November 27 – Kerzapped! – Job done.

Friday. - Done, finished, complete, over, ….that’s it. I had my last radiotherapy zapping on Monday afternoon. Me and MLB are now starting to become ‘normal’ again.

The whole zapping experience was fine. I had, in a moment of boredom, read some forum entries on a breast cancer website which moaned on and on about how tired people felt and how painful their boobs were and how ghastly the whole process was. They must live on another planet. I have had no tiredness despite the travelling, no soreness, no broken skin, no burning sensation, and I wore a bra the whole time.

There were some funny moments. Normally you are allocated to one Linear Accelerator and its attached team – I was allocated LA6. One day however, I had to go to a different one as LA6 was having a routine service. So I found myself in a waiting area with loads of men in dressing gowns, no trousers but they were wearing shoes and socks….obviously the prostate cancer crowd. I was called in and sure enough it was an all male radiography team. They had me in hoots as they set up the table for a breast cancer zap and then took about 20 minutes to get me lined up as compared with my usual team who could do it in about 2 minutes. They got there in the end. They sheepishly admitted that they didn’t do breasts very often but hoped it was OK! Seemed all right to me.

During this time I had some golfing mates over for lunch and they bought me the most beautiful bunch of flowers. So lovely I have had to add a photo of them to this blog to say thank you.

Now the other news is……da da…My hair is growing!! Just a bit but it is starting to become obvious. Not enough for me to go wigless yet but I think in a couple of weeks I might experiment.

Other side effect news. My nails are a mess – including my toenails. I had a pedicure a couple of days ago and when the beautician took the old nail polish off two of the toenails were black. So we covered them up again rather quickly.

My left arm is now pretty much a normal size after the course of MLD and I wear the horrible compression sleeve for all activity but it comes off in the evening. So far so good.

Still a bit of tingling and numbness in my feet but this should disappear over the next few months.

So I’m looking forward to going to Spain for Xmas and New Year and just relaxing without having to face any more treatment or pill popping apart from the Arimidex which I will take for five years. Just like HRT or the pill. Not a difficult one.

As my strength is returning, so my golf is starting to get back to a reasonable form and I should become competitive again by spring – watch out all my golfing mates.

I’ll post the next blog after I get back from Spain, hopefully with news of massive hair growth etc. Until then have a fun festive season and happy new year.

26 August - I learn that I am not superwoman.

Wednesday 26 August - Feeling a great deal better but still not 100% right. So for the first time in many months I have cancelled my golf game today. I am simply going to fuddle about, read and rest.

When I got up yesterday I was worried because I still felt ghastly but as I was scheduled to be an observer referee at the Southern Regions Girls Amateur Championships, and I knew they were desperately short of people, I forced myself to get in the car and drive to Worplesdon. By the time I got there I actually felt OK and the gentle walk around the course wasn’t a problem. A few undemanding rulings and I was beginning to feel we were back on track.

But I am tired. So today I give in……Only temporarily mind you!

One thing this has highlighted is that Dr S and I are going to have words next time I see him. I am not prepared to go through this again especially as we are due to fly to Spain four days after the next chemo and I have every intention of enjoying my holiday. Somehow we will have to come up with a solution – whether that be ditching the Neulasta injection or finding something whizzy in the pain relief cupboard.

24 August - I spoke too soon.

Monday 24 August. I feel like s**t. And am having to work from home again because there is no way I could stand the commute. I thought I would get away with the worst of the Taxotere side effects but I haven't. I have 'Bone Pain'. This means simply that all my bones ache like hell. It is a common side effect of the chemo and the Neulasta, the drug they give you to boost white blood cell count. As a result I haven't been able to sleep much, am swallowing Ibruprofen and Paracetamol as quickly as I can and wanting to sleep. It will pass and I probably over did it at the weekend by playing two rounds of golf. I've learned. Next time I will only play one round - with a buggy - at the LGC mixed open.

22 August -The tasteless diet

Saturday 22 August. Reaction to this new bit of chemo isn't too bad except that it seems to have affected my sense of taste...I really can't taste much at all. The result of this is that I am simply not hungry. I have found the ultimate diet! Sadly it won't last. The Dr S, the oncologist, says it is a very short term effect.

As an aside - my surgeon Mr P rather neatly defined his friend Dr S as a physician when he was dealing with the seroma issue just after the second round of surgery - Mr P said I should ask Dr S to drain the seroma if it needed it while I was seeing him for the first consultation. I suggested this to Dr S but he declined and said he would rather leave it to Mr P. When I told Mr P about this he laughed and said that in his experience physicians didn't like getting their hands dirty and only admitted people to hospitals to 'think' about them.

The Wig's facebook site is proving popular.

19 August - 4th Chemo

Wednesday 19 August – 4th Chemo session. Arrived in good time and convinced the path lab to get the senior Phlebotomist to take the bloods. No problems this time.
Everything goes well and as a bonus I don’t have to have the steroid injection so no feeling as though I am sitting on a hedgehog!

