After I logged off this morning I walked over to the gym. In the rain. And the cold. And I was nearly there when I decided to put it off for another day. So I turned around, took three steps, and decided that I was going to go whether I wanted to or not. Time to stop being a wuss and to get myself together. I need to start doing things that don't involve hospitals, tests, doctors-I need to start living again. And I used to really like the gym.
So I did some exercises before the start of my training session: treadmill, some leg exercises, all just to really warm up. Then I remembered what I used to like about the gym: I liked getting stronger, fitter, challenging myself just that little bit more, doing just that little bit more than I thought I could do. And, after two and a half years of doing nothing, I felt like I was coming back to normal.
Then my training session started. For an hour I was put through my paces, and did I discover just how unfit I've become? Did I ever!! All the things I used to do-I could barely do-so I know there is a challenge ahead. Another one. I've never been one to run from a challenge. So I hit the session hard, and I have a program to do for the next six weeks, before I am changed up to something more difficult. Er-difficult? I could barely walk out of there, and I had to fake it because my trainer was laughing. Are you in tomorrow? I asked him. Oh, yes, come tomorrow, go through the program, I will help you if you get stuck-he said. So I'm doing this all again tomorrow. If I can walk, that is.
I walked up the road to the supermarket after my training-very slowly. I do mean slowly. People did actually avoid me. I think they thought I was about to keel over. And I went into the supermarket and walked around, but nothing really appealed to me. My trainer had advised eating some high quality protein after the workout, but I honestly wasn't drawn to anything. I saw one of the sales people up on a step ladder, and she looked at me and asked me if I was okay. This is someone who is older - and shorter-than I am, so we get along really well. Really, someone is older-and shorter-than I am. Amazing, especially now that I have, after the workout, shrunk to about four feet tall. I just managed to gasp "gym", and Ann started to laugh. Oh, she said, I know just how you feel. You overdid it. I've done that, too-and you are younger and fitter than I am, she said (I'm too lazy to punctuate-it hurts to lift my arms!). Well, I always overdo it. After such a long time that was just nuts. And then she said: don't worry, dear (I hate being called dear-unless the person calling me that is really, really close-and wouldn't do that because they would know that I hate being called "dear". Grrr!!). You will be fine by tomorrow. Well, perhaps not tomorrow. Or Sunday. Possibly by Monday. Then she looked me up and down and added: or Tuesday. And laughed, and I laughed, and I tried not to think uncharitable thoughts, since Ann was up on the ladder stacking shelves. We both said goodbye, and I thought as I was walking away that it was all fine, and that eventually she would probably fall off the ladder and break something, and then I could tell her when I see her that everything will be fine. In a couple of months. Maybe three. Or four.
I feel like I have strained every muscle in my body. Or possibly ruptured a few. Not only that, but I have aches in places where I didn't even know I had muscles (at least not ones I could strain by doing weight training!). Even my face hurts. How is that possible? I didn't lift any weights with my face! And I'm walking like I've just lost my virginity (yes, I can remember back that far!!).
By tomorrow I expect not to be bent over-or even folded over-and I will probably go back to the gym but I won't do quite so much. I could, of course, be very optimistic at this point, but we'll see. I could, of course, be so sore by tomorrow that I can't get out of bed-but I will let you know.
Oh-I got back and stuffed my face with a bag of Kettle Chips, and felt instantly better. Ow. Oink. Who cares? I worked it off, and that is my story and I'm sticking to it.
Friday, 13 November 2015
Boobs on Parade
I've lost a week-or, rather, I've misplaced a week. How very careless of me!
By the time I was finished with my infusions last Thursday-Guy Fawkes Day, when it rained and rather demolished any chance of fireworks- I got back and was so tired, I was pretty comatose. I didn't feel like doing anything-and, because it was pouring outside, I couldn't do anything (except be very, very pissed off).
I really didn't do anything at all for the next few days. I forced myself to walk as much as I could every day-and that is because I was too afraid not to walk, since I know that all the balance issues get so much worse with inactivity. There were fireworks on Friday, and on Saturday, and I walked outside to have a look-but apart from that I was essentially motionless. I read, I watched programs that I had taped (months ago), and I allowed myself to recover from all the tests, doctors, and waiting. The waiting, ah, the waiting-I still have no patience, and if there is a patience gene I was born without that one, too. Grrr. Welcome to the NHS: hurry up and wait. And now it's been all over the news: the NHS has missed all its' targets, cancer patients are not being treated, and junior doctors are about to go out on strike. Just so you know: the theory behind the NHS is a good one. In practice, it sucks.
Sunday was Remembrance Day, and Wednesday was Armistice Day. There were two minutes of silence on both days to remember the war dead. I felt so awful. You would think that the world would have learned something from war-but no, there is no peace anywhere. The motto seems to be: let's all kill each other. Every time we turn around, someone else has been slaughtered. And here we are, supposed to be the most intelligent life on earth. Uh-seriously??
Yesterday it was "boobs on parade". I went to the hospital (first time this week. Hooray) to see Steve, my boob man (technically my second boob man, if you count Mr. T, the oncologist). We had a frank and open discussion about changing the expanders and inserting the more permanent silicone implants. He is against, because he is concerned about my health. I am for, since I want everything to look pretty (aren't I vain!!), and to be more functional. So he will do the surgery, but I am on his waiting list and probably won't be able to have the swap until March or April. Lots of women are having reconstruction-and that is a good thing, in my opinion. I may not have perfection, but at least I am no longer flat chested; actually, I am no longer concave. In that respect, life is pretty good.
