Bank holiday blues

It's festival season in Nottingham and the city council has laid on free music and entertainment across town throughout the weekend. This afternoon there was blues in the Square and we took in a bit of Dr Feelgood while passing through. Later we stopped to watch an excellent gypsy/jazz/ska fusion band called Baghdaddies - pictured here. They were great fun and if it hadn't been Nottingham in broad daylight I might have danced!

Some people have asked for a progress report on recovery/treatment etc so here goes:

Wednesday will be six weeks post op (recovery takes up to three months) and I'm steadily gaining strength. I can now do most things except run, go to the gym, or hoover. Apart from the odd twinge in the parts that have been operated on, I'm hardly in any pain and am off all medication. I still get more tired than usual and have taken up siestas.

I start chemotherapy on 18 June. Treatment consists of six sessions of a regime called FEC T administered through a drip at three week intervals. Apart from hair loss, immediate side effects are likely to be nausea, tiredness and generally feeling unwell for a few days after treatment. People tend to lose their sense of taste too. More serious is the effect on white blood cells. The critical time comes 7-14 days after treatment when blood count gets so low you can't fight infection. If daily temperature readings go above 38 degrees you have to phone the hospital. You should also phone if you feel 'unwell', and if certain symptoms occur, you phone 999. During this danger period, you should stay away from bugs. If you do get infected, they admit you to hospital and give you intravenous antibiotics. During week three of the cycle you feel more or less normal, then it's time to go back for more. Chemo also makes people much more sensitive to UV so you should stay out of the sun or douse yourself with factor 50. I shall have to catch as many rays as possible before June 18.

Emotionally I'm feeling upbeat. Learning that I needed chemo was a set-back but now I'm over that and back in my bubble. I shall just get on with it and live that old cliche 'a day at a time'. I've spoken to people who had a dreadful time on chemo and kept having to be hospitalised, and others who felt ok throughout. I am doing various holistic mind and body therapies such as yoga, hypnosis and acupuncture, which all help the healing process. Summer is a nice time to be recuperating, and JP and I are planning a winter holiday for when I'm better. Meanwhile he and his brother are doing up the boat. I'm looking forward to it being ship-shape.

The bright side

Recently I spoke to Margaret, who is someone I knew in Manchester. She has had terminal ovarian cancer for three years. After six lots of chemo they've now finished all treatment.

Margaret has been taking part in a Sky documentary about cancer patients at Christie's hospital, so she's had a camera crew following her around. They filmed her having treatment and interviewed her at home. They came to the party she had for friends and family to celebrate her life. And when she planned her funeral, they were there too.

Now this may all sound a bit Jade Goody, but if you know Margaret, you'll know that nothing could be further from the truth. She'll be doing this to raise publicity for the hospital and to encourage others in a similar situation.

And it will help because Margaret is remarkable. She has a deep spirituality so in facing death she has a destination in mind; this is just a preview, what comes next is the main event. It must be comforting to be that sure.

Psychologists say most of us live in a state of existential denial most of the time. We think we will go on for ever - even though we know we won't. Having cancer - no matter how good the prognosis - brings you up against your own mortality. And that is terrifying. Unless you're Margaret.

She is approaching death like she approaches life, with courage, faith and good humour, looking on the bright side.

She told me about her phone conversation with the undertaker.

Undertaker: 'Can we do your hair for you when you're in the coffin?'

Margaret: 'I've had chemotherapy and I haven't got any hair!'

Undertaker: 'Well will you let us put some makeup on you? A little mascara perhaps?'

Margaret: 'I haven't got any eyelashes!'

Undertaker: 'Some rouge?'

Margaret: 'You do whatever makes you happy. I won't care. I won't be there!'

