Coming out of the dark --Coming in from the cold

Life certainly seems better when you can lift your arms-and lift a kettle-without excruciating pain. It took awhile, but I am on the mend-slowly but surely. Mostly slowly.

Tuesday afternoon marked two weeks since the ambulance drivers took me on a magical mystery tour of North London as they tried to find my house. Err.. good thing I wasn't seriously ill, wasn't it? And Wednesday night marked three weeks since the surgery. I remember these things, if only to process everything three weeks after the event. Process everything that happened-and then let it go. Easier said than done-especially now that I am on food that I can recognize, not something that I felt might have been recycled toxic waste (perhaps not even recycled).

Last week I had only been out of the hospital for a few days-and still on painkillers-but I had to do the hospital run anyway. It turned out to be tiring, and painful-but really beneficial. I saw Mr. Tan (the oncologist who performed the mastectomy and referred me to Mr. H. for the reconstruction). He was very pleased with the result, very encouraging, and will see me next in November. He said that most post-cancer patients will be checked annually for five years, and then if all is well they will be discharged from the clinic. But-because I have the immune system dysfunction, he wants to check me every six months or so, just to make certain that nothing nasty is happening. He's a hero in my book, that is for sure. Mr. Tan instills confidence-and he laughs at my jokes, so what more can I ask for?

I also had to make a double journey on Thursday: back to the Royal Free so that the nurses could check the wound, and then on to the Macmillan Cancer Centre to discuss the findings of the throat biopsy. AND-it was raining, so I really had a hellish time trying to walk without falling over-or falling into traffic. I was in tears when it was all over. But the wound was fine, no sign of infection, and I see Mr. H. in about six weeks for a check-up and to discuss the reconstruction of nipples; this will take place in October some time, and with the tattoos following, I will be absolutely finished with all the surgery (plastic and, I hope, anything else) before Christmas.

I'm cautiously optimistic-but more cautious than optimistic, since I know how Murphy's Law seems to operate at the most inconvenient times. It comes up and punches me in the face, and then the black dog (of depression) comes along and takes a big chunk out of my ass. I'm cynical-but I am also still alive, so I think a good bit of cynicism is healthy. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The throat biopsy turned up some nodules that aren't malignant in any way, so I just have to live with them and try to stay hydrated. The consultant was charming, said there is nothing to worry about, and I have been discharged from that clinic, too. So I have gone from being a professional patient at eight hospitals to being a patient at one (and occasionally one other: Queen Square, and that finishes in September).

On Friday I went along to Queen Square and saw my vestibular physiotherapist, Jan-who is finishing her rotation, so next time I will see someone else. I told her about the surgery, and the problems I had on Thursday. She was great; she had me do some walking and some of the exercises, and I was surprised to find that I hadn't regressed as much as I thought. I learned that if I don't do all the exercises at least twice a day-and if I don't walk at least 30 minutes a day-I will start to lose the balance that I have worked so hard to regain. That is how the brain's neuroplasticity works: use it (often) or lose it.

I've been weeping from the pain, and the inability to sleep because I'm conscious of the fact that I have to stay on my back. No turning over at all, that will mess up everything (and hurt. I know from experience). So all weekend I was quite incapacitated, as well as bored rigid. I wanted to start doing laundry, and start cleaning the house. City air: dust just piles up everywhere. And I would walk past the vacuum cleaner and be very, very tempted. I would also think about what would happen if I overdid anything: I would be back in the hospital, having another operation to repair the damage. No thanks- I will leave the place dirty until I'm cleared to get back to normal.

I had a few appointments this week, and I went for my infusions yesterday-and those went really well. But one of the things I did was tell myself off. I told myself to get over myself and not be so precious. I was, after all, extremely lucky. I am, after all, extremely lucky. For years I was a victim of a narcissistic fantasist, a petulant and infantile doctor who had a careless disregard for the health and safety of his patients-and who treated his patients like garbage. That, of course, is Matt Buckland, the nasty piece of work who probably hits his wife, beats his kids and kicks the dog. When he bounced me out of the clinic two weeks before surgery last year, I was furious, because he did it to be vindictive, and he wanted to create chaos and pain. Instead, he did me the biggest favor he could have done, because the team at the Royal Free stepped up-and this team is so much better than Buckland and his playmates. The difference is dramatic, and I am now finding out that so much of what I was told at the Royal London is a pack of lies.

I'm a lot healthier than I was led to believe. I'm a lot healthier than the team at the Royal Free expected, given the information passed to them by the Royal London. After so many years, I now have a team I can trust.

I guess I am coming out of the dark-six years of pain, sickness, loss, trauma-and I'm lucky that the team at Barts and the London didn't kill me. They nearly did, but I must be tougher than I thought. And-I can look at my diary and see empty spaces, rather than appointments at one hospital or another nearly every day (and sometimes twice in a day).

I did say that I am cautiously optimistic. I also said that I am cynical, and those qualities are probably the ones that kept me fighting for survival. What can I say? I'm on the road back to recovery, and the road back to having a life-something I didn't have for the last six years. Pass the Kettle Chips.