As a new twist I have to have an injection of another drug at my local GP surgery 24 hours after the chemo to boost my white blood count. Apparently this is normal, not anything particular to me. So I am given a hypo to take home and keep in the fridge overnight.

BUT THE BIG NEWS IS….. we finally have the result of the HER2 test and it is negative so I don’t have to have another year’s worth of 3 weekly infusions. This is fantastic news for me from a logistical point of view and for getting back to normal.

I confirm with Dr S that we can start radiotherapy in November when I am back from a scheduled long weekend break in Venice with a friend and that I will start Hormone therapy in the form of Arimidex a couple of weeks after chemo finishes.

I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Early August- getting on with things

Wednesday 5 August. Starting to feel OK again but this one really hit me much harder. Manage to play golf but not well.

Sat & Sunday Now feeling quite normal again. Garden is producing stuff…. Runner beans are coming in and the tomatoes might actually make a crop this year. Had neighbours around for drinks on Sunday evening

Wednesday 12 August. Much better. Played the 36 hole Ladies Challenge Cup and was allowed to use a buggy as a special dispensation…what luxury! Still played crap golf but it got me out and about.

Monday 17 August. Played the LGC Open and came second. Finally starting to play a bit better. Won a Callaway Golf Bag and some good balls.

Tuesday 18 August. Started the pre meds for the 4th Chemo. Mega doses of steroids and despite taking then early enough I was wide awake at 2.30 am having the most wonderful creative ideas for all sorts of stuff. Sadly most of it had faded by morning.

3 August - Chemo reaction

Monday 3 August. This last round of chemo has affected me much more than before. I haven’t been sick but the ‘blurgh’ feeling is still with me and I am very, very tired. I could sleep for Britain. I am hoping the fatigue will go in the next couple of days, as I have to work from home. If I had to do the hour forty commute I think I would be asleep at my desk by midday.

29 July - 3rd Chemo

Wednesday 29 July. 3rd Chemo day. After this I will be half way through and this is the last of the FEC treatments. The chemo nurses say these are the worst ones and that the next three are not normally so bad. Hooray!

Today I drive myself as my partner has another engagement and I know I am OK afterwards. I get there at 10.00 thinking that things will be quicker this time….but they aren’t. The vampires in the path lab have trouble getting a vein to take the blood samples from and have to call for superior help. SO I end up with two plasters from that.

Then the chemo nurse finds the lovely vein we have used the last two times for the canula is not in good shape either. Apparently this is usual as the chemo damages the veins. Great. She eventually finds a deeper one elsewhere and we start the process.

They all like the wig. More fans!

It is all becoming so normal now. I have lunch, I read, I listen to my iPod and I do Sudoku. Eventually we finish and I get my anti sickness drugs. The only thing different is that I am given additional steroids, which I will have to start taking before the next chemo session as part of the protocol for the Taxotere drug. No Dr S this time as he is on holiday.

My head hair is very patchy now – more and more comes out each day. It won’t be long until it is all gone but so far, touch wood; I still have my eyebrows and eyelashes. The up side is I don’t have to wax or shave my pits and bits!

So on we go.

25 July - a bit of a worry

Saturday 25 July. It is the evening and I have played a friendly round of golf with the girls and taken the money so to speak. But I am now a bit concerned as I have a sniffle and a bit of a sore throat. When I get to bed I am a bit croaky.

Sunday 26 July. Definitely getting something. It feels like a head cold so I take some cold and flu stuff and head off the to match I am playing in against another club. I manage to get around feeling a bit rough but we win so that’s OK.

Monday 27 July. Wake up as snotty as hell. Real head cold stuff but the good news is I am not running a temperature so it isn’t swine flu. The big concern now is that I won’t be well enough for chemo on Wednesday. This would be a disaster as my entire schedule for the next few months is set around these chemo dates. Any delay would mess up holidays, golf, work …you name it. I call the office and work from home. That night I take am antihistamine to make sure I get a good night’s sleep as I have to be at a farewell lunch I am hosting at the RAC the next day.

Tuesday 28 July. The antihistamine did its job and I feel a great deal better. Still a bit snotty but it is under control and getting better. I go in a bit late to avoid the rush hour and manage to host the lunch OK.

July scrapbook - normalcy, friends and birthdays

11 July. Saturday. This is the day of the big Open competition my partner and I were so keen to play. We know we probably won’t play wonderfully but you need to show up to have a chance of getting into next year’s comp (when I should be more on form).

It is 36 holes around two different courses. I am walking as we hadn’t thought to order a buggy and it is too late now. Our friends who we are playing with have a buggy so the option is there for me to ride if I get too tired.

The wig performs well although it gets a bit hot. I glad to get home and get it off.

As predicted we don’t play well but it is a great day out including a lunch that started with as much lobster as one could eat. I am exhausted and know I will crash the next day….which I do.