I still sound somewhat frog-like...but my voice is slowly coming back to normal. So, if I am going to make any dirty phone calls, I'd better do it now, while I am still growling.
That brings you up to date-and I am now on my way to the gym. First time in such a long time, I have a training session, so I will try not to get too gung-ho and rupture something. At least I can do chest exercises without worrying about one of the expanders winding up under my armpit. Now that would be interesting!
I'm being so good that I will have to celebrate returning to the gym with a bag of Kettle Chips: a large bag of Kettle Chips. People keep telling me I need to eat-so that's what I am going to do!
By the time I was finished with my infusions last Thursday-Guy Fawkes Day, when it rained and rather demolished any chance of fireworks- I got back and was so tired, I was pretty comatose. I didn't feel like doing anything-and, because it was pouring outside, I couldn't do anything (except be very, very pissed off).
I really didn't do anything at all for the next few days. I forced myself to walk as much as I could every day-and that is because I was too afraid not to walk, since I know that all the balance issues get so much worse with inactivity. There were fireworks on Friday, and on Saturday, and I walked outside to have a look-but apart from that I was essentially motionless. I read, I watched programs that I had taped (months ago), and I allowed myself to recover from all the tests, doctors, and waiting. The waiting, ah, the waiting-I still have no patience, and if there is a patience gene I was born without that one, too. Grrr. Welcome to the NHS: hurry up and wait. And now it's been all over the news: the NHS has missed all its' targets, cancer patients are not being treated, and junior doctors are about to go out on strike. Just so you know: the theory behind the NHS is a good one. In practice, it sucks.
Sunday was Remembrance Day, and Wednesday was Armistice Day. There were two minutes of silence on both days to remember the war dead. I felt so awful. You would think that the world would have learned something from war-but no, there is no peace anywhere. The motto seems to be: let's all kill each other. Every time we turn around, someone else has been slaughtered. And here we are, supposed to be the most intelligent life on earth. Uh-seriously??
Yesterday it was "boobs on parade". I went to the hospital (first time this week. Hooray) to see Steve, my boob man (technically my second boob man, if you count Mr. T, the oncologist). We had a frank and open discussion about changing the expanders and inserting the more permanent silicone implants. He is against, because he is concerned about my health. I am for, since I want everything to look pretty (aren't I vain!!), and to be more functional. So he will do the surgery, but I am on his waiting list and probably won't be able to have the swap until March or April. Lots of women are having reconstruction-and that is a good thing, in my opinion. I may not have perfection, but at least I am no longer flat chested; actually, I am no longer concave. In that respect, life is pretty good.
I still sound somewhat frog-like...but my voice is slowly coming back to normal. So, if I am going to make any dirty phone calls, I'd better do it now, while I am still growling.
That brings you up to date-and I am now on my way to the gym. First time in such a long time, I have a training session, so I will try not to get too gung-ho and rupture something. At least I can do chest exercises without worrying about one of the expanders winding up under my armpit. Now that would be interesting!
I'm being so good that I will have to celebrate returning to the gym with a bag of Kettle Chips: a large bag of Kettle Chips. People keep telling me I need to eat-so that's what I am going to do!
Wednesday, 4 November 2015
An Existential Crisis: Just Call Me Kermit
I'm telling people to call me Kermit-then, when they do, I want to smack them. Go figure...
The entire hospital experience was an absolute nightmare from start to finish. After my speedy post of last week, I was driven to the hospital and then I waited. And waited. And waited some more. And then I waited. You get the picture: I waited. Bad enough to wait (a silent NHS rule: everybody waits. Preferably until they die, and then the waiting list gets shorter), but I had to wait in a room filled with people who were coughing and sneezing-without covering their noses and mouths, something that really, really winds me up. I grew up with better manners than that, and I'm sure you did, too.
I finally was taken into a small treatment room and told to change my clothes-and everything I had with me was put into a big green bag and placed in a locked cabinet. I then-guess what?-waited some more. Finally, I had to walk to the elevators, and a nurse, another patient and I went to the third floor surgery waiting room. What did I do there? You guessed it: I waited. I couldn't believe I had to walk that far, either - I felt like I was walking the Green Mile, and I said to the nurse (only half-joking, but she didn't get it anyway) that I felt like I was walking to my own execution.
I finally walked down a long corridor and into the ante-room to the operating theatre. I was then prepped for surgery. And the room was filled with people. I was already nervous, but the sight of about eight people crushing each other didn't help. I asked if one of them was the undertaker. Honestly, they took me seriously! That did not bode well for what was coming, I have to say.
I then asked to see the consultant surgeon, since his name was on my appointment letter. Now I understand why there was only his name, and he was a phantom: he came out of the operating room, very grumpy, snapped "why do you want to see me?"-he had the bedside manner of Attila the Hun. And I said, because I want to know who is doing this operation, and I want to know who to come after if it all goes wrong. If you were in my place, wouldn't you want to meet the person who is shoving a tube down your throat? He grunted, and walked away. What a charmer. And it transpired that he didn't do the surgery anyway: it was performed by a registrar (I know because I badgered the registrar to tell me the truth afterwards). Boy, do I hate being lied to!!
I woke up in recovery, and I felt like someone must have punched me in the face while I was sedated. I know that didn't happen, but my head was really hurting, and my jaw felt like it had been yanked out of my skull. And I felt like someone had used a flame thrower on my throat. I couldn't swallow, I was in such pain I could hardly breathe, and I had to wait nearly nine hours-left on a gurney, not even put in a bed-until I was finally wheeled into a room where I was supposed to be monitored overnight. I wasn't monitored, and when I asked for pain medication, the nurses tried to give me paracetamol-the UK's version of Tylenol, which was about as useful as a bag of candy (at least candy would have been pleasant, although I couldn't eat anything anyway).
