The Enemy Within

The euphoria following the test results left me a bit stunned.  So many people were genuinely relieved that my cancer is localised, and my daughters were, frankly, shocked.  Not disappointed shocked, but the worry had so invaded their souls and bones, that they, and I, were numb with relief.  Of course, whilst the good news was amazing, the process of dealing with my cancer had to continue, and the next thing was a visit to the oncologist.  I hung round when the post was due, and if I’d been out, my eyes scanned the post on the mat with a practised eye, looking for a tell tale white envelope with a local franking mark.  Sometimes they are marked ‘confidential’, at other times they are quite innocuous.  Kit had told me I would hear in the next two weeks, but, as ever, the appointment arrived a few days after the results of my tests, with an appointment for the following Thursday to see the oncologist.

I can’t explain why, but when I opened this letter, I had a feeling of dread.  It was completely irrational.  They knew what they were dealing with, this was the start of treatment to get rid of the cancer, and yet I felt very much that these people were not going to like me.  I felt ashamed of this feeling, but having been to the clinic, I think my sixth sense applied to the receptionist at the Colney Centre.  An old-fashioned unpleasant hospital receptionist of the first order.  Everyone else was lovely, but she was a disgrace to the NHS.  There is very little I can do, as I was in a state of numb shock following my appointment, but I can moan here.  And, I didn’t get a name.  I just wanted to run into the drizzle and howl.

Both my daughters and my FLM came with me to the appointment.  FLM and I went to work to find out about the A level results and it was lovely to meet a number of my colleagues and talk about other things, as well as ‘how I was’  Students collecting their results who came to talk to me admired the haircut, and not once did I say ‘it’s because I’ve got cancer’. I was quite proud of that.  I know I have a tendency to ‘overshare’ so I practise not doing so.  If they’d asked if there was a reason I’d had it cut off, I would have told them, I wouldn’t have lied, but it was quite nice to keep some part of me private.  Going into hospital and having to tell strangers about myself and having them look at parts of my body I usually keep covered is a very invasive process.  Writing a blog about those experiences is quite a public thing to do, but somehow it helps.  I know these two things factors seem at odds, but that’s my life, a tad inconsistent at best.

We arrived early for the appointment, and the oncologist came out to introduce herself, apologised that she was running late and that she had organised me to have a blood test I needed.  So off we all went across the hospital.  I’m not sure there is anyone who really enjoys a hospital, I suppose there might be, but I find them difficult places.  When my father was in hospital just prior to diagnosis, my brother and I used to work out the fastest routes across the hospital complex as a kind of challenge.  It also means you don’t have to try and notice the place, it is a maze, not a place.  Sadly I don't have such a familiarity with this new hospital so the thoughts of what kinds of things go on in wards, behind the doors, along the other corridors flit and out of my head as we traverse the building.  It doesn't make me feel settled or in any way 'at home'  This is an alien land for me.  The four of us got to phlebotomy, I checked, took my number and sat down.  Once my number was called I went through to the room with two chairs and two lovely nurses.  My nurse asked my date of birth, as ever, and checked my address.  I told her I found it best not to look at needles and to keep talking and in no time two phials were full of my blood and we’d had a jolly chat.  Back through the corridors and lifts brought us back to the waiting room.  A few minutes later we were ushered in to meet the oncologist.  Lots of questions, an examination and a pack of information later I was ushered off for an echo test on my heart.  By this time I knew I was starting chemo next week, that my tumour was aggressive and my treatment would be every 3 weeks for four sessions, then surgery then more chemo.   I knew that side effects were very variable, but everyone lost their hair and it was very rare to be sick.  I knew that taking my temperature was vital, and that work wouldn’t be possible.  The oncologist seemed surprised I asked if I could work.  Surely my health is worth more than my work?  Yes, but my fear is without me there doing a good job, they will find they won’t need me.  And will I get paid?  Was there anything else I wanted?  To be told I didn’t have cancer.

I have been quite stoic in accepting the diagnosis up to now, but I have to admit I am finding it difficult to internalist the concept of being a person with cancer.  Why should this be?  Was all my ‘strength’ and ‘courage’ just mislabelled and should be really seen as ‘not taking it in’?  I don’t think so, but I am finding these last few days before the chemo starts quite hard.  Then I feel guilty, because I have so much to be grateful for.  The treatment is enormously expensive, and I don’t have to pay for it; the chances of me surviving are good, but how good?  That’s the one question I haven’t asked because I don’t think anybody knows. And this is what caused DN2 to meltdown a few days ago.  Once again, she had interpreted the oncologist’s behaviour as knowing I was dying and hiding it from all of us.  I don’t think that’s the case, but it was mentioned that I had an emergency appointment and that I should not be picky about dates for treatment as they have so many people to treat.  The fact I had a blood test and an echo heart test so treatment could start this week is heartening, but also underlines that speed is of the essence.

The heart test was interesting, and the man conducting it professional and kind.  My heart works effectively, the aorta is not swollen.  My heart will be checked every three months as heart beat can be affected by the treatment.  It is quite overwhelming to consider what is approaching me.  The oncology nurse, Tracey, was very good, going over all the things that I needed to remember and as I was leaving approached with a ‘present’ for me.  Someone who had survived the treatment I was going through had set up a charity to give a box of ‘Little Lifts’ to anyone starting the process.  If you are going ‘ahhh, how nice’, then brace yourself because I wasn’t.  I can’t quite work out why I was so angry at the box of bits, but I was infuriated.  I remember being given a ‘baby box’ when the girls were born, and all it was, was a few samples to encourage you, in this new stage of your life, to buy the products you had as samples rather than the competition.  No real help at all, if I’m honest, just a marketing ploy.

We finished the whole appointment, had our ‘heartening’ experience with the departmental receptionist, and left in the rain.  Once home I unpacked the box of ‘Little Lifts’ and the first thing I found was the disclaimer notice, very prettily presented, but disclaimers all the same.  I’m sure the box was a lovely idea, and very well meant, but all it meant to me that what was coming was going to be absolutely awful.  It’s going to hurt, I’m not going to be able to do what I want because of the risk of infection, and it might not work.  For someone who struggles with her value in life, this is a very challenging time.  I am numb with fear, but know I have to stand up to the ‘enemy’, which will turn out to be my saviour.  I have an enemy within, I have cancer.