Tuesday 14 July. I am pretty well back to normal and am able to do my stint in refereeing at the Regional Ladies Amateur Championships. All went well so no problem there and it keeps my hand in, as I have to ‘swot’ the rules and decisions before I go.

My hair continues to slowly fall out.

Wednesday 15 July. It is the invitation day at my club and I have a friend and colleague from work attending. S has arrived the previous night from Manchester via Sweden dragging her clubs with her. The wig has its first real outing among people I know and gets a great response. Once again it performs well even staying on in the strong winds of the day. We play reasonably although not well enough to get into the main prizes. My Guest wins the longest drive by a mile and is very pleased with herself.


Thursday 16 July. My son and his girlfriend come for supper. She and I share a birthday the next day. My partner is taking me out and she and my son will be with friends so we have an early present swap. We have bought her some crystal earrings on the advice of our son. My partner has been in cahoots with the family and to my complete surprise, I am presented with a Wii system including the Wii fitness board etc. My son and his girlfriend have bought me the Tiger Woods game to go with it. My partner has also bought me the latest iPod shuffle. So tiny I am scared I will lose it but it will be great on the train and during chemo. It was a lovely lot of presents and I feel very spoiled.


Friday 17 July. Aaaaargh, I am 58 years old. I don’t feel it - does one ever feel one’s age? It is still a working day for me so we don’t celebrate until the evening. We have booked to have dinner at a lovely old Elizabethan hotel. The one we visited after we got the news about needing the second operation. One of the reasons we wanted to go back there is that during the weeks after the diagnosis we had both come to the conclusion that after living together for over 15 years, we might like to get married and this hotel ‘did’ weddings. It was a good opportunity to check it out again.

Tuesday 21 July. I’m in town at work and am meeting an old colleague at the RAC in Pall Mall for lunch. He has never been there so I am treating him.

The wig performs well and he doesn’t even realize until I tell him.

Wednesday 22 July. More golf. This time at a very prestigious club of one of my partner’s friends. I play with the guys….not too badly. The wig performs well.


Thursday 23 July. Friends from Poland who we haven’t seen for months arrive for supper and a stay over. They are amazed by the kitchen, which they have followed via facebook photos. They are gratifyingly awed by the kitchen and the wig.

We have a great supper and we play with the Wii. Very good fun!

Friday 24 July. Working from home but I find time to have lunch with some girls from my old club. Its good to catch up and introduce them to the wig. They become great fans. I will have to set up a special facebook page for the wig at this rate.

9 July - Hair goes!

9 July. No queasiness and I feel well enough to go to a Pilates class in the morning. The afternoon is scheduled for the hair cut. I walk into my hairdressers carrying the wig. G comes up and I demonstrate the problem by pulling a couple of handfuls of hair out. She gets the message. We agree that she won’t shave it but cut what is left down to about half an inch. That done I put the wig on. She is amazed. It does look good. She even gives it a few snips to even up the back and the fringe. The receptionist, who wasn’t around when I came, in is in raptures thinking it is a new style from G. She can’t get over the fact it is a wig. I feel really good as I walk back to the car. I stop at a retro clothes chop that sell really fabulous old clothes and buy a couple of hats and scarves to treat myself.

I have a big week next week.

17 June - Chemo starts

It is 17 June 2009.

I’ve had blood tests, been measured, weighed, tagged, had the usual observations done, and had my medical details recorded yet again. I have a canula in my wrist attached to a collection of tubing linked to a saline drip.

My list of allergies hasn’t grown any more – I’m pleased to say.

The Chemotherapy nurses are great…. its not a job for the faint hearted, pumping assorted coloured fluids into an IV Line. The most spectacular is the RED one. Epirubicin. The nurse comments ‘this is the baddie…the one that makes you lose your hair. Terrific. There are four – yes, four - huge syringes of this stuff. The nurse also warns me that I will have red pee for twenty-four hours from it.

Before she starts filling me with all the nasty stuff, I don the ‘cold cap. This is a frozen gel filled cap about the size of a riding helmet that covers the scalp and is covered with a tight insulating top cap. This stays on for about 30 minutes before any drugs are administered. Hopefully this will prevent hair loss although it doesn’t work for everyone. Fingers crossed. I also have a large horse pill – ‘Emend’ which is the name for Aprepitant, to control sickness and nausea.



After about 30 minutes I get a new cold cap and the nurse injects a steroid into the IV line – again to prevent sickness and nausea. This causes a weird feeling in ..yes I know this sounds odd …… my genital area. A sudden tingling. The sensation only lasts about a minute but it is a bit eye watering.
Then we get onto the heavy stuff. The Epirubicin takes about 15 minutes to inject into the IV – they call this method a ‘bolus’ injection. It is an indication of how toxic these drugs are in that the nurses wear heavy-duty rubber gloves and one who is pregnant is no longer allowed to give the drugs at all.