To say that I was royally pissed off at the shabby treatment is probably the understatement of the year-perhaps the decade-these people are supposed to care about patients, and put the welfare of patients first, and I fully understand why the NHS is in such a terrible state: because it sucks.
I got back to North London after six pm on Friday, and I really felt like crap. I wasn't supposed to be talking at all for at least the entire weekend, but I had to communicate with the staff on Thursday and Friday-and how do you do that if you aren't able to talk? I kept telling them what I needed, and they kept telling me to shut up. In retrospect, it beggars belief.
I was texting friends on Saturday, and whispering into the phone. It was almost funny-if I hadn't been in so much pain, it would have been funny. And Saturday was Halloween, I wanted to wish everyone a Happy Halloween, to draw a line under yet another month of medical ickiness- and instead, I was in bed, feeling terrible. So Halloween was happening all around me, and I bloody missed it.
Halloween has become really huge in this country, and that has been a relatively recent phenomenon. It's fun to see all the trick or treaters (I call them Halloweenies), walking with their parents, some of whom are also in costume. But-they're all witches, or princesses, or fairies, and that's just the boys. I keep waiting for someone to be dressed like the walkers out of The Walking Dead, and trying to do the walk, too. Now that would be really creative. Or, someone with a chainsaw (a working one, obviously-otherwise where is all the fun?)-today's Halloweenie, tomorrow's serial killer.
You can tell I'm sleep deprived, can't you?
So, to bring you up to date: I have been at the hospital for the last three days. I saw Mr. Tan on Monday, and had a session of bloodletting (bloodletting first), and Tan and I discussed the merits of changing the expanders for permanent implants (I'm going to push hard for that to happen). Then yesterday I spent the entire day being magnetized (head banging MRIs) and irradiated (another scan), And, of course, most of the time was spent -you guessed it-waiting! Today I was back to see another doctor, whom I only see twice a year (this is because I have CVID, so everyone seems to think it is so fascinating. I feel like a bug under a microscope, but hey, I'm just a patient, who cares about a patient?).
I'm happy and relieved to say that I am nearly finished with all this stuff. I get all the results back in a couple of weeks, and I'm pretty certain that everything is normal-well, of course, "normal" being a relative term, since all the irradiation will probably give me cancer anyway.
And, unfortunately, it is probably for the best that nobody come anywhere near me if they ever want children. I don't even glow in the dark, so that is the end of the hope that I will save a fortune on electricity. Bummer.
As for my throat: it is still very sore, although I no longer feel like I was punched in the face during surgery. And my voice? I sound like a frog-a bullfrog-if I sounded like Kermit, at least you would be able to hear me. I don't speak, I rasp. I did ask if I would sound like Lauren Bacall after surgery-I always wanted a deep voice. The doctor just looked at me, pityingly. No, he said, you won't. Well, what a waste of my time, then!!
The only good thing is that I get to eat ice cream without feeling guilty...
The entire hospital experience was an absolute nightmare from start to finish. After my speedy post of last week, I was driven to the hospital and then I waited. And waited. And waited some more. And then I waited. You get the picture: I waited. Bad enough to wait (a silent NHS rule: everybody waits. Preferably until they die, and then the waiting list gets shorter), but I had to wait in a room filled with people who were coughing and sneezing-without covering their noses and mouths, something that really, really winds me up. I grew up with better manners than that, and I'm sure you did, too.
I finally was taken into a small treatment room and told to change my clothes-and everything I had with me was put into a big green bag and placed in a locked cabinet. I then-guess what?-waited some more. Finally, I had to walk to the elevators, and a nurse, another patient and I went to the third floor surgery waiting room. What did I do there? You guessed it: I waited. I couldn't believe I had to walk that far, either - I felt like I was walking the Green Mile, and I said to the nurse (only half-joking, but she didn't get it anyway) that I felt like I was walking to my own execution.
I finally walked down a long corridor and into the ante-room to the operating theatre. I was then prepped for surgery. And the room was filled with people. I was already nervous, but the sight of about eight people crushing each other didn't help. I asked if one of them was the undertaker. Honestly, they took me seriously! That did not bode well for what was coming, I have to say.
I then asked to see the consultant surgeon, since his name was on my appointment letter. Now I understand why there was only his name, and he was a phantom: he came out of the operating room, very grumpy, snapped "why do you want to see me?"-he had the bedside manner of Attila the Hun. And I said, because I want to know who is doing this operation, and I want to know who to come after if it all goes wrong. If you were in my place, wouldn't you want to meet the person who is shoving a tube down your throat? He grunted, and walked away. What a charmer. And it transpired that he didn't do the surgery anyway: it was performed by a registrar (I know because I badgered the registrar to tell me the truth afterwards). Boy, do I hate being lied to!!
I woke up in recovery, and I felt like someone must have punched me in the face while I was sedated. I know that didn't happen, but my head was really hurting, and my jaw felt like it had been yanked out of my skull. And I felt like someone had used a flame thrower on my throat. I couldn't swallow, I was in such pain I could hardly breathe, and I had to wait nearly nine hours-left on a gurney, not even put in a bed-until I was finally wheeled into a room where I was supposed to be monitored overnight. I wasn't monitored, and when I asked for pain medication, the nurses tried to give me paracetamol-the UK's version of Tylenol, which was about as useful as a bag of candy (at least candy would have been pleasant, although I couldn't eat anything anyway).
