Thanksgiving

Earlier today I attended a charity coffee morning for breast cancer, organised by the beautiful S. I knew nearly everyone there; in fact I felt almost like a minor celebrity as most had heard the news that I had been given the all-clear. In the midst of all the conversation someone mentioned that I'd had a bad year and I kept quiet, as I completely disagreed. I did not voice my disagreement though as I thought it might make me sound like someone in terrible denial.

But it's true: I have not had a bad year. Challenging perhaps, but certainly not bad. I have learned so much about myself this year and I'd like to think that the diagnosis has made me a nicer and perhaps more tolerant person. Relationships have changed for the better and I am in absolute awe at how people have reacted so wonderfully to my cancer diagnosis.

Bizarrely, I do not regret this year and am even grateful for what it has brought me. Initially I cried a lot and questioned why I had to get this evil crab. But once I managed to put things in perspective, I almost felt as if the cancer was just a blip, an illness to get over, and that once I was cured things would go back to normal. After all, people go through similar challenges, but perhaps just not given the same attention as it does not carry the C word.

So last night, our family celebrated Thanksgiving. As a Filipino married to a Scot, our cultures do not normally practice this American holiday. But my Facebook wall was inundated with Thanksgiving posts by American friends, or friends who live across the pond, and I thought, why not? After all we, as a family, have much for which to be thankful. So before we sat down to dinner, we all said what we were grateful for this year, and I was very happy that my cure was only mentioned by myself and Alasdair. For it is just one of the many things for which we are thankful.

It's strange, but I think the only thing I could probably compare it to would be giving birth: it's no fun at all, and heck, does it hurt - but then in the end you're left with a beautiful baby. And the pain and inconvenience is forgotten by the wayside. With cancer I had to go through the pain and inconvenience of treatment, but I have come out the other side with a hopefully better me. The only difference is that there is absolutely NO WAY I would want to go through this again.

What I'm truly proud of

Last night, when we arrived home, second son E opened the door for us and I immediately shouted, "I have no more cancer!" And he replied, "Oh, okay" and rushed off to do whatever very important thing he was doing before we interrupted him with our arrival.

Eldest son C and daughter N did not react with much more emotion either when we told them the good news. And this is the one thing I am truly proud of. Friends and family have come forward congratulating me on conquering and stamping out this silly crab. But I cannot really take the credit - I just did what the doctor ordered and sat there and let the chemotherapy drugs do their work. But I am very happy and proud that our children seem to have come out of this nearly year-long ordeal unscathed. Throughout this experience, LH and I made sure that the children would not be scarred nor frightened, thinking that they may lose their mummy. We've been as normal as possible with them (and with all others, I'd like to think), going about our daily lives with bad news and chemotherapy treatments taken in stride. And last night's reactions proved that we had been successful. And for this, I do want my pat on the back.




*I know it is grammatically incorrect to end sentences with a preposition. I did think of a way around it, but 'The thing for which I am truly proud' just sounds too pedantic.

Ding dong, the evil crab is dead!

Yes, 'tis true, the evil crab is no more. Hurrah! Saw Mr Tit-man tonight and he gave LH and I the good news. Apparently (now hopefully I get this right - I was pretty overcome with emotion that I turned into some kind of blubbering wreck) chemotherapy attacks tumours in three ways:

1. they shrink the dang things into oblivion;
2. they make the tumours smaller and smaller and eventually all that's left is a tiny little dot; or
3. they attack the tumour and break it into tiny little bits.

My (ex - HA!) tumour reacted like the last one. The biopsy showed that tiny bits of my (ex) tumour were taken out during the surgery and the margin around the area was completely clear. Which means that there are no more cancerous cells. I am an ex-breast cancer person. I do not have the evil crab inside me any longer. It has been blasted into a million tiny little bits. It is an ex-evil crab. But just to make sure, radiotherapy will continue as planned in January.

I am absolutely ecstatic, to say the least. Even the funny robe without the belt the nurse gave me to wear did not dampen my spirits. And to prove my joy to Mr T and Nurse M, I blubbed when I received the news. Which surprised even me as I had been pretty calm leading up to tonight. But I suppose I was just so relieved...

