Countdown

I suppose the fact that I haven't written very much over the last few weeks pretty much sums up how I have been feeling lately.

I truly haven't been poorly from the chemo, rather the skin thing has really been a downer.

That's an understatement actually.

My life, over the last 10 days, has been so utterly awful I cannot express how miserable I have been.

Obviously, the physical pain has been all consuming. This has passed a little. I am no longer bright red. But it still hurts and I haven't slept properly in this time. It hasn't so much been getting from day to day, rather it has been lurching from hour to hour.

I find myself moisturising every hour or two, even through the night. How many times have I got up and dragged myself to the the pot of Doublebase moisturiser at 2am???

Psycho-emotionally, it has also been tough. Most women in my position suffer and deal with the side effects of chemotherapy and the on-coming surgery and radiotherapy. Hell, they just have to try and live with the fact they have cancer and what that means.

Me? I look at my body and see it 80% covered in a bright, sore red rash and I wonder if there is any point in living at all. No dealing with nausea, fatigue or worrying I might die from cancer. I would welcome death (if it isn't painful please).

Let me point out I am not depressed. Nor am I suicidal. No thinking about ropes over banisters here or driving my car at 90mph in to a large tree (I am all for Nembutal after sorting out my paperwork and putting everything in order...this takes time and planning). But I do feel despair because I am in constant pain. And I loathe what my body looks like. Bollocks to having no hair and going up a dress size; for me, it is the fact I look and feel like a leper. That my skin hurts. That I don't feel like a valid person anymore, let alone a woman. Fuck me, I don't have any hair and I look like shit!

They shoot horses when they get like me. Really. I have very little quality of life right now. I go into work and I put a false smile on my face and pretend everything is fine. Because I have to. Because work is all I have right now. There is no social life (I don't leave the house, unless going to Waitrose or to the hospital). I don't want people to see me looking like a bright red leper! Close friends understand...

And now I have to deal with the surgery.

Today I went to see Scouse. I like Scouse. I believe he is a caring healthcare professional. I take some comfort from this, particularly as my experience of the oncologists is they actually don't give much of a fuck.

'I apologise now' I said, 'I might burst into tears'.

Scouse looked at me. Then at my hands and wrists (the only part if my body showing, bar my face, which strangely isn't affected).

'It's your skin, isn't it?' he asked.

'Yes. I am in agony and life isn't so great right now'.

He looked sympathetic. I think he is a sensitive chap. I suppose you have to be in his line of work. He tells women they have cancer and that he is going to have to chop their tits off. I imagine he also has to tell women they are going to die too. It helps to be sympathetic.

We discussed my breast and Colin.

One thing I haven't written here because I haven't felt like writing, is that 1. I can't have immediate reconstruction if I have to have a mastectomy because I have to have radiotherapy and it is impossible to do radio on a reconstructed breast and 2. I can't have a delayed reconstruction in a years time because this is major surgery.

I am not a 50-70 year old woman (the average age for women to have breast cancer) who has a husband, a part-time job and the ability to have time off work to recover. Delayed breast reconstruction requires many operations over a year period. It requires up to a year off work in some cases. I am a single young woman who has no financial support from anyone. I have to work for a living. My home comes with my job and the kind of job I have does not allow for massive amounts of time off work. Indeed, the contracts I have had normally have a clause written in which says no more than a 'month' off sick. It's just the kind of job I have. And, remember, come the autumn I am going to have to look for a new job. No employer is going to employ someone who wants to take time off work for months and months at a time to have a breast built. Plus, of course, I am not going to mention in any interview that I have just had 6 months of treatment for cancer. I will remain jobless and homeless if I do...

I explained my situation to Scouse. He listened. He understood - the sign of a decent doc in my book.

'Well' he said, 'I am planning on a wide local excision at this point so let's not worry about being breastless at this point'.

I asked him about the cosmetic result for someone who needs to have half their breast scooped out. Originally, he was concerned that a WLE would leave my breast in a terrible state post-radiotherapy. Indeed, he thought a mastectomy would be preferable last March.

'I reckon I might be able to jig some of the breast tissue about to fill the gap'.

He groped my tit at this point.

'You know, I really think Colin has got smaller and the chemo is actually working...Colin is certainly softer than he was 3 weeks ago' said Scouse.

Great. The chemo is doing something but I can't have anymore because my reaction to the Taxoshit, skin-wise, makes it impossible.

He measured me from shoulder to nipple with a tape measure.

'I have to say, you have excellent nipple alignment'. Apparently my nipples are high on the breast and said breasts are well positioned for a woman of 41. I think he was trying to tell me I had great tits. Or I have now. I won't once he cuts half of one of them off...

Oh the irony.

It also means he has little room for movement with the 'jigging' of the breast. Volume displacement, the official word for 'jigging' involves cutting the nipple off, jigging the tissue about and then replacing the it. This is, essentially, what they do to women who have their breasts cosmetically reduced in size.

'I can't attach the nipple higher, as I normally would, because unlike many women of your age who have drooped breasts, your nipple and breasts are in a good position'.

Apparently, it is all going to be a bit of a challenge, particualarly as Colin, the little fuck, is very close to the nipple. It is going to make cutting him out and the margins needed to make sure the cancer is all gone, very difficult.

But not as difficult as the lymph surgery. Cutting out Malcom could cause permanent problems for me. Indeed, Scouse says the breast surgery is fine, but the lymph surgery may leave with me with a permanent disability - 20% of women who lose their lymph nodes are left with a dead arm. I will definately lose all the feeling between my shoulder and elbow, as they have to cut the nerves.

Oh it just gets better and better, doesn't it?

So, 30th July is 'chop off the tit' day. Followed by 3 days in hospital having lymph fluid drained out of my armpit, followed by 4 weeks of recovery if I don't need to have more surgery, because if Scouse doesn't get it all out, I have to go back under the knife. Then I might be breastless...

Tomorrow, I am seeing a hypnotherapist in an attempt to deal with my phobia of surgery and being knocked out.

If anyone has a spare glass of Nembutal going spare, drop me a line...