To say that I was royally pissed off at the shabby treatment is probably the understatement of the year-perhaps the decade-these people are supposed to care about patients, and put the welfare of patients first, and I fully understand why the NHS is in such a terrible state: because it sucks.
I got back to North London after six pm on Friday, and I really felt like crap. I wasn't supposed to be talking at all for at least the entire weekend, but I had to communicate with the staff on Thursday and Friday-and how do you do that if you aren't able to talk? I kept telling them what I needed, and they kept telling me to shut up. In retrospect, it beggars belief.
I was texting friends on Saturday, and whispering into the phone. It was almost funny-if I hadn't been in so much pain, it would have been funny. And Saturday was Halloween, I wanted to wish everyone a Happy Halloween, to draw a line under yet another month of medical ickiness- and instead, I was in bed, feeling terrible. So Halloween was happening all around me, and I bloody missed it.
Halloween has become really huge in this country, and that has been a relatively recent phenomenon. It's fun to see all the trick or treaters (I call them Halloweenies), walking with their parents, some of whom are also in costume. But-they're all witches, or princesses, or fairies, and that's just the boys. I keep waiting for someone to be dressed like the walkers out of The Walking Dead, and trying to do the walk, too. Now that would be really creative. Or, someone with a chainsaw (a working one, obviously-otherwise where is all the fun?)-today's Halloweenie, tomorrow's serial killer.
You can tell I'm sleep deprived, can't you?
So, to bring you up to date: I have been at the hospital for the last three days. I saw Mr. Tan on Monday, and had a session of bloodletting (bloodletting first), and Tan and I discussed the merits of changing the expanders for permanent implants (I'm going to push hard for that to happen). Then yesterday I spent the entire day being magnetized (head banging MRIs) and irradiated (another scan), And, of course, most of the time was spent -you guessed it-waiting! Today I was back to see another doctor, whom I only see twice a year (this is because I have CVID, so everyone seems to think it is so fascinating. I feel like a bug under a microscope, but hey, I'm just a patient, who cares about a patient?).
I'm happy and relieved to say that I am nearly finished with all this stuff. I get all the results back in a couple of weeks, and I'm pretty certain that everything is normal-well, of course, "normal" being a relative term, since all the irradiation will probably give me cancer anyway.
And, unfortunately, it is probably for the best that nobody come anywhere near me if they ever want children. I don't even glow in the dark, so that is the end of the hope that I will save a fortune on electricity. Bummer.
As for my throat: it is still very sore, although I no longer feel like I was punched in the face during surgery. And my voice? I sound like a frog-a bullfrog-if I sounded like Kermit, at least you would be able to hear me. I don't speak, I rasp. I did ask if I would sound like Lauren Bacall after surgery-I always wanted a deep voice. The doctor just looked at me, pityingly. No, he said, you won't. Well, what a waste of my time, then!!
The only good thing is that I get to eat ice cream without feeling guilty...
Wednesday, 28 October 2015
Back in the saddle - and not a decent horse in sight
Since last time, I have been irradiated, magnetized, poked, prodded, and otherwise interfered with (medically speaking, of course). Every day I have been to a different clinic, specialist, test-it's enough to make my head spin. And-I'm not finished yet.
Last week was my birthday, and that was the one day I went on strike: no tests, no hospitals, nothing. I felt like I was on holiday...and it was great. I had breakfast in a local restaurant, did a little retail therapy, cooked a lovely meal, had some champagne-lovely. I even sat in the park and meditated, recharged, readied myself for - today. I will soon be on my way to have a tube shoved down my throat (I don't know why, but doctors seem to be fascinated by my throat. Very strange) to find out why I had three months with no voice. So off I will go, and for a couple of days afterwards I will probably be mute. Goody. I'm tired of explaining to the hospital people that CVID is hereditary. Do they still ask if I'm contagious? Where am I living, exactly? Of course they do. Grrr...
Last week I went to see Jersey Boys in the West End. I decided that I really haven't done anything special on my birthday since-well, since before the Gentamicin, and that was five and a half years ago. So I splurged, and swallowed hard (expensive? Oh, yeah), got the ticket and braved hordes of people and teeming rain and took myself to Piccadilly. And I enjoyed it. The American accents were dire, of course. In a word, they sucked - but I expected that, and for me, it was all about the music. And the musical numbers were superb. For a couple of hours I just listened to music and didn't think about anything medical.
Well, I had a birthday. And I am back in the saddle, as they say: time to start going out and doing things. Weekdays are tough, because I am not finished with all the hospital stuff yet-but in December everything eases off, and that is when I will take myself out and start doing things. I need to walk more, I need to do my exercises more-and I went to Queen Square on Monday and had to retake the platform test (the thing moves, and I am tethered so I don't fall off). I did really well with my eyes open, but failed the eyes closed test (no surprise there). Even with all the surgery, and the illness, and everything-I'm still improving. I have until February to do more, because I repeat the test in February.
I seem to have defied all expectations by not only improving, but by still being alive (and relatively healthy. Of course, if they keep scanning me, they will cause cancer, the idiots!).
The cougar is on the prowl (maybe. But I am shy, so - maybe not).
Last week was my birthday, and that was the one day I went on strike: no tests, no hospitals, nothing. I felt like I was on holiday...and it was great. I had breakfast in a local restaurant, did a little retail therapy, cooked a lovely meal, had some champagne-lovely. I even sat in the park and meditated, recharged, readied myself for - today. I will soon be on my way to have a tube shoved down my throat (I don't know why, but doctors seem to be fascinated by my throat. Very strange) to find out why I had three months with no voice. So off I will go, and for a couple of days afterwards I will probably be mute. Goody. I'm tired of explaining to the hospital people that CVID is hereditary. Do they still ask if I'm contagious? Where am I living, exactly? Of course they do. Grrr...
