Yesterday was my final session of radiotherapy.
If I could liken myself to a microwave oven (and right now I think I can), this is the moment at which I would be going "PING!"
I'm now a bit sore (like I feel asleep on a very hot day with my left boob poking out from my bikini), very tired, and one side of my torso is hotter than the other (weird, right? Or, actually, weird left in my case).
Apparently, at some US clinics they have a huge bell in the waiting area, and when you've finished your cancer treatment you get to ring the bell and everyone cheers.
I really, really wanted a bell to ring.
Instead, I showered the nurses with chocolates, gave them all a hug and told them I never wanted to see them again. Then I walked out into the winter sunshine, feeling simultaneously elated and weepy.
And all I wanted to do - really, really wanted to do - was to get utterly trashed.
I wanted to drink at least a bottle of wine. I wanted to talk nonsense with Mr SM. Laugh. Cry. Have drunken sex. Make everything fuzzy, walk into the furniture, then pass out on the sofa.
Instead I went shopping. I spotted a sale on in Zadig & Voltaire, and bought a charcoal and gold t-shirt, an Alexander McQueen inspired scarf, and a crimson sweater with black sequined detailing. Rock chick clothes, not sober-person-cancer-victim clothes. An easy fit in medium. Whoop whoop.
I went home, then we dropped in on some friends for mulled wine and mince pies (I took my own Becks Blue), watched 2 episodes The Affair with Dominic West (Mr SM's old school chum), and went to bed sober - as always.
And today? I woke up guilt free - the only hangover from yesterday being some new clothes.
I figured that every year there are bound to be a handful of days when it would be really, really good to get drunk. But what about the other three hundred and sixty? Because, in my case, one doesn't come without the other.
Plus, it struck me that it's a weird reaction to have: I've got to the end of a horrendous two months. I am, as far as we can tell, cancer free. So why not anaesthetise myself to the point of oblivion to celebrate?
It's just habit.
And now it's Christmas Eve! And, you know what? I'm not worried about Christmas itself at all. I'm excited about it. Because Christmas Day (unlike New Year's Eve) is about way more than drinking.
It's about seeing the children's excitement when they bring in their stockings to show us in the morning (and Santa was on form this year), church, slap up lunch, handing out and opening all the presents, charades, great TV, The Queen. It's got a bit of everything.....
(And it's really difficult to do all of that when drunk. We know that, don't we?)
Merry Christmas to you all!
I'll post again when we're on the other side.
Huge hugs
SM x
Showing posts with label radiotherapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label radiotherapy. Show all posts
Wednesday, 23 December 2015
Wednesday, 2 December 2015
Celebrating 9 Months Sober
So, how to celebrate nine months totally alcohol free? Three quarters of a year!
I had been invited to a ladies lunch in Edinburgh. I usually avoid the whole 'ladies who lunch' scene, but this one was being attended by Princess Anne, who I've always had a bit of a girlie crush on. She's so wonderfully down to earth and horsey, despite the whole 'Mummy's the Queen' thing.
However, as regular readers will be aware, recent events conspired against me, and instead of dining with royalty I had my first session of radiotherapy.
I'm back to counting days. I have fifteen sessions over three weeks. Five days on, two days off.
Radiotherapy, it transpires, is a walk in the park compared to chemotherapy.
(I feel almost guilty about not doing the chemo thing. I can't meet the eyes of the ladies in the wigs and headscarves in the waiting room. I imagine they're thinking "look at the imposter over there, with the whole cancer-lite thing going on. Hah! Call that a treatment programme!?! Wimp!")
When it's your turn, you're ushered into a room which is dominated by this narrow bed fitted with arm restraints. It's like something out of Fifty Shades of Grey. Then two radiotherapists spend an age getting you into exactly the right position.
Meanwhile, you're topless, with both arms over your head, feeling like a spatchcocked chicken.
In order to line you up perfectly, they give you two permanent tattoos - one on either side of your boob. I was quite excited about this. I've always secretly wanted a tattoo.
"Can I choose the style and colour?" I asked. I was thinking dolphins.
"No. You get a blue dot, like everyone else," they replied, missing a fabulous opportunity to up-sell.
"Any more questions?"
Mr SM had asked me to see if they had any advice on how to fix our broken microwave. I was not convinced, however, that this would go down well.
Finally, when you're perfectly in position, they scurry out of the room and hide behind very thick glass so as not to get anywhere near the horribly dangerous rays which are firing at you from close range.
So, I celebrated nine months with a massive blast of radiation to the bottom left quadrant of the left boob. Not the way I would have planned it, but - on the upside - my final session is scheduled for 22nd December......
.......just in time for Christmas!
I'm not sending hugs this evening. Unless you're wearing lead clothing it'd be far too dangerous.
SM x
I had been invited to a ladies lunch in Edinburgh. I usually avoid the whole 'ladies who lunch' scene, but this one was being attended by Princess Anne, who I've always had a bit of a girlie crush on. She's so wonderfully down to earth and horsey, despite the whole 'Mummy's the Queen' thing.