Next comes a much smaller bolus injection of Fluorouracil. All the while they are looking to see how I am reacting as this is my first time so it all takes a bit longer than it normally would. Finally it is Cyclophosphamide which is administered by an IV pump which will take about 45 minutes or so.



During all of this the cold cap is replaced every 45 minutes.

More coffee arrives and I am left to read my book…until a ‘pastoral’ adviser comes to visit. He assures me he can me a prayer mat if I need it or find a priest if I prefer. He seems a little disappointed when I tell him I am a deliriously happy, committed atheist and ask him if he would like to borrow my copy of Richard Dawkin’s ‘The God Delusion’.

The alarm on the pump signals that I am now full of horrible drugs.

I spend a final 45 minutes with the last cold cap. The pharmacist visits with a wheelie bin full of medication for me to take home. Basically most of it is to prevent sickness but because those meds make you constipated you also get a good supply of Senokot. Lovely.
Free at last of canulas and caps, and feeling a little odd, I camp in the reception area until my partner picks me up.


I actually don’t feel too bad. I was expecting to feel grim but in fact I am only a bit light headed and later that evening I feel tired quite early so go to bed at about 9.30 pm. At about 1.30am I wake up feeling a bit queasy but realise it is my chronic reflux kicking in so a Zantac tablet does the trick and I sleep through the night. The next three days are measured by the meds routine. The light-headedness and early bedtimes wear off after about day four and I play nine holes of golf on the Sunday and go back to work on the following Monday feeling pretty normal. BUT there is one big change……I have lost a lot of my sense of taste – in fact I have a metallic taste in my mouth...so I don’t want to eat as much as usual. Great because I need to lose the weight I have put on through forced inactivity since the operation. And even better, I find that I cannot drink red wine any more…it tastes horrible. I find I can enjoy a very weak gin and slim line tonic. Again perfect for losing some weight. The only other thing is that my mouth is a bit sore on one side. This wears off over the next week or so.



I have become somewhat obsessive about people sneezing and coughing near me when I am traveling to work in the rush hour, washing my hands all the time and being very careful about insect bites, scratches and people who might have swine flu…This is going to be a difficult one. During the three weeks after the first dose the media start to report that Swine flu, although mild in most cases, is now out of control in the population at large. I make a mental note to speak to my oncologist about this. Apart from shutting my partner and myself up in the house – as well as shunning all my nearest and dearest - I cannot see any real way of avoiding it. I could invest in one of those isolation suits I suppose but I doubt I would be able to get my golf shoes on over the top of it and the club are a bit stuffy on their dress regulations.

The big unknown is whether the cold cap system will stop my hair falling out. Only time will tell.

12 June -Tennis balls and wigs

Friday 12 June. The tennis ball was back so I made another quick trip to see Mr P for a repeat performance with his big syringe. Once again the relief was terrific. The seroma was a nuisance but nothing compared to the previous wound infection. This proved to be the last time it would need draining.
The other research I did was into wigs and headwear. I discovered a great sounding wig boutique in a nearby town and booked a consultation. I took my sister-in-law, as I am not very good at knowing what suits me most of the time. We had a great time. The consultant was terrific, the price was right, the whole deal came with free make over, manicure and facial as part of nurturing package – and we rounded the trip off with a really good lunch.
With the wig on order and everything lined up I was feeling pretty much in control by the time arrived for the first chemo session.

10 June - The oncologist and learning about Chemotherapy

Wednesday 10 June. We drive to the new hospital. Dr S is very straightforward and explains the survival rates from my type of cancer, which we are now defining as Stage IIa (T1, N1, M0). This means that the tumor measures 2 centimeters or less, has spread to the axillary lymph nodes on the same side of the body as the breast cancer but that they can be moved around (they aren't matted together by the cancer), and the cancer hasn't spread to another part of the body. In addition my cancer has proved to be estrogen receptive so I will be able to benefit from hormone therapy as well. We are still waiting to hear if it is HER2 positive. This is another factor, which can indicate the need for additional therapy in the form of a drug called Herceptin – more on this once we know.



Basically chemotherapy moves my chances of not dying from this cancer in the next ten years from 80% to 90%. With additional hormone therapy and radiotherapy the chances go even higher. It is a no-brainer. We go for chemotherapy despite the side effects. The discussion now revolves around what those side effects are, how debilitating they may be and therefore what the timing of the therapy should be…this is important to me as I have a number of things I want to do in the next few weeks and months. I know it sounds a bit strange but I want to live my life as normally as possible despite this sword of Damocles hanging over my head. My partner and I are due to play in a prestigious open golf event in July..and I really want to be able to do this. I am also refereeing an amateur championship and again, I want to be able to do this. So before we set the date for the chemotherapy to begin, we take a couple of days to get the calendar straight.