Last week I went to see Jersey Boys in the West End. I decided that I really haven't done anything special on my birthday since-well, since before the Gentamicin, and that was five and a half years ago. So I splurged, and swallowed hard (expensive? Oh, yeah), got the ticket and braved hordes of people and teeming rain and took myself to Piccadilly. And I enjoyed it. The American accents were dire, of course. In a word, they sucked - but I expected that, and for me, it was all about the music. And the musical numbers were superb. For a couple of hours I just listened to music and didn't think about anything medical.
Well, I had a birthday. And I am back in the saddle, as they say: time to start going out and doing things. Weekdays are tough, because I am not finished with all the hospital stuff yet-but in December everything eases off, and that is when I will take myself out and start doing things. I need to walk more, I need to do my exercises more-and I went to Queen Square on Monday and had to retake the platform test (the thing moves, and I am tethered so I don't fall off). I did really well with my eyes open, but failed the eyes closed test (no surprise there). Even with all the surgery, and the illness, and everything-I'm still improving. I have until February to do more, because I repeat the test in February.
I seem to have defied all expectations by not only improving, but by still being alive (and relatively healthy. Of course, if they keep scanning me, they will cause cancer, the idiots!).
The cougar is on the prowl (maybe. But I am shy, so - maybe not).
Saturday, 17 October 2015
Irradiated up the wazoo-and beyond
Since I wrote last, I have had so many scans, MRIs, Xrays-and, of course, some bloodletting to keep things interesting-that I must be radioactive by now. In fact, I should be glowing in the dark-it would probably save me a fortune on electricity. But-no such luck. No glowing.
This all happens annually, so I actually get another year to get over all the radiation. It can't be good for anyone. And I have to say, if you want to ever have children, stay away from me for at least another few days. Just in case. What a way to cure the overpopulation!
I saw the lovely Mr. Tan. He was very supportive when I told him I left the Royal London and skipped over to the Royal Free. I also flashed my boobs-I thought the nurse who was there was going to have an aneurysm. But, of course, it was Mr. T who removed the two cancerous ones-and referred me to Steve-so I did ask him first if he wanted to see Steve's work (I'm so polite, it's disgusting). He was delighted with the results, and reminded me that it will take some time to heal completely. He said not to be discouraged, that I will look great when it is all done. I will also look old. When they bury me (not for another thirty years or so, hopefully), the only things that will be perky will be my boobs. Everything else is already heading south. I swear at age, but-I don't much like the alternative.
Now, Mr. T told me something that I thought was really, really interesting. I know that breast cancer can come back, so I asked him about that. He said that a great deal of research has been done about recurrence of breast cancer, and findings show that if it does return, it almost always goes to one of three places: the lungs, the bones or the liver. It rarely recurs in the breast, even in people who have had lumpectomies or single mastectomies (I had a double. I must be greedy). So there you are: something you can tell all your friends, and look really, really smart (even more so than usual).
I am having scans of all three areas, and I will have those every two years or so-and I will see Mr. T in six months, unless there is a problem (which, of course, there won't be). He then said I am looking very skinny. I said-thank you, but I'm not skinny. He said: yes, you are. Well, I'm not going to pick a fight with the man who removed cancer, am I? That would be bad manners. So I said thanks for everything, he gave me a hug, and I immediately went out and bought a blueberry muffin. Well, I'm skinny, right? So I hit the sugar-as you do. And I stuffed my face all the way home.
It has been that sort of week, and I did everything and saw everyone, and I am finally able to get online (remind me to throw this computer off the roof of a very tall building!). Next week is my birthday, and I might just treat myself. After all, I have survived a few very, very bad years. And I haven't really celebrated. It's time I do. I've been so focused on keeping alive, surviving, that I haven't enjoyed life. What is the point of trying so hard if there is no joy at the end of it? I could walk outside and get hit by a bus (nearly did that a couple of times, too). Or get struck by lightning (no, I haven't done that, if you were going to ask. Which I'm sure you weren't). Or get blown up by a terrorist bomb (this is London, after all. And that would be the world's shittiest luck, I can tell you).
I'm determined to start enjoying life, because I don't know when it is going to end. Live it up. Have a blueberry muffin. Kettle Chips. Chocolate. (not all at the same time. Ewww!).
As long as I'm still breathing, I refuse to give up. That is what I call obstinate (or foolhardy. Depends on your point of view!). And-you'll hear from me more often, as long as I don't lose it and trash this computer (already a piece of crap, by the way!).
This all happens annually, so I actually get another year to get over all the radiation. It can't be good for anyone. And I have to say, if you want to ever have children, stay away from me for at least another few days. Just in case. What a way to cure the overpopulation!
I saw the lovely Mr. Tan. He was very supportive when I told him I left the Royal London and skipped over to the Royal Free. I also flashed my boobs-I thought the nurse who was there was going to have an aneurysm. But, of course, it was Mr. T who removed the two cancerous ones-and referred me to Steve-so I did ask him first if he wanted to see Steve's work (I'm so polite, it's disgusting). He was delighted with the results, and reminded me that it will take some time to heal completely. He said not to be discouraged, that I will look great when it is all done. I will also look old. When they bury me (not for another thirty years or so, hopefully), the only things that will be perky will be my boobs. Everything else is already heading south. I swear at age, but-I don't much like the alternative.