Things to do in Sherwood when you're sick

1. Visit the tropical house in Woodthorpe Park. Good place to go if it's cold as they keep it at a constant (tropical) temperature. Wander among the lemon and banana trees and watch big South African fish. This place is a real hidden gem. There's hardly ever anyone else in there, apart from the odd nutter (mostly harmless).
2. Go for a smoothie in mm deli. Sit in the window, read the papers and watch the world.
3. Have a beauty treatment at one of the many salons. I've just been for reflexology (feet). Don't go to the nail bar though because it smells.
4. Report some Anti Social Behaviour (ASB) to the local neighbourhood police. The Mansfield Road Police Station is manned these days! If you need some ASB to witness try Burnham Street.
5. If you've got the energy, take a walk over to Mapperley and do some chocolate tasting. (If you eat enough of them you will be sick).
6. Call in at Craft Worskhop and learn some needlework - kind of like occupational therapy.
7. Head down to the Forest and visit the outdoor gym. Actually you need to be feeling quite well to do this.
8. Browse round the charity shops, you might pick up a bargain. They're full of wedding frocks at the moment. A year late for some.
9. Stroll round Woodthorpe Park and chat to friendly dog walkers - legendary for their sense of community. Helps if you've got a dog but you can always pretend.
10. Go for lunch at Yianni's, afternoon tea at Le Mistral and if you're still out by evening time and you've got a large appetite check out Ania's - especially if you like free vodka.

Open day at the chemo clinic

Joy came with me to meet the chemo people - because two heads are better than one.

Our 'chat' turned out to be a half-day information session for me and some other chemo hopefuls and included a presentation, Q&A, blood tests and a one-to-one with a nurse.

I came away with lots of scary facts and a wig prescription.

Debbie - the nurse - also threw in a tour of the ward so I could view people having their treatment, which involves sitting there for an hour or more while the drugs drip into you. The patients looked, well, patient!

And I got to try on a cold cap, which is a sort of gel-based swimming hat taken straight from the freezer. It prevents hair-loss by freezing the follicles. It felt like slabs of ice pressing around my head. Not for the nesh!

Debbie said because my hair is fine it'll probably fall out, cap or no cap. She said if it was Joy's hair, which is thick, it would be different. That's why two heads are better than one.

Later this week I'm off to check out wig shops.

Meanwhile it is JP's turn to come out in sympathy. He's hurt his leg and went to work on crutches. I suspect the division of labour may be shifting back to previous arrangements ...

Here comes the sun

Emma told me to make something creative out of pebbles and put it on the blog - but there were no pebbles, just miles and miles of sand, so she will have to make do with a picture of feet.

Funny how summer has suddenly arrived. As recently as last week I was still wearing my winter coat (the operation made me even more nesh* than usual) but with the appearance of the sun all sorts of things kept under wraps through the winter have now emerged. Like feet.

We've been to the Norfolk coast to celebrate our anniversary. We found this near deserted beach. The water was warm. I wanted to stay there.

* NB for the uninitiated nesh is a Nottingham word which means 'feels the cold'.

Back to back

The tissue in my boob, which was taken from my back, still thinks it's back muscle.

When I do certain dorsal stretches, it flexes and contracts. Like it's still trying to work.

Far out!

So muscle has memory.

Today I've had a one-to-one Iyengar Yoga session, courtesy of a friend who teaches it. She showed me some nice healing postures. And for the first time in ages I felt as though my body was my own, not some contortion of its former self.

Which is good because I had begun to worry that when they said the surgeon was 'an artist' they meant Picasso.

Reasons to be tearful

1. My Dad died a year ago today.

2. He died three days before our wedding.

3. My Mum died six months earlier.

ROLLER-COASTER!

Our wedding was gorgeous. We all piled into a routemaster bus that took us from the oldest church in Nottingham to a riverside reception.

Good job when JP said: "In sickness and in health" he meant it.

Moment of melancholy over. Visitors are arriving. And later I am going for a swim in a friend's pool. It's a wonderful life.