Basically the chemotherapy will be in six cycles, three weeks apart. The possible side effects are severe sickness, reduced immunity and subsequent risk of infections, mouth ulcers, hair loss, fatigue, and many others. But I decide to take a positive view that I will be reasonably OK and so agree to start the first cycle the next week. The date set is 17 June, which will allow me to do much of my planned activity. An additional bonus is that the chemotherapy will always occur on a Wednesday which fits beautifully with my working pattern of Monday and Tuesday in the office, Wednesday and Thursday off and Friday working from home. This means I can go back to work pretty much as normal. It all helps to put the beastly disease in perspective.



During the discussion with Dr S I ask about something I read about to prevent hair loss from chemotherapy – a cold cap system. Dr S says it is worth trying but that it doesn’t work for everyone and when it does it is not 100 % effective. I decide to give it a go but also to explore the alternative headwear route as well. Best to have all the bases covered.

Having made the decision to start the chemotherapy fairly quickly, I needed to get moving on some more research. Firstly I needed to understand exactly what the chemo was, how it was administered and the timing of side effects etc. The regime I would be having is called FEC –T in shorthand.
FEC–T is named after the initials of the chemotherapy drugs used, which are:
Fluorouracil, which is also called 5FU
Epirubicin
Cyclophosphamide
Docetaxel, which is commonly known as Taxotere®



FEC–T treatment is usually given as a day patient and you are given a number of other drugs to stop the major side effect of sickness and nausea
The side effects kick in at different times. If you are going to get sick, this usually happens within a few hours of having the chemo and can last for several days. Things like mouth ulcers, and a metallic taste in a couple of days, fatigue at any time, and increased risk of infection after between 7 and 14 days after the dose. I would just have to hope for the best.

Late May - Good news and not so good news

Friday 29 May. It is the evening when Mr P calls. Good news and not so good news he says. Of the six additional lymph nodes one more is definitely involved by tumour and another is suspect but the rest are clear. He will see me in a week’s time at the hospital to discuss next steps. This time I do succumb to tears – just for a while. My partner is there to just hold me. When will we start to get the good news?

Sunday 31 May. We reach the 40 ml mark and the district nurse takes out the drain. Freedom at last. I feel like dancing around the house.

Friday 5 June. We see Mr P. Good news for a change. The second lymph node that was suspect is clear. There were only 2 baddies in all. Mr P is satisfied that from a surgical point of view he has got all the primary cancer. A nurse removes the dressing, checks the wound and makes an appointment for me to see Mr P in four months.

But…and it is a big ‘but’, once a cancer is invasive and has metastasised to the lymph nodes, it is highly likely that cells have moved into the bloodstream and lodged in other parts of the body. These can develop into further metastases – secondary cancers in the bones, liver, lungs, or brain. The only way these can be bought to book is through chemotherapy. Mr P arranges for me to see Dr S the following week– a very good oncologist at another private hospital.

My partner and I go out to lunch on the way home at a lovely Elizabethan Manor. There is one thing about all this….I have been eating very well.

When we get home I get a call from Dr S’s secretary. Can I see him next Wednesday? Of course. It is wonderful to get appointments so quickly.

May - Surgery again

14 May. Back in the UK. I go to a Pilates class and manage fine. The wound in the armpit has healed well. It is just a pity that Mr P will have to open it up again for the next operation.

18 May. I see Mr P and he expresses himself satisfied with the way the breast wound has now healed and confirm he will carry out the next operation on 27th.
27 May. Much more civilised. No food or drink since about 7.30 this morning. I arrive at the private hospital at 11.00am and we are shown to a very nice room. I am admitted. I answer all the questions I have answered before – several times over. It seems this is one area where the private sector is just the same as the NHS. They cannot get their data lined up.
This time I add to my allergies – Nickel, tetracycline, steri-strips, metronidozole and ciprofloxacin. I wonder how long this list will grow by the time we are finished.

I am visited by Mr P, various nurses and orderlies - all men, catering staff, a nice lady anaesthetist, a man with an electric drill, and a lady who thought I was her sister. Mr P is amused when I hand him a scientific paper on the use of topical silver dressings in wound infections.


I am told I am about seventh on the list so won’t be going to theatre until 5.00pm. I am allowed some water – lucky me. I am thirsty and starving hungry.

5.00pm comes and goes as does 6.00 pm. I call my partner and let him know I will not be compos mentis until late in the evening so he may as well wait until next morning to come and see me. Finally at just before 7.00pm the male nurse and a porter come and wheel me to theatre. I am so hungry I am light headed.



The nice lady anaesthetist I had met earlier has gone home and a new one has taken her place. He isn’t as skilled at getting a canula into my tricky veins and I have several sets of swabs and tapes on my hands and arms from failed attempts by the time he and the interestingly tattooed male theatre nurse finally get a line in and administer the anaesthetic. As I drift off I wonder about the theatre nurse – was he a military nurse? – How did he end up at a high-end private hospital? Funny the things you think of.

