Testing, Testing, Testing

Part of the information given to me by the breast surgeon was the notification that several tests were to be undertaken.  Primarily to determine whether the cancer might have spread, but also to insert a clip into the tumour as a marker.  As I have Herceptin receptive cancer they want a way to measure the tumour’s progress with the chemotherapy. The tests were to be a bone scan and a CT scan, in addition to the MRI.  All this is very business like and efficient and you must admit they really are looking after me.  I’m now at the end of my week of tests, with no results yet, and feel I’m passing through a gateway.  Actually, the picture that comes to mind is one of an Ancient Greek adventurer in a small wooden boat passing under a natural stone bridge between two islands.  Something like Jason and Argonauts, from the original fabulously engaging 1963 version with special effects that so entranced me as a child.  I’m sailing into new unchartered waters, and with this, I know I’m changing how I regard myself.

It’s been an exhausting week.  Not in terms of painful or intrusive tests, unless you count someone stabbing your boob with a giant needle under local anaesthetic intrusive, and I don’t as it happens, but tiring in terms of  emotional energy.  Keeping everything in that beautiful box takes work, and I am sure once I know what I’m facing it won’t be as arduous.  Unless, of course, it is the worst news.  Now I know it is highly unlikely, but they wouldn’t be sending me for all these expensive tests if it weren’t a possibility, however remote.  The logical, rational side of me can balance the probabilities but there are times, when alone and/or tired when the sheer fear of what I might be facing overwhelms.  But I’ve been putting it back in the box, telling myself that it won’t help and trying to get on with the extraordinary ordinariness of what I’m living through.

On Monday I went radioactive.  An injection of radioactive material given by a lovely chatty nurse, who has Parkinson’s as it happens, followed up two hours later by lying on a metal board as the bone scan machine inspects me.  Nothing as bad as the MRI, but as the big metal plate comes close to my face it is difficult to keep that metaphorical box shut.  The nurse giving the scan was delightful, coveting my handbag too with comic intensity.  That really helped keep things in perspective.  They were treating me as a person not as a tumour.  She and I chatted as I rested after the scan and at no point did she tell me any results but was straightforward about the thing I was facing and did not give false hope.  I draw strength from such kind honesty.

Tuesday was my lovely GP, an exceptional medic, who has really helped me get my depression sorted, and jolly good too, because the present situation is hardly one for anyone who crumbles quickly.  He did say a couple of visits ago he thought it was clear my trusting nature had been abused.  Quite made me gulp that did, because I am apt to blame myself for my life choices.  Funnily enough, although thoughts lurk at the back of my head, I do banish them because blame is not helpful now.  Just keeping going and keeping reasonably cheerful are the goals.  Miraculously my blood pressure, which has been dodgy for years, is under control, which bucked both of us up, and he let me look at the letter sent from the breast surgeon telling the GP of the findings so far.  I asked what it all meant, and essentially it looks like it’s a breast cancer that is Herceptin receptive, grade 3 (meaning it’s quite aggressive) 55mmX 35mm and necrotising (dying off) which also indicates its quite aggressive.  Which is quite frightening however the GP offered some hope because if the cancer cells are reproducing faster than healthy cells he suggested that they won’t have to make me as ill to kill off the cancer.  We can but hope.

Funnily enough, even though I have googled nothing (except the spelling of necrosis just now) I found myself reassured by this information.  The MRI had found grey areas in the lymph glands, but I was told that MRIs are often unclear in these areas.  I already knew this and knew I was having a further ultrasound to determine the state of the lymph glands.

My GP though, pointed out that I was looking tired and asked if  was I sleeping.  At this point I had to be honest and say decent quality sleep has been difficult.  So, I’ve been prescribed amitriptyline, which I’ve never had before.  I’ve had zopiclone, which does have such a problem of addiction, being one of the benzodiazepines, and leaves me quite groggy in the morning.  I have another appointment in 3 and a half weeks’, but he’ll see me earlier if needed.  What a relief to have such a caring GP on my side.  Sleep has been improving since Tuesday too, so I'm more able to keep going.

Yesterday was more ultrasound and the clip fitted via biopsy.  DN2 and I were joined by my friend and line manager (FLM from now on). My FLM drove us to the hospital and sat with DN2 whilst I underwent my stuff.  What was clear was how well they got on and this has really helped, especially DN2, who now doesn’t feel so alone.  The stresses on both my daughters are immense and if I could spare them anything I would.  I haven’t allowed myself to explore how I feel about all the sincere help that’s coming my way because I know that isn’t relevant now.  I need people and I have to trust them, but I must admit to a small twinge of envy when I see a woman with a strong, caring and concerned man at her side in the waiting room.  Of course, appearances can be deceptive, and I am projecting my desires onto a situation that might be very different from what I imagine.  What I do know is I have some exceptionally good friends and I am grateful for every single one of them at the moment.

I had a young female radiologist this time, about the same age as DN1 by the look of her, and extremely capable, careful and kind.  She checked the lymph glands and said they were the top end of normal but in the circumstances it was best not to take chances and she took a biopsy of those tissues as well as inserting the titanium clip into the tumour.  At time of writing I still have dressings in place, but I must admit the area is a bit sore.  I didn’t look at all at the needle used for biopsy, which the radiologist told me was quite sensible as it was a jolly big needle.  It’s all about managing the circumstances and not pushing yourself unnecessarily.

FLM and DN2 were laughing and chatting when I came out from the treatments rooms and we made our cheerful way home.  This morning DN2 came in with some plans for a holiday.  She said she didn’t think she could leave me but now she’s met FLM she knows I’ll be fine.  Words cannot explain how relieved I feel. DN2 will need breaks from the intensity and the worry of living with a mother with breast cancer.

So today, the last of the big three, the CT scan.  Firm instructions and highlighted requirements to email or phone acceptance indicated that this was 'Important'.  I had to drink a litre of water before I arrived and had to tell the receptionist when I started drinking it, and drink more.  The nurse called me, and I walked the bright green corridor to the lorry trailer where the CT scan was situated.  The CT scan is more of a doughnut than the MRI and makes much less noise.  However, I had to be injected with dye, so another canula.  What a good thing I haven’t had a misspent youth and have veins in good nick.  The dye going in felt ‘odd’, I can’t describe it more than that, bits of me were hot for about 30 seconds, peculiarly so, but nothing was uncomfortable. On the inevitable board fed in and out of the machine, breathing as instructed by the recorded voice (with an American accent, most unnecessary, I’d have liked Joanna Lumley doing the instructions if I could have had a choice).  Fortunately, my fear of a coughing fit or someone making me laugh didn’t materialise and I made it to the loo without any stress and quite a bit of relief.

Once I got home I felt exhausted, and slightly numb.  An image that has come to mind this week is one of the baddies in the Indiana Jones stories, the one who can remove a heart with his fingers.  If I could reach in and pull out that tumour I can feel so clearly, believe you me, I would.  I really hope and pray it is just that tumour, I have grown more hopeful over the week that it is.  Not for any rational reason really, as I don’t understand all the information up to now, and I know they are being careful, but hope is growing.  I’m having my hair cut short on Monday, really short as never before.  If, as expected, my hair falls out with chemotherapy, I really don’t want handfuls of long blonde hair to taunt me as I feel sick. 

Next booked appointment is Friday 10^th August, but I might get an oncologist appointment after the Tuesday multidisciplinary meeting.  I do hope so.  I want to get going with this, get that fear out of the box and out of my life.