Vital statistics

Oncologist gave me the odds:

Chances of the cancer returning
- if I do nothing further = 60%
- with chemo = 35-40%
- with chemo and hormone treatment = 20%

Chances of the chemo causing another primary cancer = one in a thousand.

Think I'll follow doctors' orders.

Physio gave me ten out of ten for effort. Mobility now almost normal.

Since the operation I've put on half a stone and gone up a bra size.

Oscar thanks those who have enquired as to his health. He is much better today and has been out stalking pigeons.

Sick as a cat

Oscar has come out in sympathy today and been sick. He refused to use one of the hospital party hats so I've had to clean up the carpet and wash the duvet cover.

Meanwhile all these hospital appointments are getting in the way of my social life. This week it's visits to the dermatologist, oncologist, physiotherapist and chemo nurses. Dermatology visit this afternoon has nothing to do with cancer. I'm trying to find out what causes a persistant allergic skin reaction. Hope it's not the cat. If it is I'm not being parted from him. When I took him on it was for better for worse..

On Thursday the chemo people have invited me in for "a chat". Sounds cosy.

On the road

Driving again - Hoorah! Both the boat and the car.

Yesterday was a lovely day spent tootling around on the river. We took Rob with us as crew - seen here taking a fag break on the front. I hardly thought about cancer all day. I was mostly a figurehead crew member - steered a bit but didn't touch locks or ropes.

In the evening I had a look at some of the cancer internet forums. These can be a mixed blessing. While it's reassuring to find others have similar symptoms and side effects, there are some horror stories out there. I googled "is there an alternative to chemotherapy?" and found reams of stuff about the toxic effects of conventional treatment. All very well, but the alternative world does not, in the case of cancer, seem to offer a viable alternative.

It's a balance between becoming as well informed as possible and focusing on things other than the illness. I don't want to become a person consumed - physically or mentally - by cancer.

Fast-track NHS

The chemo clinic rang this morning. Said they'd booked me in for my first session next Monday - they'd had a cancellation.

JP rang them back on my behalf and declined the appointment because:
- I'm still in my six week post-op recovery stage
- I haven't even finally decided I'm going to have chemo
- I haven't yet seen the oncologist

While the speed is impressive, I'm not yet ready for Domestos.

Perhaps they're wanting to expedite everything through before any Con-Dem cuts start to bite.

I've decided to approach chemotherapy like I did the half marathon. When people asked me how I did it I said: "You just put one foot in front of the other."

Had been thinking of running it again this September. Maybe next year.

Survivors

These orchids were sent by friends soon after I got diagnosed - that's six weeks ago - and they're still going.

Cut flowers normally last a few days or a week at most.

A few bits have fallen off but they are thriving and still beautiful.

I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere.

Reasons to be cheerful

At the risk of sounding like some ghastly Pollyanna, I've been trying to spin some positives out of this chemo conundrum:
1. I'll get more time off work (although perversely, I'm kind of missing work)
2. Summer is a good time to be recuperating
3. I can have fun with wigs
4. There is an unofficial support network of chemo veterans and others emerging around me. They are with me all the way. (Thanks - you know who you are!)
5. I won't have to shave for a bit
6. Oscar is happy when I'm off
7. More time to pursue my dream of becoming a writer.
That's all I can think of at the moment. Four more than Ian Dury anyway.

Not sure this is working. It still feels crap. But a cognitive behaviour therapist would say just think the thoughts, you don't have to feel them. Your subconscious mind will follow.

Meanwhile Sherwood is full of bluebells. These are the ones in our garden.

I'm off to the Indian Community Centre at lunchtime with Jules. You can get a decent curry there for £3!

Yesterday

I didn't take my medication.

I didn't do my exercises.

I drank too much wine.

And a Tory Toff walked into Downing Street.

I am nostalgic for '97, when things could only get better...

Oh Gord

They're recommending chemo.

They found 'traces' of the cancer in one of the seven lymph nodes. The chemo is just in case it's spread further.

The conversation went like this:

Consultant: "We will put you on a course of chemo",

Me: "Do I have a choice?"