I wake up to see another nurse. Once again a man…interesting that all the nurses I have had in the private hospital have been men. I don’t mind but I can imagine some women wouldn’t like it. Soon I am back on the ward, IV line and vacuum wound drain in place. Now this is a horrid thing. I have a tube coming out of a small incision below the main incision, which is draining serous fluid into a clear plastic vacuum bulb. The bulb is also attached to a bag, which will be used to measure how much fluid is draining. I am stuck with this thing until there is less than 40 mls draining in a 24-hour period. Still when I get back to the ward I am not too concerned. All I want is water and food. To my delight my partner has made the journey back to the hospital to see me. We have some time together while I rest. The nurses attach some inflatable cuffs to my legs, which regularly put out a gentle pressure to keep things moving and prevent blood clots. They are strangely soporific and I fall asleep quite quickly after eating my post op sandwich.



This time I sleep well and wake up feeling surprisingly good….apart from the dreaded drain. Mr P visits and tells me I can go home but the drain has to stay in until the 40 ml mark is reached. The local district nurses will visit each day to check everything out.

Mr P will call me on Friday to let me know what the lab results are on the 6 additional lymph nodes he has removed. The physiotherapist arrives to take me through a series of exercises to get mobility back in the arm.

I walk out of the hospital with the cumbersome drain and tubes concealed in a pillowcase.

22 & 23 April - Allergies!

Wednesday 22 April. I am back at work and I have been taking the heavy-duty antibiotics for a week. I can’t say I have seen much progress on the wound. It isn’t getting any worse but I am starting to feel odd and have come out in a very bad itchy rash. The blurb with the medications indicates this is a severe side effect so I have to stop taking them.

Thursday 23 April. I see Mr P on the NHS for the last time. Hallelujah - I don’t have to go the outpatient route but see him in the elective surgery centre. Much more civilised. We sort out the paper work for the health insurance and the new arrangements. We have to change the date of my operation to 27 May but that is OK.


Strangely or perhaps not so strangely he spends more time with me. Probably because we have the problem of the wound and the allergy. He agrees I cannot take the medication any more and calls the microbiology lab to find out what else we can do. Unfortunately pseudomonas and anaerobes are a bit tricky and there are not a lot of options other than an antibiotic that has to be injected and requires a hospital stay. We both agree that we don’t want to go there. The microbiologist suggests silver dressings. I perk up. In my researches I have come across these and they have good results. I nod and indicate I think this is a good idea. Mr P puts the phone down and asks me if I would like to sit in his seat. He tracks down some available dressings at my GPs surgery and I pick them up that afternoon. These prove to be the answer. It takes nearly a month for the wound to finally heal over but every day it gets smaller and shallower. I end up with a red patch – not pretty but it will fade along with the incision scars.



With the wound getting better and my switch to private health we go on holiday feeling a lot better.

The holiday was great 10 days of nearly perfect weather and some nice if not spectacularly well-played golf. It did us a world of good.

15 April - The wound infection and thoughts on the NHS

Wednesday 15 April I return to the hospital to see Mr P’s registrar. The wound is bigger and deeper. She has the results from the swabs taken last week. Pseudomonas and anaerobic bacteria have colonised the wound in quite large numbers. This needs a heavy hit and flucloxicillin doesn’t have any effect on these little b****rs. The registrar prescribes Metronidozol and Ciprofloxacin for fourteen days. The pharmacist at the hospital tells me I can’t drink while I am taking this and also have to watch when I eat any dairy products. Great. Hopefully I will have finished the course by the time we go to Spain.


The wound infection is getting me down. I have resisted using private medical health insurance for this up to now in the firm belief that the NHS cannot be beaten in treating cancer in this country. They fast track cancer patients and try their very best to treat you well. But I decide I cannot face another stay in the NHS hospital and the possibility of more infections – let alone the ward set up and lack of sleep. So I decide to use my company health insurance scheme. I do more research. I find out that Mr P and his team also work out of a local private hospital. I call the insurance company and yes I can have the full course of any treatment required. Mr P and the private hospital are acceptable. The insurance company e-mails all the forms and assigns me a one contact case manager so I don’t have to go round the houses each time I call. Very impressive. I call Mr P’s secretary. I will keep my next meeting with Mr P, who wants to see me on 23 April, at the NHS hospital and from there I will move with him to the private sector. Job done.

9 April - More bad news

Thursday 9 April. My left boob now has a hole the size of a one-pound coin, which is not getting any better. It doesn’t hurt but it has me worried.



