life

In May this year, 16 months after having a mastectomy, I had an eight hour operation to reconstruct what had been taken away. It’s pretty major surgery, not something to take lightly, yet that’s probably what I did in the build up.

At the mastectomy stage, when all the cancerous tissue had been removed, they inserted a silicone implant which, whilst giving some shape, always felt like I was carrying a bowling ball around. It was so uncomfortable, heavy and hard as a rock. There had been problems of fluid retention and then scar tissue had made the area hard and lumpy. Subsequent radiotherapy had then caused the skin to contract and thicken, creating an even tighter feel. For me, the implant was always a temporary measure, and psychologically I needed to get rid of that too.

There were three options; to keep it and have no further surgery, to keep it and have rebalancing surgery on the other breast, or to have a full reconstruction. The latter was always my preference. I joked for months about looking forward to having a boob job and a tummy tuck, which is basically what it was, but in all seriousness, the results aren’t really anything like you’d see in any breast “enhancement” brochure.

The best bit is having a flat tummy. Two pregnancies of colossal size within my 5’ frame hadn’t done me any favours and no amount of exercising or toning would ever get rid of the loose skin. But that’s all gone now. An elliptical shape of tummy skin with all the fat attached (there wasn’t actually that much fat, so I was told) and a bit of stomach muscle which provided a blood supply, was removed. The two sides were then stretched together and sewn up and the belly button re-positioned. Sneezing and laughing were a bit tricky for a few weeks. I was worried I would perforate.

The lump of flesh was then basically transplanted to the chest to make a new more natural feeling breast. The implant was whipped out and the existing breast skin envelope cut and shaped to contain the newly positioned tummy skin. The transplanted tummy tissue, muscle and blood vessels were then fused to the existing blood vessels in the breast area. This bit of micro surgery is what took all the time. I was under anaesthetic for around ten hours.

Immediately after the operation, I was monitored every hour for about a day and a half. They had to check that the blood supply had taken otherwise the transplanted tissue would have died. To help it take, the breast, and actually the whole of me, had to be kept warm. I had a lightweight fleecy kind of hollow sleeping bag stroke airbag covering me. Constant warm air was pumped through it. I was boiling. And immobile; there were three drain sites – one each side of the tummy wound and one at the side of the breast, I was hooked up to a drip of morphine, to which my hand clung as I self administered. Then there was oxygen and the obvious catheter. All I was able to do was take sips of water through a straw which had to be positioned in reach of my free arm. Then there was the nausea and sickness. Then there was the hospital food, once I could sit up. I was extremely thankful to Jenni who brought me my stash of M&S food.

Two days after the op I was lifted out of bed and could sit up in a chair. The next day I was wheeled to the bathroom. The following day I was made to walk from the bed to the window. I was sent home two days after that. I was rather delicate. I had to dress the wound sites daily for three weeks with iodine strips and gauze and tape. It took about an hour every day. I wasn’t allowed to lift anything or do much really for a few weeks. My sister came down from Blackpool to look after me, and my nephew was also around to help out. The ex had the kids and also looked after me. My lovely friends visited and brought me food and, when I was able to move around a bit better, took me out for lunch. Due to the timely World Cup, I did as I had been told and rested up, which I think aided my recovery quite considerably. The good weather helped too. Four and a half weeks after the operation I had my first night out – my graduating friends’ degree show, which had always been a target to be the first night I would be able to have beer.

The new breast is now softer than the implant ever was but still more pert than the other side, as well as being smaller. There’s a big scar running all the way around. There’s still no nipple, though that will be formed in the next stage of surgery, hopefully quite soon. There is a difference in texture between the softer “tummy” skin which is sewn next to the thick elephant-hide-like radiated existing breast skin. This is getting less apparent though with time, and the shape seems to be settling down. But there is a bit of a crimpy look to it and I call it a Cornish pasty. The look of it may get better. But it may not. I am just happy that it feels ten times better than the implant did. The next stage is to have the other breast reduced and lifted to create some kind of a symmetrical look.

There’s no escaping the fact that my body has been maimed. There’s an absence. A loss. Two years’ worth of transience. I could let it get me down but I won’t. I’ve been lucky to have had people who have helped me in various ways to get over different stages and feelings. I will be forever grateful and know I will be able to move on from here.

All this has been due to breast cancer.

October is breast cancer awareness month. Keep checking.

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Some year it turned out to be

A year ago today I had diagnostic tests which revealed breast cancer tumours. It wasn’t confirmed until a week later, but all the evidence that day was not good. It was a complete shock as I had only been referred on the basis of experiencing slight tenderness in one place. There was no lump. It turned out to be at least five tumours, one of which was very aggressive, but fortunately at an early stage. If I hadn’t have thought to go to my GP when I did, it would most likely have spread through the lymph glands and my life could be so different. I urge anyone who notices ANY kind of change to their breast to go and get checked out.

I’ve been waiting for this year to come to an end. These last few weeks of it, my mind and memory have been travelling back to happy times this time last year, when I was unaware of what lay ahead, and had only just discovered a new me, one that had started to enjoy living in and for the present, experiencing a new kind of happiness. The first two days of the year were shared with someone who provided fun and laughter which took me back to a time I thought I had lost. Then, within a week of being diagnosed (and with no previous weeks worrying, as cancer was the last thing I thought was causing the tenderness), I had a mastectomy. It was all so sudden, no time to think things through. Emotions all over the place. Laughter gone. Six cycles of chemotherapy spanning 19 weeks followed plus three further weeks of radiotherapy. August 3rd was the last day of invasive treatment. (There are still tablets to take for the next five years). All signs are that it has done the trick. I feel lucky I didn’t experience any major physical side effects and was able to carry on studying and looking after my children, going out and, well, just getting on. Emotionally, though, it has been (and continues to be) more of a rollercoaster ride, and at times, it’s as though another person has undertaken what I had to endure, and I can’t quite believe that I have come through it all intact. There's laughter from time to time, but not in the same way as before. But I'm feeling less and less like I need to escape back to where I was and am intent on moving forward.