Consultant: "We want you to live to be an old lady. We want you to live to 90."

(What's it to you? Who wants to live to 90?)

Consultant: "Why don't you want chemo?"

(Why ever? Who wouldn't? What's not to want about six months of looking and feeling crap, flushing out your body with poison, knackering your immune system, and in all likelihood increasing your risk of getting other primary cancers).

Me: "Because it's a poison and a carcinogen."

Silence.

The nurse says it's a 'belt and braces' approach.

"It's like Domestos."

Great.

Perhaps I am too negative. Perhaps I am being a wimp. True, I don't want to lose my hair and feel debilitated. True, I don't want to be out of action for yet more months. True, I don't want to give my body, which is still recovering from a major trauma, yet more battering. But it isn't that.

It's just that every fibre of my being is recoiling from it. Treating poison with poison. Treating poison that may or may not be there. Just in case. Belt and braces.

I see the oncologist a week from now. I need more information. I know. This is not a rational, thought out response. I know two women for whom chemo caused more cancer. One died of leukaemia. The other one went on to have another primary.Her own consultant told her the chemo probably caused it. Two women. I know there are plenty of others who had chemo with no recurrence. This is not a scientific sample. I know.

They found traces in one out of seven lymph nodes. The other six were clear. The blood supply was clear. The cancer is Grade 2 - not the most invasive type. They will treat it with radiotherapy and hormone drugs anyway. I'm fine with both of those. It's just the chemo shit.

The good news is my critical illness insurance might now pay off my mortgage.

It's an ill wind.

And as JP says Gordon probably feels worse than me right now...

Eek a mouse!

I hadn't had the back-spasm effect for a while until it returned with a vengeance the other night, waking everyone up.

During the 3am worry-hour that ensued I became convinced the surgeons had left something in me which was lodged in the cavity where they took the muscle out, causing me to twitch.

JP reassuringly explained there's no way this can happen because they count all the implements out in the operating theatre before and after surgery to check they haven't left anything behind.

I was about to drift off again when he said: "maybe it's a mouse!"

EEK! It feels EXACTLY LIKE a mouse running up and down inside my back.

Tomorrow is Black Box day. I see the brilliant Miss Bello at 10.30 NHS time for the results. Maybe I'll ask her about the mouse.

In the pink

There has been a change in the division of labour in this household since the operation. The fairies who used to do the washing are away on sabbatical, and the ones who do cooking, shopping and car things have taken over the laundry department. They have brought in efficiency measures - meaning fewer, larger loads, but less selection.

This has some interesting side-effects, as with this bra. When I bought it it was white, now it's a rather fetching two-tone pink effect.

Been bra shopping again today. Just can't seem to find the right thing. Anything offering sufficient support is too tight round my scar. I prefer sports bras to post-surgery ones. I'd rather be an athlete than an invalid.

Hospital must-haves

If you are contemplating a stay in hospital, I would recommend any or all of the following (clockwise from left):
1. Crocs - fleece-lined (present from JP) they work as slippers or shoes, so when you are up to forays off the ward you can wear them as shoes. You can also wear them in the shower, and take the fleece bits out to dry them. Gonna get some more crocs, although Jules says they're 'dykey'.
2. Ted (Rob won him in a raffle). He was at Rob's Mum's care home until she died. 'He is used to looking after ladies'.
3. Cardboard bowler hats which work as sick-bowls or recepticals for other random fluids. The hospital supply these.
4. Hand cream. General anaesthetic dehydrates skin.
5. Biscuits. The last meal is served at 5pm and it's a long fast till morning.
6. DAB radio. Radio 4 helps keep you sane.
7. MP3 player, cuts out out ward din. Listening to your own music helps you feel human. You can also put relaxation tapes on there, good for sleepless nights.
8. Holding cross (present from JP) can be comforting for the religiously minded. (I am Catholic albeit not a very good one)
9. Somersaulting frog. (present from Jules) amuses the nurses.
10. Blackberry or other smartphone/handheld device. An absolute lifeline. Thankfully they let you have mobiles these days in hospital.