My partner and I arrive to see Mr P. Once again we join the crowd of patients waiting to check in at the outpatients desk. This time is worse. One of the people behind the desk is in a strop and makes a point of eating a sandwich while people wait. Yes you guessed it. We got her. English is not her first language and she uses this to make life difficult. No eye contact. Lots of sighing as if the patients are only there to cause her trouble and when she finally finds my file it is thrown into the appropriate basket. She then sends us to the wrong waiting area. I have to physically prevent my partner from grabbing her and slapping her face. Eventually we get to see Mr P. First we get the results from the biopsy. Once again Mr P is charming but the news is mixed. He has removed all the cancer in the breast with clear margins so no need to do any more surgery there but he removed two lymph nodes and one of them has cancer cells in it. This means another operation to do what is known as a Level II axillary dissection – taking a pad of fat and anything up to 20 more lymph nodes from the armpit with the associated risks of lymphodema. He does commiserate saying that I am very unlucky for the cancer to have spread from such a small tumour…but it is the beastly ‘invasive’ bit.



OK - strangely this was not a shock. I seem to have a premonition about what these results will be so I feel I can handle them.

We discuss dates for the next operation. My partner and I want to take our booked holiday to Spain. Mr P agrees and we plump for 15 May - two days after we get back from Spain.

Next he has a look at the wound. I can tell he is not happy. This reflects on him. The flucloxicillin doesn’t seem to be working. The nurse takes a swab to find out what the bug is and I will come back in a few days time to see where we go with this.

One thing I have been determined to do is not let the cancer define me – who I am. I want to carry on as normally as I can. The cancer is a side issue. But just at the moment the infection is getting to me…much more than the cancer. I need to get this sorted.

I start working from home on 13 April – a fairly gentle way in but part of getting some normality back. I will go into the office next week.

30 March - Surgey

Monday 30 March. We arrive at the hospital. In my bag I have the most horrible selection of bras I have ever owned. They were all I could find in the local M&S and quite frankly you could grow potatoes in them. Still needs must. I will throw them away as soon as I can. First stop is the X- ray department for the Breast Wire Localisation. Check in OK and we find a seat…but not in the right place. There are never enough seats in the waiting areas and despite the early time the place is full. Some shuffling around eventually gets us to the right place and my partner, my overnight bag and I camp out for the requisite half hour wait until I am called. A nurse takes me into a darkened treatment room. Mr P is looking at x-rays on light panels and discussing them with another doctor. The nurse apologises for the delay and gets me set up on a couch propped up with pillows. I listen to the conversation between Mr P and the other doctor. It isn’t about me but some other poor soul who seems to be in a somewhat worse situation than me. Mr P doesn’t even notice I am there. Eventually, he leaves and Dr H comes over and gets started. She uses ultrasound to locate the cancer, then attempts – several times - to get a local anaesthetic to take. Not much success there so I feel the scalpel nick and the wire insertion a bit more than I should. Parting words from her were. I see you have an invasive lobular cancer. The type shouldn’t make any difference to achieving a cure but you need to be aware that the chance of this cancer recurring in the other breast is about 20% as opposed to 7 % for other types. How reassuring. Back to the waiting room sans bra to wait for a confirming mammogram to be taken. That done it is off to the admissions ward at the other end of the hospital – carefully clutching my x-rays. Apparently they trust the patients more than the staff and filing system to make sure things get where they are supposed to be. More long unkempt, grotty corridors filled with too many people who look too ill. It is so sad and depressing. The admissions office area is chaos. I check in and they sort of realise I am expected but again we end up waiting while harried nursing staff try to cope. Eventually someone gets my file and moves us to another seat. I can see that this is going to be painfully slow and suggest to my partner that he should go home. He accepts the suggestion with a marked degree of gratitude and takes off with a promise to return later in the day once I know what is happening. Finally I have my blood pressure, temperature and pulse taken and am measured up for anti-embolism stockings – a most bizarre pair of tight long white socks – you could probably get a fortune for them selling them to Japanese school girls on e-bay. I am a bit concerned about the number of people wandering around in dressing gowns and slippers. I have no intention of spending the rest of the day in night attire and hope this isn’t compulsory. More waiting and then someone arrives to take me to the actual ward. Now call me a bit over optimistic but I did think that as the ward I was being admitted to was referred to as an elective surgery ward and was originally part of the private part of the hospital I might get a room of my own. No such luck. I am shown to a four-bed room where the beds can be screened by curtains. Four beds, four quite comfy chairs beside them, the usual bedside cabinets and medical paraphernalia on the wall behind. No bathroom, no television. I have my Sudoku and books. Lots of them. Thank goodness.

I am the first there so go off to explore to find a bathroom. It’s down the corridor past other wards – male and female. At least I get to put my bra back on.

Back on the ward, other women start arriving. We barely make eye contact at first but then some of them start to chat to each other. I am not feeling very sociable. They are nice ladies but not really my type. I will make conversation but not just yet. I bury my head in a book. One of the women is wearing her nightie, dressing gown and slippers. I ask if she is having her operation today but she says no. Like the rest of us it is tomorrow, the admissions people got it wrong and asked her to get changed. She even has her anti-embolism stockings on. Poor lady sits there all day like that.