Now, Mr. T told me something that I thought was really, really interesting. I know that breast cancer can come back, so I asked him about that. He said that a great deal of research has been done about recurrence of breast cancer, and findings show that if it does return, it almost always goes to one of three places: the lungs, the bones or the liver. It rarely recurs in the breast, even in people who have had lumpectomies or single mastectomies (I had a double. I must be greedy). So there you are: something you can tell all your friends, and look really, really smart (even more so than usual).
I am having scans of all three areas, and I will have those every two years or so-and I will see Mr. T in six months, unless there is a problem (which, of course, there won't be). He then said I am looking very skinny. I said-thank you, but I'm not skinny. He said: yes, you are. Well, I'm not going to pick a fight with the man who removed cancer, am I? That would be bad manners. So I said thanks for everything, he gave me a hug, and I immediately went out and bought a blueberry muffin. Well, I'm skinny, right? So I hit the sugar-as you do. And I stuffed my face all the way home.
It has been that sort of week, and I did everything and saw everyone, and I am finally able to get online (remind me to throw this computer off the roof of a very tall building!). Next week is my birthday, and I might just treat myself. After all, I have survived a few very, very bad years. And I haven't really celebrated. It's time I do. I've been so focused on keeping alive, surviving, that I haven't enjoyed life. What is the point of trying so hard if there is no joy at the end of it? I could walk outside and get hit by a bus (nearly did that a couple of times, too). Or get struck by lightning (no, I haven't done that, if you were going to ask. Which I'm sure you weren't). Or get blown up by a terrorist bomb (this is London, after all. And that would be the world's shittiest luck, I can tell you).
I'm determined to start enjoying life, because I don't know when it is going to end. Live it up. Have a blueberry muffin. Kettle Chips. Chocolate. (not all at the same time. Ewww!).
As long as I'm still breathing, I refuse to give up. That is what I call obstinate (or foolhardy. Depends on your point of view!). And-you'll hear from me more often, as long as I don't lose it and trash this computer (already a piece of crap, by the way!).
Wednesday, 7 October 2015
Just When You Think You're Safe....you get a nasty surprise
The black dog left as suddenly as he had arrived. I felt better on Monday evening, for no apparent reason. The dog probably went to bite someone else on the ass. Never mind: he was gone.Ish.
Yesterday I went along to Boots Opticians. Boots is a major pharmacy chain, now also in various US states-and the company has fingers in various pies, including opticians. Three years ago, I went for an eye exam-and discovered that I needed glasses. Ah, one of the joys of middle age: grey hair (my hair has been grey since I was in my twenties. I always colored it, though), lines and wrinkles, liver spots, cellulite, wobbly bits in danger of heading dangerously toward the floor-and, of course, CRS (can't remember shit, for those of you who can't remember shit). And your arms suddenly aren't long enough-or your nose isn't short enough-so you need a bit of optical help. Hence: Boots Opticians.
This is all a long winded way of saying that I had my eye exam-and what a disaster that was. Mrs. Chernick, who has been at this particular branch since-probably since the place was built-wanted my medical history, then wanted to know if I am contagious (no, I said, CVID isn't contagious. Dummy - I wanted to add, she's got all this in her notes from last time). Then she couldn't get the prescription right, the photos of the eyes were blank (oh, my-don't I have eyes? Shocker), and she was twitching and scurrying around, because to put everything right would have taken more time than she was prepared to spend. I paid for all this, too, which was very annoying. So she showed me the door, practically pushed me through it, and said she was going to write to my GP and have me referred to a specialist. And that was that.
Well-duh-I walked home, in the rain, and I stopped and began to cry. Of course, I felt like a total ass, crying in the street, but I was so upset it was unbelievable. Everything just suddenly got to me at that moment, and it all began with Mrs. Chernick, who wasn't terribly nice about the whole thing. I found myself wishing that someone would just run me over and put me out of my misery - how very unlike me! I cried myself back home, got inside, locked the door, and just sat (cold, wet from the rain, and highly pissed off, by the way), and cried, and had a first class pity party. If I was a drinker, I would have been completely plastered. But no, I just cried until I bored myself, and thought about what I had wished: to just quit, to give up, to stop all the treatments, sell everything (not that I have anything worth selling), and just go somewhere, anywhere, and live for as long as I could-which wouldn't be long, if I stopped the immunoglobulin and the antibiotics. So I decided: stop being such a jerk.
I haven't gone through so much just to quit now. I can be such a drama queen! I sat. For the entire day. And I decided that I wasn't going to let the likes of Mrs. Chernick to dictate the way I felt about myself and my life. If I quit now, everything I have been through will have been for nothing. That isn't the way I want to go out: a quitter. And things, I decided, will get better. This was just a glitch.
Now I realize something really important: I have to be very careful about disclosing anything about my health, unless it's to doctors, people who have a say in my medical treatment. Chernick almost had apoplexy, even though it was all right there in her notes from three years ago. Obviously she was worried that I have HIV- and nothing could be further from the truth. I try to be open about CVID, because it is hereditary, and not contagious (anyone can only develop it if I give birth to them. God forbid). But there is absolutely no point in saying anything to anyone unless there is a good reason to do so. And-it's sad, really, that there is such a prejudice against a condition that is caused by defective genes. But hey-this is the UK, and most people think that genes are the things you wear: like Levis. Can't really argue with stupidity and ignorance, can you?
