ago. No worries, I’m absolutely fine now, thank you. Lovely weather today, isn’t it. How’s your family/job/cat?

Now, we’re back to the precariousness of the How are you? question. (If you are thinking of asking me How are you? feel free but be warned that you may just get an honest answer. Perhaps read this first.)

Let’s get the facts out of the way. The short version:

•  Small lump (just under 2cm) in remaining breast turns out to be cancer
• Full mastectomy booked in for 1^st April (no joke)
• Further treatments may be needed, depending on what they find when they look at my sliced-up dodgy breast under the microscope
• But so far, it looks well-contained, so let’s hope that surgery will sort it out

Why write a cancer blog?

Because I can’t face telling all my friends and relations and colleagues the same sorry story over and over again. Because there are so many of you lovely people, interested in what’s happening for me, and I really want to tell each one of you but I can’t find the time or the headspace. Because I want people to know that they can talk about cancer, it’s not a taboo, it’s not a secret. A spade is a spade and a cancer is a cancer, and I want you to know that you can call it just that.

Writing about Breaking Bad News and Talking About Things is my job, and I will undoubtedly get back to you on this topic, but for now, please don’t take it personally if I don’t respond to your messages. I am comforted by the love and care of all of you, but I am also rather overwhelmed by my situation.

It’s easier, therefore, to tell my story just once. For those of you who want to know all the ins and outs of what’s been happening during the past few weeks, here it is. 

The long version:

After the full menu of treatments for a stage 2 breast cancer in 2014 (lumpectomy, hang-on-it’s-bigger-than-we-thought so let’s do a mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiotherapy) my annual check-ups had always been fine. Last year, my breast doctor discharged me. I still have three years of hormone treatment to go, but that tiny tablet is just part of my daily routine with little thought of why and wherefore. (It only had one job, which was to stop cancer in its tracks. It doesn't seem to have done that job particularly well.)

The lump

Just over three weeks ago, I discovered a small lump in the leftover breast. It felt exactly the same as before, a mirror image. I popped into the breast clinic (conveniently located opposite the bike shed at the university hospital where I work), begging to be seen, but because I’d been discharged I had to get a new GP referral. To my relief, the GP took my word for it on the phone and referred me at once. Then the hospital appointment office told me that it could be five or six weeks before they can see me – Covid backlog, you understand. Sorry, we’re only just booking patients who were referred three weeks ago.

I’m not one for panicking, but believe me, I stood in the corridor at work staring at my phone in a lightheaded sweat. Not knowing what’s going on with your body and your life is rather terrifying. So my relief was enormous when someone rang me back a few hours later with the news that they could, after all, fit me in on Saturday.

The breast clinic

The process in the one-stop breast clinic goes like this: A doctor prods and pokes, you have a mammogram, then an ultrasound, then (if needed) a biopsy, and finally another chat with the doctor, who will say: Let’s see what the results show, come back in two weeks.

To my pleasant surprise, I saw one of the Chiefs himself (“I agreed to work this Saturday, to help clear the backlog” – NHS staff are truly amazing). This breast surgeon was able to recognise my experience as a cancer patient and as a colleague, and willing to speak his mind. I couldn’t cope with the thought of waiting two weeks to get my cancer diagnosis confirmed, so I told the Chief that it looks like cancer, doesn’t it? If so, it would really help me to know when you might do the surgery? I’ve got work to sort out, you see. A new research project starting. The more time I have to get things sorted, the better.

(When it gets to discussing my work with the cancer doctors and nurses, we’re into sitcom territory. Eight years ago… Doctor: You’ve got cancer. Remind me what work you do? Me: I’ve just written a book on how to break bad news.

This time… Doctor: What do you do? You’re a professor here? You should have said at once! What area of research? Me: How to plan for the end of your life.)

The upshot was that the Chief booked me in for a bone scan and CT scan straight away. (“We don’t usually do that, because women get so alarmed at being sent for scans before we’ve told them the results of their biopsy, but in your case, let’s just get on with it.”)

The new owl

So there it was. I wasn’t yet given my formal diagnosis, but it was pretty obvious that I had cancer again. Who to tell, and when? The children first, obviously. And immediately. I don’t ever want them to worry that there are things they don’t know about, or things they can’t talk about. That is only possible if they are confident we tell them everything, openly and honestly. Plus, how can people support you if they don't know you need support?

No longer children now – my daughters are 18 and 22, my son is 24. They were shocked but also brilliantly practical. They remember the rocky road from last time, so now we just need to get our heads around another bumpy ride. My daughters knew exactly what was needed.

Mum, you need a new animal!

This blog is named after Owl, who accompanied me throughout my previous cancer treatments. It’s a long story – if you haven’t met Owl, you can read all about him here.

Just looking at Owl, who has been sitting quietly on the bedroom bookcase, made me feel nauseous. I couldn’t bear the thought of getting him out of retirement, as there are too many associations of hard times. (The VIP lounge springs to mind.) And really, I no longer have the excuse of needing to bring a stuffed toy to medical appointments for the sake of two young daughters who made sense of my cancer story through the story of Owl. Surely, I no longer needed him?