I am finding the inane chatter in the background a bit trying so I put on my coat and go to the nurses’ station to say I am going for a walk. That’s fine. Lunch is being served in an hour but I can disappear until then. I get outside and make some calls while I watch some patients in wheelchairs sitting outside smoking. This whole place is depressing and it really brings it home to me how stretched the NHS is. They are trying to do a good job and in my case – indeed in the case of anyone with cancer – they pull out all the stops but they can only do what their resources allow them.

The less said about lunch or any of the food the better.



The rest of day passes – my partner comes and visits. Nurses come and ask interminable questions, - What am I allergic to? – Nickel, tetracycline and now steri -strips I reply. They fill out endless forms and fix labels to my wrist. They demand a urine sample – just in case I am pregnant? I don’t think so. Every time they come to speak to one of us you can hear the whole conversation. No privacy….but I don’t suppose any of us really care. Every 3 hours or so they repeat the observations – Blood Pressure, Pulse and Temperature. I make several more trips outside.

The night was a horror. From 11.00 pm we were not allowed any food or drink. I stayed awake as long as I could with a view to being so tired I would have to sleep. But the gods of repose were not in our area that night. The breast wire was uncomfortable and although I knew it couldn’t move there was always a horrible suspicion that somehow it would. Then there were the emergencies on the ward during the night. People falling down in the toilets, bells being rung, staff running up and down the corridor, lights on and to crown it all the lady in the next bed to me was a diabetic and a nurse took it into her head that her insulin levels were not right so she was put on a infusion pump. Fine except that it was faulty and the alarm kept going off every ten minutes. By four in the morning I had had it and sat up in bed with a demand to turn the F****** thing off. They did. Unfortunately at 5.30 it was time for the next set of observations. At six it was time to get up and wash and change into hospital gowns and put the elegant stockings on. Then we waited until we were visited by nurses, anaesthetists, registrars, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all. Every one of whom asked the same questions over and over again. I wonder if they just want to catch you out. Name, Date of birth, alleges, past medical history etc. Every time they write it down and you wonder where all of these different forms go. Why don’t they just take one set of data and all access it? Too efficient I expect.



Eventually the nurse came along with ‘The List’ - the order in which we were to go to surgery. I was third so I had a bit of time on my hands. The registrar was the last to visit, he came with a black felt tip marker and asked me which side we were doing. Left I said. Good. He drew a large black arrow on my chest pointing to my left boob. I made a mental note to ask the surgeon if he had trouble with maps.

I was so tired I was looking forward to the anaesthetic and having a good sleep so when they wheeled me into the little room before the theatre I was happy to drift off and get the whole thing over with.


Waking up isn’t hard to do – just a bit painful. I am conscious of the oxygen mask and the fact I have a pressure garment strapped around my chest. The nurse asks if I have pain and when I say a bit she injects something into the IV line and the pain goes. I drift a bit but slowly start to become more awake. The oxygen mask goes. I can hear sawing and banging noises. Apparently it is the orthopaedic surgeon in the next theatre doing a hip replacement. They take me back to the ward and bliss – I get some water and a cup of coffee. My partner arrives, as does the chicken sandwich I ordered the previous day. Horrible but needed. I am hungry. It is about 1.00 pm and I have some time to just rest and recover. The registrar and anaesthetist will decide if I can go home this evening or if I have to spend another night on the ward. I will walk on coals to get out of here so plan on being the most recovered person you have ever seen. I am allowed up to go to the loo with escort. This I manage and they take down the IV line. More rest. Observations are good and the anaesthetist gives the OK for me to go home this evening. I get dressed in the bathroom – good thing too as I throw up. I knew that chicken sandwich was horrible. There is no way I am telling anyone about this so brace myself to walk back into the ward looking 100%. Nurses arrive with advice, discharge forms and medication and dressings. I am to change the dressings myself and get back in touch if anything looks dodgy. There are lists of symptoms to look out for. My partner arrives and I make my careful way down to the car. I am feeling like shit.

In the car I ask him to drive very carefully around corners and over bumpy bits.
The journey home seems to take ages. As soon as I am in the house it is back into the loo for another throw up. Then I stagger into bed with barely a word and sleep for twelve hours.

Next day I feel surprisingly better. I lie around in bed for most of the morning. The thing around my chest is comforting but not comfortable so I bite the bullet and remove it. There are pads and dressings and I get down to the main one, which is showing a lot of discharge and blue dye. I think it needs changing so use one of the dressings supplied. The wound looks OK. About three and a half inches long. A bit leaky at the bottom end but not bad. The under arm one from the sentinel lymph node removal is fine.

I put on one of the horrible bras and get dressed. Time to get back to normal.
This was the day the flowers started arriving. Soon the house looked like a florists shop and I ran out of vases. One of my colleagues had the foresight to know I would have too many flowers and sent me a welcome bottle of red wine instead.