Do I feel better after yesterday's upset? Yes-one day spent being upset at someone's ignorance is one day more than that person deserves. Am I going to keep schtum from now on? Huh-is the Pope Catholic? (that's a definite yes)
Yesterday I went along to Boots Opticians. Boots is a major pharmacy chain, now also in various US states-and the company has fingers in various pies, including opticians. Three years ago, I went for an eye exam-and discovered that I needed glasses. Ah, one of the joys of middle age: grey hair (my hair has been grey since I was in my twenties. I always colored it, though), lines and wrinkles, liver spots, cellulite, wobbly bits in danger of heading dangerously toward the floor-and, of course, CRS (can't remember shit, for those of you who can't remember shit). And your arms suddenly aren't long enough-or your nose isn't short enough-so you need a bit of optical help. Hence: Boots Opticians.
This is all a long winded way of saying that I had my eye exam-and what a disaster that was. Mrs. Chernick, who has been at this particular branch since-probably since the place was built-wanted my medical history, then wanted to know if I am contagious (no, I said, CVID isn't contagious. Dummy - I wanted to add, she's got all this in her notes from last time). Then she couldn't get the prescription right, the photos of the eyes were blank (oh, my-don't I have eyes? Shocker), and she was twitching and scurrying around, because to put everything right would have taken more time than she was prepared to spend. I paid for all this, too, which was very annoying. So she showed me the door, practically pushed me through it, and said she was going to write to my GP and have me referred to a specialist. And that was that.
Well-duh-I walked home, in the rain, and I stopped and began to cry. Of course, I felt like a total ass, crying in the street, but I was so upset it was unbelievable. Everything just suddenly got to me at that moment, and it all began with Mrs. Chernick, who wasn't terribly nice about the whole thing. I found myself wishing that someone would just run me over and put me out of my misery - how very unlike me! I cried myself back home, got inside, locked the door, and just sat (cold, wet from the rain, and highly pissed off, by the way), and cried, and had a first class pity party. If I was a drinker, I would have been completely plastered. But no, I just cried until I bored myself, and thought about what I had wished: to just quit, to give up, to stop all the treatments, sell everything (not that I have anything worth selling), and just go somewhere, anywhere, and live for as long as I could-which wouldn't be long, if I stopped the immunoglobulin and the antibiotics. So I decided: stop being such a jerk.
I haven't gone through so much just to quit now. I can be such a drama queen! I sat. For the entire day. And I decided that I wasn't going to let the likes of Mrs. Chernick to dictate the way I felt about myself and my life. If I quit now, everything I have been through will have been for nothing. That isn't the way I want to go out: a quitter. And things, I decided, will get better. This was just a glitch.
Now I realize something really important: I have to be very careful about disclosing anything about my health, unless it's to doctors, people who have a say in my medical treatment. Chernick almost had apoplexy, even though it was all right there in her notes from three years ago. Obviously she was worried that I have HIV- and nothing could be further from the truth. I try to be open about CVID, because it is hereditary, and not contagious (anyone can only develop it if I give birth to them. God forbid). But there is absolutely no point in saying anything to anyone unless there is a good reason to do so. And-it's sad, really, that there is such a prejudice against a condition that is caused by defective genes. But hey-this is the UK, and most people think that genes are the things you wear: like Levis. Can't really argue with stupidity and ignorance, can you?
Do I feel better after yesterday's upset? Yes-one day spent being upset at someone's ignorance is one day more than that person deserves. Am I going to keep schtum from now on? Huh-is the Pope Catholic? (that's a definite yes)
Monday, 5 October 2015
The Curious Case of the Exploding Expander
Last week was one of those ho-hum, meh, underwhelming weeks. At least, it started that way, but didn't end very well at all.
On Tuesday I had to go back to the Royal Free to have the registrar check the expander that has been giving me all this grief for weeks. She poked around my chest (that was weird), and decided that the expander has shifted to the right. How exciting, I thought: I will have one breast facing front and one facing back, if it keeps moving. I said that-but she wasn't amused. She was even less amused when she couldn't locate the port on the left side. I asked her where it could have gone. Did it do a runner? Was it going to be found somewhere near my left kidney? Ah, no-no sense of humor, I guess. And I wasn't very pleased, either. So we just left it, since I had to return and see the expert, the surgeon, on Thursday. Tuesday was, for me, a wasted journey.
On Wednesday I was due to go to the London to have my annual gastroscopy. Once a year I get one hosepipe shoved up my back end, and once a year I get a hosepipe shoved down the other end. This is all to see if there is anything major to worry about, since one of the problems with CVID is that it impacts everything to do with the digestive system (and is related to colon cancer). I was fasting, and on the way to the hospital, when I had the most unbelievable pain in the right side-I really thought the right expander was rupturing. It was so painful I could barely breathe. And-I was at the Royal London, so there wasn't anything I could do except wait it out and hope it would stop-or explode,whichever came first. After about twenty minutes the pain subsided. Finally. Nothing flew out of my chest, so I figured I would survive until the next day.
I waited for hours for the hosepipe; everyone was running extremely late. By the time I saw Sean (what a hero-he apologized for the severe delay, something that is unknown in the NHS!), I had fasted for nearly twenty four hours and my stomach was shaking hands with my backbone.
The test took about half an hour, some biopsies were taken-and I chose not to have sedation, because I figured I would be there forever if I said okay. So it hurt, but I was glad in the end. Nobody even offered me a glass of water. That is the Royal London for you-so I am glad that I went over to the Royal Free, where they are much more civilized. I'm keeping the gastro and neurology teams at the London, though. Sean and Dimples have known me for years, and I have every confidence in them. I don't sweat at the idea of going to see them, which I did with the immunology team.
Thursday I went to see my surgeon. Honestly, if I got paid for all the mileage I do each week, going from one hospital to another, I could go to the Bahamas for six months.