THANK YOU again to my LH, my children, my family and all my friends. I would not have made it this far with positivity and good humour if I had not been blessed with your love, laughter, hope, prayers, strength and support. You are angels. Thank you. I love you all.

Ewww...

On Wednesday, the day I left hospital, I received a 'phone call from Nurse M, not just for her to find out how I was doing, but also to order me to take my bandages off on Saturday. But I just had a chunk of my breast taken out on Tuesday, I argued. She wasn't having any of it however. Visions of Nurse Diesel in High Anxiety suddenly entered my mind...

Well, Saturday was yesterday and needless to say, I waited until bedtime to take the bandages off. And I had to ask poor LH to do it, as I was a quivering wreck at the thought of taking them off myself. Anyway, to cut the long story short, the evil bandages are off and I have been left with a sore and bruised breast. Not a pretty site. Admittedly, Mr T seems to have done a good job - it's very similar to my other breast and the err... nipple seems to be in the right place. But it's bruised. And it's sore. And I'm being a real wimp about it.

Home

I'm back home after spending the night in hospital. I had my lumpectomy yesterday; hopefully all traces of the evil crab are out of my body. However, we won't know for sure till next week: we will have the results of the biopsy then. If it is all clear, it's time to rejoice. If not, we will have to consider a mastectomy. Although the mastectomy will come with a tummy tuck, I'm not THAT desperate for a flat stomach so would really rather not go through with that, so fingers crossed.

The operation seems to have gone as well as we'd hoped, and according to Mr Tit-Man, he is 'cautiously optimistic.' I am not in a lot of pain at the moment - I just feel slightly battered - it's similar I suppose to the feeling of muscular pain and fatigue from working out after a long hiatus. And the pain could've also come from the pre-operation procedure I had to have - that of putting a wire into my breast. (Stop reading now if you're squeamish.) I had to have a mammogram and whilst my breast was clamped into position, the doctor poked a thin wire into my breast, pinpointing the marker placed a couple of months ago. This was done so that Mr T would know where to take out the breast tissue. (The tumour had completely disappeared with the chemotherapy.) This took a good ten to fifteen minutes, plus a number of mammograms later to make sure that the wire was in the right place. This of course was not fun; women can imagine the pain of having your breast clamped repeatedly between two plates AND having a wire inserted. I suppose the nearest thing for men would be having the same done to their testicles...

Needless to say, after this procedure the operation itself was a doddle; it helped that I was completely knocked out in the first place. I was awakened a few hours later feeling very groggy; I suppose the medical staff forcefully wake you to make sure they haven't accidentally killed you. LH, the children and Weird Uncle Marc dropped by a few hours later but I don't remember much about the visit as I was still woozy. Just as well as apparently the children took turns playing with my oxygen - LH had told them it was helium and they were hoping for a change in their voices.

I would've had a very good sleep that night except that the nurse kept popping in to check my blood pressure and to see if I was all right and sleeping well. Seriously, why do they do this? Anyway, am now in the comfort of my own bed and am hoping for an uninterrupted sleep. Good night!

Cuckoo

I am surrounded by some pretty insane people. They think that they're normal, but really they're not. However, I spent three hours over lunch with four of these pretty mad (but absolutely gorgeous) people earlier today and I can, hand on heart, say that they are pretty crazy.

LH and the children are equally mad, and I have also received messages of support from the downright strange J, who wants to sell her entire house and home on ebay. Weird Uncle Marc arrives tomorrow to manny and well, his name alone says it all. And I'm convinced that my family was in front of the queue with upturned umbrellas when God was handing out crazy behaviour.

But I wouldn't have it any other way. It's the day before my operation, and rather than worrying about it, I have spent most of the day just laughing my head off.

Thank you to all of you. And thank you too to all my normal friends who have sent me love - it really means so much to me.

The first cut is the deepest

So, I'm going under the knife tomorrow for my lumpectomy. The evil crab will finally be excised. I'm hoping that this 'cake slice' won't be too big. (See October 12 entry 'Yippee'.) After all, the 'cake' isn't very large to begin with and I don't really want to end up with a pancake.

Wish me luck.