Christmas Day was spent with my children and their dad, as usual. He and I separated four years ago, this is in fact the fifth Christmas apart. Before then, we had been together 20 years. He’s still a good friend. We reflected on what he told me on my birthday this September, a time when I was at one of my lowest points. He’d told me that I ought to look back on this year as one of achievement; the way I have dealt with it means I have turned what should have been a shit year into one I should be proud of. I kind of agree. But it still feels like a lost year, a year of limbo floating around waiting for life to start up again.

So I keep ticking off all the “anniversaries”, all the “this time last year” stuff, waiting, anticipating a new beginning. But there’s still a while to go; reconstructive surgery in February will take a few months to heal and then there will be subsequent more minor ops to follow, gradually rebuilding what was taken away (or perhaps “remodelling” is a better word, as the procedures aim to create a flat stomach and perky breasts which hadn’t been apparent for quite a few years post childbirth…) So I envisage another gap year, but one that I am looking forward to and anticipating good results from. Let’s see.

So, here are some positive aspects of having breast cancer this year…

Cropping my hair, which seems blonder
Eventually growing longer eyelashes and fuller eyebrows
Being allowed the indulgence to rediscover myself
Becoming a Top Shop size 10
Winning a prize at art college for my self portrait project
Having the opportunity to take time away and go inter railing
The prospect of gaining new pert boobs and a tummy tuck to boot, all on the fabulous NHS
Most importantly, discovering strong friendships.

Relief

The waiting room is the same. Only last time, I wasn't anxious. Last time, I was sat here anticipating a good new year; looking forward to New Year's Eve, or more specifically, New Year's Day. Life had just started up again. There was fun, laughter and an enjoyment of the here and now. I was just in that waiting room as a precaution. No one could feel anything. It was just an ache, no lump. Nothing to worry about. Then, once inside, it was the doctor's stroke of my arm, the telling that it would be best to do biopsies there and then, the sudden appearance of the main consultant, the booking in all too quickly for another scan that gave the game away. There were shadows of concern. I usually like shadows.

Sat waiting for the next set of scans, the consent form I found myself filling in became a blur as I had a fleeting thought of my future grown up children. Will I see them? I intended to.

Two weeks later I lost a part of me. I lost a lot else too. But also gained something, with the support and love from those who cared. Harsh medical treatment failed to dent me and I seemed to be a stronger person. There was just a sadness of a loss, a loss of myself and who I had found myself to be. Now I was someone else. The longing to go back was overwhelming at times. I pined for an escape.

Hospital visits became routine. I was well looked after. Life continued as normal - rushing from school run to college, to school run, cooking, cleaning, organising homework, taxi-ing children around, trying to take photographs, trying to make art. Treatment ended eight months later and I had come through it all relatively unscathed, very few side effects, certainly no major ones. A champagne moment. I celebrated with good friends. But I still felt in limbo. With the routine gone came uncertainty, too much reflection, too much dwelling. And too much time on my own at times.

So today I had some good news. The anxiety had taken a hold this time and my request to bring forward what is from now on annual tests to spot any signs of it developing on the other side was granted. That same ache has been niggling me there for a few weeks. So this time, sitting in the same waiting room was different. This time, it was anxious. Several different scenarios were playing over in the mind, full of what ifs.

But the news was good. This time no shadows.

eyelashes

My eyelashes have grown back thicker and longer than they ever were. I realised this today as I applied mascara. Not that I'd lost them altogether, or all at the same time, but they had certainly thinned out and were brittle and short for a while. This growth seems to have happened without me noticing. And one of the few things that is better than life before BC. There aren't many so I'm allowing myself to rejoice at what may seem fairly trivial advances.

At the beginning of chemotherapy, at the end of February 2009, I set out to photographically document what I expected to be complete hair loss. On top of everything that had happened, this was what I feared most. Losing my natural blonde. Before treatment started I tried on wigs, bought a hat and practised wrapping scarves. None were me. I would lose my identity and gain a completely different one. There'd be no way round not looking like a cancer patient.

My plan was to take some control. I had it cut short so that the fall out would hopefully have less impact... I think it was a good theory. But I'm incredibly lucky in that I didn't have to go through with any of the various head coverings. I kept my hair. This was due to wearing a "scalp cooling" device during the drug injections. The idea is to cut off the blood supply to the hair follicles meaning that the drugs don't reach. Cooling is not the right word though; it was fucking freezing. Sat for 3 hours with a gel filled hat frozen to minus 6 degrees wasn't much fun and most people who try it abandon it after 20 minutes. But I was determined to save my hair if I could. I'm glad I coped with the suffering. Throughout all this shit year I sometimes haven't been able to work out where my resolve and a mainly positive attitude has come from. But I know a major factor is down to keeping my hair.

So my hair didn't fall out, but it grew weaker in the 3 weekly stages between each cycle of chemo. Like the eyelashes, it wasn't majorly apparent, but in the few strands that did come out, it looked like a badger had been moulting. The hair at the root end was stripey. It seemed that it was blonde and dark stripes but in reality the lighter stripes were thinner, and if I pulled it, the strand would break at those points. So it seems like I held on to my hair by a thread.

I'm going to look after my eyelashes and enjoy them. I'm also going to keep my hair short. I think.