Steve had a poke around, said he is pleased with the expander-and that it hasn't ruptured, and has only moved slightly, so I shouldn't worry- yet. He inflated the left side by 50mls of saline, and wants to see me in six weeks. If the right side deflates in that time, we will decide what to do then. So that was that, and I was very relieved. Plus, I have cleavage. What a bonus.
Then I got hit by the black dog. It came out of nowhere and bit me right in the backside when I wasn't looking. I've been bitten before-so many times you would think my butt would be smaller. Too bad. And for two days I didn't really go anywhere, although I forced myself to walk. I had to walk. It was very unpleasant-but I knew that it would pass if I just hung out with it for a bit and then made myself move, take some action, walk, whatever.
Yesterday there was a Patients' Day at the Royal Free, and I went along and saw several people I knew: immunology staff, and immunology patients, too. We heard the latest research into CVID, the newest pumps for immunoglobulin delivery-and a talk about depression, which is one symptom of CVID (one of many). Gut problems, chest problems, depression-all these subjects were covered really well, and we had lunch, too. Even the coffee was good-and you all know what I think about British coffee. Except for Starbucks (and my own), you could use it to strip paint. So when I tasted the brew I was very pleasantly surprised. That in itself cheered me up.
Today I still have the remnants of the blues. We have rain-lots of rain, lots of wind, lots of cold-after a beautiful weekend, too. But when you know the reasons behind symptoms, they are easier to handle. One person out of every 50,000 is born with CVID. That translates to 20 people out of one million. Some idiots sniff and say, oh, that isn't so rare. I'm one of the twenty. Trust me when I say that yes, it is rare! And, like the Energizer bunny, I just keep going. I've come this far-I'm not ready to quit yet. I want to irritate people for at least another 30 years or so...
On Tuesday I had to go back to the Royal Free to have the registrar check the expander that has been giving me all this grief for weeks. She poked around my chest (that was weird), and decided that the expander has shifted to the right. How exciting, I thought: I will have one breast facing front and one facing back, if it keeps moving. I said that-but she wasn't amused. She was even less amused when she couldn't locate the port on the left side. I asked her where it could have gone. Did it do a runner? Was it going to be found somewhere near my left kidney? Ah, no-no sense of humor, I guess. And I wasn't very pleased, either. So we just left it, since I had to return and see the expert, the surgeon, on Thursday. Tuesday was, for me, a wasted journey.
On Wednesday I was due to go to the London to have my annual gastroscopy. Once a year I get one hosepipe shoved up my back end, and once a year I get a hosepipe shoved down the other end. This is all to see if there is anything major to worry about, since one of the problems with CVID is that it impacts everything to do with the digestive system (and is related to colon cancer). I was fasting, and on the way to the hospital, when I had the most unbelievable pain in the right side-I really thought the right expander was rupturing. It was so painful I could barely breathe. And-I was at the Royal London, so there wasn't anything I could do except wait it out and hope it would stop-or explode,whichever came first. After about twenty minutes the pain subsided. Finally. Nothing flew out of my chest, so I figured I would survive until the next day.
I waited for hours for the hosepipe; everyone was running extremely late. By the time I saw Sean (what a hero-he apologized for the severe delay, something that is unknown in the NHS!), I had fasted for nearly twenty four hours and my stomach was shaking hands with my backbone.
The test took about half an hour, some biopsies were taken-and I chose not to have sedation, because I figured I would be there forever if I said okay. So it hurt, but I was glad in the end. Nobody even offered me a glass of water. That is the Royal London for you-so I am glad that I went over to the Royal Free, where they are much more civilized. I'm keeping the gastro and neurology teams at the London, though. Sean and Dimples have known me for years, and I have every confidence in them. I don't sweat at the idea of going to see them, which I did with the immunology team.
Thursday I went to see my surgeon. Honestly, if I got paid for all the mileage I do each week, going from one hospital to another, I could go to the Bahamas for six months.
Steve had a poke around, said he is pleased with the expander-and that it hasn't ruptured, and has only moved slightly, so I shouldn't worry- yet. He inflated the left side by 50mls of saline, and wants to see me in six weeks. If the right side deflates in that time, we will decide what to do then. So that was that, and I was very relieved. Plus, I have cleavage. What a bonus.
Then I got hit by the black dog. It came out of nowhere and bit me right in the backside when I wasn't looking. I've been bitten before-so many times you would think my butt would be smaller. Too bad. And for two days I didn't really go anywhere, although I forced myself to walk. I had to walk. It was very unpleasant-but I knew that it would pass if I just hung out with it for a bit and then made myself move, take some action, walk, whatever.
Yesterday there was a Patients' Day at the Royal Free, and I went along and saw several people I knew: immunology staff, and immunology patients, too. We heard the latest research into CVID, the newest pumps for immunoglobulin delivery-and a talk about depression, which is one symptom of CVID (one of many). Gut problems, chest problems, depression-all these subjects were covered really well, and we had lunch, too. Even the coffee was good-and you all know what I think about British coffee. Except for Starbucks (and my own), you could use it to strip paint. So when I tasted the brew I was very pleasantly surprised. That in itself cheered me up.
Today I still have the remnants of the blues. We have rain-lots of rain, lots of wind, lots of cold-after a beautiful weekend, too. But when you know the reasons behind symptoms, they are easier to handle. One person out of every 50,000 is born with CVID. That translates to 20 people out of one million. Some idiots sniff and say, oh, that isn't so rare. I'm one of the twenty. Trust me when I say that yes, it is rare! And, like the Energizer bunny, I just keep going. I've come this far-I'm not ready to quit yet. I want to irritate people for at least another 30 years or so...
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