But my daughters were wiser than me. Of course Owl wasn’t for them. Mum, YOU need... Yes indeed: new cancer, new animal. The shock of hearing about my cancer turned into excitement. What animal? They pondered getting me an otter, sloth, beaver, bear, but in the end we decided it had to be another owl. We named him Otus (that’s Latin for Owl, apparently).

Otus was pressed into service the following day, when I was put through various scanners. I’m not sure how often the hospital staff get to put owls through their machines and take photos of them, but if they were taken aback, they didn’t show it. I tried to mumble something about For the girls, you see (leaving aside that these girls are grown-ups), but perhaps I should just stop pretending that Otus is there for them. The staff understood this too. They suggested that I could leave Otus lying on my stomach as the bone scanner closed in on us, and that was a surprising comfort. Lying there for 45 minutes with the large machine right on top of me, I was glad of the company.

Tears in the office

Waiting for Results Day is horrible. That’s all I can say. I went into work overdrive, trying to get ahead and sorted as much as possible, because whenever I stopped, I had butterflies in my stomach as if I was waiting for a scary exam. I decided to tell the colleagues involved in my projects, because I needed their help to plan ahead. That was hard but also life-affirming. Such lovely colleagues… Tears were shed in the office. I wasn’t planning on tears (because I’m in charge! I’m in control! And tears are dangerous, because once you start, will they ever stop?). But my colleague Richard (who has learning disabilities) was the first to cut through that: Can I give you a hug, Irene? (Oh yes please! And pass round the hankies!).

Others followed suit. I’d tell them my cancer news, we’d talk through it all, we’d reassure each other that the show will go on – this is how we will manage, this is who will support you. Yes, it will all be fine. And then we’d stop, and look at each other, and weep. It’s rubbish, isn’t it.

They were right, of course. We needed to think about the implications and the practicalities of the project manager going on sick leave, but we also needed to acknowledge that we care for each other as human beings. We needed to acknowledge together that Bad News is called Bad News because it is, well, Bad. No use trying to dress it up in a fancy outfit.

Outside work, I kept as quiet as possible, because the tears in the office were enough to cope with. Plus, every time you tell someone I have breast cancer again, it forces you to look at it and believe it, making it more real. It’s exhausting.

During those same weeks, there was only one other bit of news. There are no words to describe the horror and terror of Russia’s war with Ukraine. I am so very aware that I am adding to sum total of misery in the world, but also, that my bit of misery pales into insignificance when I look at what millions of people are suffering right now.

Thank goodness for the NHS, for family and friends and colleagues.

Results Day

A few days ago my husband and I walked into the breast clinic full of trepidation. Now here’s the strange thing. When the Chief greeted us with “Good news! The scans were clear, the cancer hasn’t spread anywhere,” I really did experience that as good news. I still do. Husband noted afterwards that being told I had cancer didn’t sound like particularly good news to him, but I already accepted that bit of the message. Bad news is not just broken by the Chief's official verdict, but also by what I can feel in my breast, see on the ultrasound scanner, deduct from the words of Charmaine, my previous breast care nurse who I'd bumped into a few weeks ago ("You're right Irene, if it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, it's going to be a duck"). I had deducted it from the Chief's response at his initial prod and poke. Clearly, he wouldn’t have put me through all those scanners quite yet if he thought it might just be an innocent lump.

So my relief was enormous when nothing dubious showed up in my bones or other organs. Now, we’re back in familiar territory. Grade 1 cancer? Walk in the park. The Chief reckons that a lumpectomy will suffice, with a bit of radiotherapy thrown after it for good measure; but I had already told him not to bother with taking just the lump out. Get rid of the whole breast please. If I’ve managed to grow breast cancer twice, I don't want to run any risk of Third Time Unlucky.

The Chief understood. He started leafing through his diary to see how soon he could fit me in for a mastectomy. We’d counted on 8^th April, but alas, he’d just booked in another woman who had Covid so needed her surgery postponed. Shouldn’t really wait another week. How about the week before? Hm, also looking quite full but you're urgent - we'll squeeze you in. So, 1^st April it is.

I could only feel relief. By now, my worries about work (starting the How-To-Plan-For-The-End-Of-Life study on 1^st April! Meetings planned! New staff starting on that very day!) had made way for worries about delays. Is it my imagination, or is the breast lump just a tiny bit bigger every day? I can feel it – in a certain bathroom light, I can even see it. So, let’s take a deep breath, and get on with it.

I’m trying to look at the positives.

There’s all of you, sticking with my story by reading this far, thinking of me, stepping in to help me manage my life and especially my work.

There's best-husband-in-the-world, and my grown-up children. Not having to worry about looking after them is just amazing. My daughter cooked me dinner last night.

There's the distraction of work, whilst knowing I have some brilliant colleagues who will manage, despite (or perhaps even thanks to) the tears in the office. I’m still working 7 long days a week… I just can’t stop, because if I stop, the butterflies are back. But I know that in two weeks’ time, I will truly be able to leave everything and sign out. So that’s a positive of sorts. I might even be looking forward to it. Sea, sand and surgery: a break from daily life, let's call it a holiday.

Then there is the prospect of evening things out in the chest department. That’s also a positive of sorts, is it not? Convenient flat chest, no need for a bra.

I’m clutching at straws here, as you can see. Because really, having cancer again is just crap, excuse my language.

I’ll try and keep you posted.