Hang Parliament

As the future of British politics stays suspended in the air, I've been hanging out in cafes with Jules. First time out in public since emerging from hospital. It all helps in the normalisation process.

Having something life-threatening can make you appreciate the mundane - corny but true. We sat in Le Mistral, sipping Earl Grey, the buzz of ordinarly life around us, and it was wonderful.

I have been walking very slowly around places I normally run through, stopping to talk to old men on park benches, pat dogs, sniff at blossom and photograph trees.

Yesterday my bosses came, bearing chocolate and poems. They are part of the tidal wave of good will that has engulfed me since my diagnosis, helping to make this cancer chapter a bizarrely positive experience.

Gordon is right

About nurses being angels. When I went back on the ward to have my dressings removed they greeted me like a long-lost sister. They are now dealing with another intake of people going through what I went through, and so it goes on, day in day out, week after week. So here's to Sarah and Rachel and Becky and Marcia and Adele and all the other Gillies girls who give of their best, day and night.

The auxilliaries who came to wash me in the mornings wanted everyone to vote Lib Dem because apparently Clegg has pledged to put their wages up to a whopping £8.30 an hour. Currently they earn little over £6.

Just been to the synagogue to vote. This is an interesting election for me and my colleagues because we work for a bit of Government that may be done away with if certain of the parties get in.

Some of the candidates have been banging on about bureaucrats in the civil service wasting tax-payers money, but I'd say that if there is time and resource wasted it is spent doing the bidding of politicians - and that is true whatever hue of Government is in power.

Oscar rehab

This is Oscar, an orange cat who lives here.

He runs a clinic in the conservatory for recovering alcoholics and other jaded souls.

Therapy consists of sitting on people and administering acupuncture.

I am currently availing myself of his services.

"I don't want no chemo shit!"

Overheard in the results clinic. The girl who said it only looked about 19.

If you are going to have breast cancer, I think my sort of age (mid-40 something) is the optimum time to get it because:
- you are more confident in your body so losing a breast is less important
- menopause-inducing treatment is less of an issue because that's the way you're headed anyway
- you are still young enough and strong enough for your body to cope
- chances are you're in a solid enough relationship by now to take the strain.

JP's back at work today so I'm fending for myself. Each day brings little triumphs on the recuperation road - yesterday's were walking round Mill Lake and having sufficient dexterity to put my contact lenses in. Recovery from the op is of course just the end of the beginning. Phase 2 will be determined next week by Miss Bello's Black Box. Fingers crossed for a low-grade, non-invasive cancer. I don't want no chemo shit either!

Visiting hours

In hospital, visitors weren't allowed until 2.30pm and flowers were forbidden. No such restrictions exist here, and we're running out of vases. It's like a continual house party in which I am allowed to be a crap host. Guests sort themselves out and don't think it rude if I zone out for a while and have a little snooze.

One recent visitor put me to sleep intentionally. She is a hypnotherapist and ran a special session for me in which we deflated bubbles of negativity. It was nice. The session lasted half an hour but seemed much less.

People are very generous at times like this and have given freely of their time and expertise. I am fortunate in having among my friends a physio, a doctor, a yoga teacher, a hypnotherapist, an Indian Head masseuse and several cancer survivors, not to mention all the people who are just good to talk to. Thank you!

Recovery

"I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing" Agatha Christie (1890 - 1976)

Today we went to the marina to see the boat. Managed to walk to the lock and back - about 1 mile. It won't be long before I am able to go out on the boat again. But I won't be able to do locks and things for a very long time - if ever!

Afterwards Liza took me bra shopping. I am turning into a person who seeks advice in bra shops and tries things on. Did you know you get 17.5% (VAT) off certain bras if you've had breast surgery?