However, as regular readers will be aware, recent events conspired against me, and instead of dining with royalty I had my first session of radiotherapy.
I'm back to counting days. I have fifteen sessions over three weeks. Five days on, two days off.
Radiotherapy, it transpires, is a walk in the park compared to chemotherapy.
(I feel almost guilty about not doing the chemo thing. I can't meet the eyes of the ladies in the wigs and headscarves in the waiting room. I imagine they're thinking "look at the imposter over there, with the whole cancer-lite thing going on. Hah! Call that a treatment programme!?! Wimp!")
When it's your turn, you're ushered into a room which is dominated by this narrow bed fitted with arm restraints. It's like something out of Fifty Shades of Grey. Then two radiotherapists spend an age getting you into exactly the right position.
Meanwhile, you're topless, with both arms over your head, feeling like a spatchcocked chicken.
In order to line you up perfectly, they give you two permanent tattoos - one on either side of your boob. I was quite excited about this. I've always secretly wanted a tattoo.
"Can I choose the style and colour?" I asked. I was thinking dolphins.
"No. You get a blue dot, like everyone else," they replied, missing a fabulous opportunity to up-sell.
"Any more questions?"
Mr SM had asked me to see if they had any advice on how to fix our broken microwave. I was not convinced, however, that this would go down well.
Finally, when you're perfectly in position, they scurry out of the room and hide behind very thick glass so as not to get anywhere near the horribly dangerous rays which are firing at you from close range.
So, I celebrated nine months with a massive blast of radiation to the bottom left quadrant of the left boob. Not the way I would have planned it, but - on the upside - my final session is scheduled for 22nd December......
.......just in time for Christmas!
I'm not sending hugs this evening. Unless you're wearing lead clothing it'd be far too dangerous.
SM x
Tuesday, 24 November 2015
If You Were My Wife....
So, after three weeks of waiting, I finally saw Mr-Breast-Cancer-Oncology-Guru last night to discuss my chemotherapy schedule.
His office was at the top of a gorgeous old Harley Street house. All knee deep, pale grey carpets and polished mahogany, plus the biggest, plushest Christmas trees you've ever seen. There's a lot of money in breast cancer, it seems.
He took a piece of paper, drew a line down the middle and wrote on the top of one side positives, and on the top of the other negatives.
He started with the positives, listing things like size of tumour (relatively small), aggressiveness (mine's a lazy bugger, apparently), type (hormone positive), lymphs (clear) etcetera. It was a fairly long list.
He then moved onto the negatives. He paused, dramatically, over the right hand side of the page, then said..... "Nothing."
Nothing.
He said "If you were my wife, I would not give you chemotherapy."
(By the way, I checked. He does love his wife).
He continued, "in your case, chemotherapy would improve the prognosis by less than one percent."
On that basis, it seems crazy to poison my body (yet again!) for three months, don't you think? Like using a sledgehammer to crush a grain of sand.
I do need a course of radiotherapy (starting next week, I hope), and ten years of hormone therapy, but that's all (relatively) straightforward.
Incidentally, he did ask me how much I drank. I was thrilled.
"Nothing," I replied.
He looked shocked. "Is that a lifestyle choice?" He asked. I confessed that I had, in the past, drunk a little too much (Mr SM was trying not to snigger), so had decided to pack it in completely.
"Very wise," he says "liver disease is the next ticking time bomb amongst middle aged professionals. We see it all the time."
Things are looking up, my friends. I could be past the worst by the New Year.
Big Hugs
SM x
His office was at the top of a gorgeous old Harley Street house. All knee deep, pale grey carpets and polished mahogany, plus the biggest, plushest Christmas trees you've ever seen. There's a lot of money in breast cancer, it seems.
He took a piece of paper, drew a line down the middle and wrote on the top of one side positives, and on the top of the other negatives.
He started with the positives, listing things like size of tumour (relatively small), aggressiveness (mine's a lazy bugger, apparently), type (hormone positive), lymphs (clear) etcetera. It was a fairly long list.
He then moved onto the negatives. He paused, dramatically, over the right hand side of the page, then said..... "Nothing."
Nothing.
He said "If you were my wife, I would not give you chemotherapy."
(By the way, I checked. He does love his wife).
He continued, "in your case, chemotherapy would improve the prognosis by less than one percent."
On that basis, it seems crazy to poison my body (yet again!) for three months, don't you think? Like using a sledgehammer to crush a grain of sand.
I do need a course of radiotherapy (starting next week, I hope), and ten years of hormone therapy, but that's all (relatively) straightforward.
Incidentally, he did ask me how much I drank. I was thrilled.
"Nothing," I replied.
He looked shocked. "Is that a lifestyle choice?" He asked. I confessed that I had, in the past, drunk a little too much (Mr SM was trying not to snigger), so had decided to pack it in completely.
"Very wise," he says "liver disease is the next ticking time bomb amongst middle aged professionals. We see it all the time."
Things are looking up, my friends. I could be past the worst by the New Year.
Big Hugs
SM x
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