The full monty

Friday 30 December 2016

The morning

After a somewhat restless night, we get up, attempt to have breakfast and wait for 11.30am.

I now have to make the call to my parents.  I hadn't told them last night as dad wasn't well yesterday, but I can't put it off any longer. I feel physically sick and my palms are sweating - this is going to be the worst one.

Mum answers the phone and it goes something like this..... 'Mum, I had a call from my breast consultant last night and it's not good news.  My breast cancer has come back'.  Cue shock; crying; don't understand; but your bone scan was clear; relaying the information to dad who screams 'no, no'. Horrendous? Yes.

I've done it.  I've told them.  The next thing I know there is a car pulling up and a knock at the door. The look on their faces is not one I will forget.  I hug mum, and then my dad collapses against the wall crying uncontrollably.  They can't believe this is happening to their daughter again.

Tim puts the kettle on and we all sit in the lounge. A good old cup of tea is what's needed.  I tell them I need them to be strong for me. Mum is worried about Tim too and asks me how he's doing when he's out of the room. He's being stoic.

Mum and dad eventually go back home as I tell them we'll fill them in on the detail once we've been to the Breast Unit.

Shall we have a game of Scrabble in the meantime? (rock and roll)  We get through most of the game and then have to go to the hospital.  

Thankfully, the hospital is only about 10 mins drive away and we now have a shiny new oncology centre so at least I know that any treatment I need to have can hopefully be delivered at Worcester unlike in 2008 when I used to have to travel to Cheltenham for radiotherapy.

We arrive and the breast care nurse comes out into the waiting room. 'I'll tell him you're here'.

We're taken through to one of the consulting rooms. He enters the room. We hug. 'I can't believe I'm seeing you under these circumstances', I say.  He sits down. Tim and I sit down. I can tell by his face that this isn't good. He delivers the blow - this is it, the full monty.  

The CT scan has shown that I have cancer in my sternum, my T8 vertebra (ie. spine), and there are three spots in my liver (albeit small ones).

FUCKING HELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This really IS it.  It is secondary metastatic breast cancer. It's incurable. What a pile of bollocks.

I feel the same prickly heat,stunned numbness and dry mouth as last night. Tim has gone white. There are moments of silence - I hate moments of silence.  I swear quite a bit and then put my head in my hands. I don't cry. I'm too shocked. The nurse asks if I want a drink and she kindly gets me some water.

I'm told it's really bad luck as at eight years down the line, the chances of re-occurrence are really, really small. Jeez. They think there was probably a rogue cell that escaped the chemo in 2008 and that this has probably been growing for some time, but I'll need a biopsy to find out more. Bastard cancer cells.

He also said that they double checked the bone scan results and that it definitely didn't show anything, so thank goodness I'd had the CT scan as well as it obviously HAS seeped into my bones!!

(Oh, as an aside, the cancer has also cracked my sternum, hence the terrible chest pain - no wonder it's not been getting better!)

So a biopsy is going to be difficult and it will be discussed with Tim and I at a meeting with the oncologist at 1.30pm today.  

I have to ask the question: 'How long?' but it's not really as simple as that. Although it's incurable and I will be living with cancer for the rest of my life (however long that may be), they believe it IS treatable and because at the moment it seems relatively contained, we can get moving and blast the bastard with radiotherapy and nasty chemotherapy.  

As my consultant says, 'the trouble is, you know how awful these treatments are', and he's right as the first time round, ignorance was bliss (to an extent), but now I know the horrors that await, physically, and, sometimes worse, mentally. 

My consultant and nurse ask if we want to go to the 'room' - I know which one they mean.  I helped develop the idea during a focus group for the new Unit  years ago. We said that one of the worst things about being diagnosed with cancer in the main hospital, is that you then have to walk back through a very crowded waiting room and hospital, crying your eyes out, until you have time to find somewhere quiet to sit and digest the news.  The room at the new Unit is actually really lovely and has a separate exit so you can get back to the car park without having to see anyone at all.  However, I totally didn't want to go into that bloody room as it would probably make it seem a bit too real, so we just went back out via reception. That might sound really harsh, but we all had a total laugh about it.  Basically, I've been dealt this shit hand, but I've totes got to get on with it!

We leave the hospital. Oh jeez, how are mum and dad going to deal with this bombshell?!

So we head to the Wilcox's and deliver the 'incurable news'.  They just can't believe it. They are devastated and mum says 'everyone will be devastated'. Tim has a bit more colour in his cheeks now and him and I seem to be holding it together, thank goodness. I'm not 'being brave', I just genuinely think 'well this is what I've got to deal with and I've just bloody well got to get on with it' (sigh!).

I call Susie and fill her in once we're home. She has been crying again.

I call my little brother and tell him too.  It's horrible.

The afternoon

We manage to eat some lunch before we trot back to the hospital to meet the oncologist.  I can't believe that I'm heading back to the Rowan Suite - everyone looks so scared or ill in there! Ho hum.

