My first thought was to put the letter in the bin and forget about it, I would be wasting everyone's time, so I thought, basically I just didn't want to go.
Boy was I wrong!
When my hubby fished the letter out of the bin and told me off for throwing it away I still didn't want to go but I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was going. It was to be in a mobile unit on the car park of a local clinic just five minutes drive from home, I wouldn't even have to go to the hospital, a place I dislike intensely.
The hardest thing about having a mammogram was having to take off my clothes. I can't say it hurt, you are squeezed pretty tight when you have it but it's more uncomfortable than painful, the whole thing took no more than ten, maybe fifteen minutes at a push, nothing out of your life when it can save a life.
Three days after that mammogram I got a letter asking me to go to the hospital breast care unit, the letter arrived on the Saturday, the appointment was for Tuesday, they certainly work fast. I shook and cried when I got that letter, I rang Graham, my hubby at work to tell him and could hardly talk for crying. He tried to reassure me that it would be ok but I knew, in my heart I knew.
I had a biopsy under a scan at hospital, the area was numbed with local beforehand and I didn't feel anything. The radiographer showed me the tumour they had found on the screen, it was buried deep and was small, he said it had been caught early. He told me straight when I asked for an honest answer he thought it was cancer, the calcification he told me, gave it away. He couldn't say for definate until the lab results the next day.
We returned home in a daze, I had to tell Graham in the waiting room after my biopsy that they thought it was cancer, I felt terrible, it's truly horrible having to tell your husband of almost 30 years bad news like that. We were dreading telling our children, my mum, and the rest of our family and friends. We decided to keep the news to ourselves until we knew for sure, no point in upsetting everyone if it turned out to be good news after all.
The 8th February 2005 was the day I was told I had breast cancer. Even though I knew in my heart of hearts that it would be the case, it was still a shock. I tried to pretend it wasn't happening by asking for a tummy tuck if they could use the fat from my stomach to rebuild my breast. I used humour to hide my feelings, it didn't seem real.
The specialist breast care nurse who was in the room with us when the doctor told us the news obviously realised it hadn't sunk in, she followed us down the corridor and whipped us into a small room for some privacy when the tears came, as they were bound to.
I was booked in with the surgeon, he explained what would happen, a wide local excision, removal of lymph glands, he thought it was stage one, grade one and I would need just radiotherapy for three weeks. I breathed a sigh of relief, no chemotherapy.
Wrong again.
The operation took a bit longer than expected, apparently when they opened me up it was obvious the cancer was a correct diagnosis, the surgeon removed enough tissue to ensure he did not leave any cells behind. He removed 13 lymph glands and I woke from the operation with a bottle attached to a tube going into my body, draining off the lymph fluid, the bottle was held in place in a small cotton bag which I had to carry around over my shoulder! Very becoming. That was in place for 5 days until enough fluid drained off then they pulled it gently out before I went home. I was so glad to get home after five days in hospital. I had exercises to do to get back full use of my arm, and had an appointment with the surgeon a week later to get the lab results.
The lab results were such a shock, grade 3, stage 3 aggressive, fast growing cancer. It was already in 3 of the lymph glands they removed. I had to have chemotherapy. I would loose my long thick brown hair.
Chemotherapy, even the word scared me. You hear of people being so poorly, who knew what would happen? I was scared, very scared. Would it be by injection, tablets, a drip? I really had no idea, fear of the unknown is sometimes more frightening than the reality.
Everyone at the Deansley Centre in New Cross hospital were lovely. The room in which you have chemotherapy was not so bad, there were armchairs which reclined to keep you comfortable, a radio playing softly to combat the silence, the nurses were all lovely, so kind a caring. The first session of chemotherapy involved having an iv inserted in my hand and a kindly nurse pushing a large syringe of a cocktail of drugs into me whilst chatting away to take my mind off it. You can take someone with you to sit with you, you can also send them off for sweets, sandwiches, magazines! I had that kind of chemotherapy every three weeks for four sessions in all. When I used the toilet my wee was bright red which, had I not been warned, might have alarmed me!
After the first session my hair fell out, it got thinner and thinner and I would find it on my pillow, all over the carpet, until the day before my second session when the majority went down the plug hole in the shower! Quite a shock! Luckily the lady who supplied wigs to cancer patients had given me her address and I had to go and see her to have the remainder shaved off and have my wig. I also had a selection of pretty scarves to wear, which I did opt for a lot of the time as the wig could feel a bit itchy.
After four sessions of chemotherapy I had three weeks of radiotherapy which made me very tired and caused some burns to my skin. I then started a different course of chemotherapy which I had for two weeks on then two weeks off. I had to take an antidote after 24 hours to stop it working after each session.
Yes I was sick, I was given anti sickness medication which had to be doubled after the first session which helped a lot. I was very tired, I would feel disoriented and I passed out a couple of times, but I got through it.
I was looking towards the end of October when all my treatments would be over, the end of chemotherapy, something to celebrate. Then a terrible thing happened. My lovely mum died suddenly. It was so unexpected, so shocking, so hard to cope. My mum, my rock, my lovely mum, gone. She was 84, not a young woman I know, but we had not foreseen it, we were all numb with grief. Only two years previously we had lost dad after a long illness, mum was devoted to him, they were devoted to one another. I'm sure she died of a broken heart. The shock and grief of loosing dad, the worry over my cancer must have been unbearable for her. I felt guilt for worrying her so much, and I was, for a time, convinced she would take me with her. The surgeon had said my cancer was fast growing and aggressive, he also said he had even got ladies alive ten years after a diagnosis like mine! I cried when he said that, ten years would take me up to the age of 59.
All thoughts of celebrating the end of chemotherapy went out of the window, I couldn't bear the thought, not without mum being there to see the end of the ordeal.
So the end of October came and went then I had a letter to tell me my tumour had been retested and proved to be HER2+. My heart sank, the fight for herceptin was all over the media, women were fighting to get the drug approved to save the life of women who were diagnosed HER2+, I prepared to join the fight.
I applied to the local PCT for the drug to be used and kept a lookout for news on tv and in the newspapers in the hope that all those who needed it would be allowed to have it. On the morning I had a phone call from the PCT to say I had gained approval the news was on the radio that it would be available for all, it had been approved!
So started another year of hospital visits where I had herceptin again by iv drip, and once again I was at the hospital every two weeks, after looking forward for just over seven months to finishing treatment, I was back for another twelve months of needles and blood tests!
Just before Christmas 2006, I finished having treatment at hospital and started to take medication at home, hormone tablets every day.
Last year I finally stopped having to take hormones. I was signed off by the oncologist, slightly scared as the comfort blanket of knowing you are being looked after has gone, but thankful not to have regular hospital appointments to attend. This year the surgeon should sign me off his books too, or so I was told on my annual visit last year. Normally a breast cancer patient attends hospital for five years, I was told I would need to keep going for ten years as the cancer was so aggressive and fast growing.
Well that ten years is up, I'm still around, I'm cancer free, it's 2015 I am alive!!