Tim and I meet my new oncologist.  He seems very straightforward and explains things really clearly.  Both Tim and I felt MUCH better after the meeting with him.

So here's the lowdown.....

• It's unlucky (no shit Sherlock!) 
• It's treatable and could mean I live years if I respond to the treatment (awesome, let's f****g hope so!)
• The spots on the liver are small - the biggest one is 12mm (which is the equivalent of a raisin in a loaf of bread - in fact, he told me that your liver is about the size of a loaf of bread!! I mean, I knew it was big, but not that big! Crikey)
• It's confined to one vertebrae at the moment
• I will receive a monthly injection to stop my bones from dissolving which should also reduce the pain in my chest. He was hoping to give me the injection today, but he didn't have recent blood results so that will probably now happen next week
• There is some enlarged soft tissue around my sternum which they hope to be able to get a biopsy from to test if it is the same type of cancer as before (ie, ER+ which means it is hormone driven - estrogen and progesterone)
• They also want to see if I am now HER2+, as this would mean I can have a drug called Herceptin, which gives me even a better chance.  However, he did say it is unlikely to be HER2+ as it wasn't the first time around
• I will start radiotheraphy in the next couple of weeks for my front and back bones, but my drug treatment plan will depend on the results of the biopsy
• I can't really have a biopsy from the liver as the spots are small and it's a difficult procedure
• The drug treatment plan will probably be hormone treatment (tablets and monthly injection to suppress my ovaries and put me into menopausal mode) and chemotheraphy (fun times), but the order and the type of drugs depend on the results 
• The drug treatment is what should eradicate the liver cancer (keep your fingers crossed)
• I have an appointment with him in three weeks time to discuss the results of the biopsy - which should hopefully take place next week 

He then gave me a prescription for some more painkillers and then Tim said 'don't forget to ask him about tomorrow night'.

Er, so I was thinking because I've got cancer in the liver that I wouldn't be able to drink anymore, so I said, 'I don't want to sound like a raging alcoholic, but we're meant to be going out for new year's eve tomorrow and I didn't know if I would able to drink'.  Basically, he told me to go for it...ACE. He said the liver can take a lot of stuff being thrown at it (which it has in my case over the years!!).  

What I should do here though is my public health service announcement and let you know that there is a medical evidence of a direct link between drinking and breast cancer so be careful folks (however, sod it as far as I'm concerned as it's too late for me now...hahahaha).

And with that we went back to the waiting room ready to see the radiographer.

We were only waiting a couple of minutes and we we called through the Head Radiographer.  He confirmed I will have five treatments to the bones at the top and back of my chest - this is to help blast the cancer cells and reduce my bone pain (pleeeeease). 

This will be the same as before, which for those who (gladly) don't know, means you go for an appointment where they tattoo marks onto your body to direct exactly where the radiation needs to be pointed - hopefully they will use a different colour to the tattoos to those I had during my first treatment eight years ago!! Then you lie in a certain position on a bed while everyone else leaves the room, the machine moves to where it needs to be, makes a noise, and then you're done.

I signed the consent form and he said I may experience a sore throat from the treatment as well as redness in the area and tiredness.  There may also be the chance of nausea, but if so, I'll be given anti-sickness medication.  And that was that.....

What can I say, it all happened so quickly, and for that I'm grateful - not too much time for sitting around contemplating what a shit situation this really is.

Tim and I both admit that we're relieved that the prospect of a third and final IVF treatment to try for a family has now been taken away from us.  We were unsure whether to go ahead with it, and this has obvs ruled it out. We both admit that we'd both really come to the realisation that we were unlikely to be a family unit and we were thinking about going through the third round because we should give it 'one last try' rather than really wanting too.  IVF brings such physical and emotional grief and after the disaster of the first round (I won't bore you with it, but I was in A&E on Boxing Day 2015 for five hours, and then again two days later in the emergency gynae unit), it's a relief to not have to even consider it.

I start thinking of the practical things like seeing if I can get a refund as I was in the middle of a course of laser treatments to get rid of my armpit hair (maybe TMI for you guys, but get used to it, as this could get really personal! Soz).

After leaving the radiographer, I went to put in my prescription at the hospital pharmacy and while we were waiting for that (45 mins), went to have my blood tests so my oncologist has a fresh set of results.

Anyone who knows me knows that (despite having had hundreds) I HATE blood tests.  I don't mind needles but the whole veins thing just creeps me out!  Anyway, turns out when I was a kid, I used to live two doors away from the husband of the nurse who did my bloods! Small Worcester world.

We picked up the prescription and then headed back to mum and dad's to fill them in on the news as we were feeling more positive after the meeting with the oncologist than we had in the morning.  

We stopped at Tesco on the way back to pick up some bread and while I was in the supermarket Tim told his mum and dad while sat in the car park.  He'd tried them earlier, but they weren't in.  More devastation.  He told me when I got back in the car that he had to keep talking to hold it together otherwise he was going to lose it!

Once we'd been at mum and dad's I called Susie and filled her in (again).