The thing is, I am now in a state of constant flux.
On Friday evening, I left Pearl, Carole, Mary and Samina with a little angel each and went on my way. I felt fine, although on getting home the breast started flowing with fluid from underneath. Every time I moved it poured out and I had no choice but to lie on a towel to sleep. And in the morning (Saturday) we simply relaxed all day and did nothing and the leaking stopped. Perhaps, we thought, the leaking is naturally coming to an end. They'd told us that it would.
But on Sunday morning I awoke feeling terrible. Not sleepy, but terribly tired. And nauseous, although not quite the same nausea as when I knew I had cellulitis. The breast was also painful. I realised that I hadn't taken my antibiotics for some ten hours and sure enough when I took them the sickness seemed to recede. But the fatigue stayed in place, although I was cheered by a trip to see the children. Kept taking my temperature but it peaked at 36.8 ....98 degrees.
They have told me that it will take a couple of days for the infection to resume when my antibiotics finish tonight, but this indicates that it will start a lot quicker! All I can do is keep hydrated and wait.
Today I awoke feeling so much better, and it was brilliant to just feel "normal". A fair amount of breast leaking I notice, and also the breast is starting to feel quite hard on the underneath. The skin is soft all over and not painful and there is no redness. The scar area looks like a dusky, healthy lilac colour. The nipple has somewhat collapsed in on itself, but I'm not bothered really. I like this breast but I've come to accept the inevitable ...something isn't right and I can't imagine that it will ever be. People tell me not to be negative, but I'm just being realistic! The breast fills up with serum, and then it releases it through the scar tissue and I feel better, until it builds up again.
So I'm just enjoying the last few hours of being at home and feeling fairly normal before the inevitable trip back to hospital. I see the surgeon anyway on Thursday - the question is, what will happen before Thursday?
Monday, August 24, 2015
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Bloody Ripoff Hospedia
I bought a £10 card with the intention of buying 2 x £5 bundles, to last me through two days on the ward at University Coventry & Warwickshire. I uploaded the £10 card and after the free morning TV had ended, I activated the first bundle which entitles you to 25 TV channels for 6 hours. I went to sleep at midnight and the next morning I noticed that my account was empty, when it should have contained £5 credit.
The cheery Scot on the helpline confirmed that my account was empty and told me that I had activated the second £5 bundle minutes after the first had expired, at half-past midnight. So now, he said, yes, the account was empty. I explained that this was nonsense because I'd been asleep when he claimed I chose and confirmed the second bundle....in any case, HAD I activated it, I would now have been able to see it 'counting down', and there was nothing counting down and no additional channels available.
He couldn't care less - he simply repeated that he could see exactly what I had done, and that was activating and confirming the second package at 12.30. Nothing I could say would make any difference.
The entire system is a ripoff, starting with the outrageous cost of incoming calls, which charge the caller 49p per minute while drawling through the obvious information that this person is in hospital - OFCOM says that this has never been a directive - before the caller can even ring the bedside telephone, which if not answered, still charges the caller.
Subscriptions to Netflix cost £5.99 a month. If you use it, this system costs £7.50 a day (and people buying cards of £10 can't get a refund), gives you less, and calls you a liar when you try and sort out problems.
The cheery Scot on the helpline confirmed that my account was empty and told me that I had activated the second £5 bundle minutes after the first had expired, at half-past midnight. So now, he said, yes, the account was empty. I explained that this was nonsense because I'd been asleep when he claimed I chose and confirmed the second bundle....in any case, HAD I activated it, I would now have been able to see it 'counting down', and there was nothing counting down and no additional channels available.
He couldn't care less - he simply repeated that he could see exactly what I had done, and that was activating and confirming the second package at 12.30. Nothing I could say would make any difference.
The entire system is a ripoff, starting with the outrageous cost of incoming calls, which charge the caller 49p per minute while drawling through the obvious information that this person is in hospital - OFCOM says that this has never been a directive - before the caller can even ring the bedside telephone, which if not answered, still charges the caller.
Subscriptions to Netflix cost £5.99 a month. If you use it, this system costs £7.50 a day (and people buying cards of £10 can't get a refund), gives you less, and calls you a liar when you try and sort out problems.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
That was the week that wasn't - back in Ward 32
I've put off writing this blog and yet I shouldn't have. I just felt way too sick to begin it.
Back in Ward 32 - Part I
I awoke on the morning of Wednesday 12th August - the 'Glorious Twelfth' - being pursued by a problem. I felt nauseous immediately on awakening. And the nausea reminded me of a previous encounter with cellulitis. Not realising how seriously ill I was, I had tried to put off the situation as long as possible and then we needed to call a paramedic.
This time I wasn't going to wait. I saw inflammation near the scar and knew that it was time to go to hospital. Fortunately we were seen fairly quickly and ushered at least into a bed, because my head was beginning to loll and I felt giddy. My blood count showed an infection, and a Moldavan plastic surgeon called Sergei told me that I would be admitted for IV antibiotics.
Back to Ward 32. Back to the same bed space I occupied before.
It is now a week since that night and when I think back, I don't remember anything much for the first three days. I was given two types of antibiotic intravenously - one was flucloxicillin and the other was penicillin, Though I felt conscious enough, I was slipping in and out of consciousness for much of it. I didn't speak to my ward mates because of the energy it consumed. Keith visited as usual every night and I spoke to him on those occasions but I can't remember what it was really like. In the mornings it was always worse...nausea and swollen breast.
I do remember just weeping. The tears, flowing out of my eyes in torrents, feeling depressed and hopeless, but I can't remember the exact cause. I think on the first night I'd had no sleep at all because of discomfort and pain; further punctuated by the obs rounds and the IV infusions, and then the sun came streaming in straight into the ward along with a loud chorus of nurses and healthcare assistants. Some staff nurses are gentle and let us sleep in the morning, but others believe in being sadistic. On this morning we had a sadistic team who walked in and flung our curtains back. It was the last think I needed and I got up and wandered down the corridor to the end if the ward, and there I sat noiselessly weeping for some time.
That night when my dear OH visited, I had a thumping headache and aching breast. I could not talk so lay in bed while he stroked my head.
My other real memory was that the original cannula inserted by Sergei on the 12th, needed to be removed - which was a pity as it was a good one. In the blackness of night I was visited by a dashing, tall gay nurse called Barry and he proceeded to try an fit me with a new one. He tried three times and each attempt was agony, and each time he failed. To his mortification he had to go and find someone more experienced, and an hour later a short gay sister came to my bedside. She declared that the only place to spear me was under my left thumb at the bend of the wrist, which was excruciating to have inserted....but to be fair, the 6am infusion went well. It was not until my parents arrived to visit that the cannula gave up after the first bolus and the second was impossible to insert without serious agony. At first the nurse tried squeezing the syringe for a millimetre, and then resting, but even the resting was agonising. I was crying and calling out, "No! No! NO!" But she simply said that there was no reason for it to hurt so badly, as if I was making my pain up. My poor parents could only watch and stroke me while she pressed on, until finally she agreed to make up the rest of the drug in a drip bag. This seemed to work.
However that night it became apparent to the gorgeous night nurse immediately that this cannula was no good, and she managed to find a mysterious Night Sister who actually located another vein to cannulate. By now I had completely run out of veins on my upper body and was desperate for this one to work. Huge bruises had appeared on the other sites attacked by Barry the Bruiser, which still persist at the time of writing.
Back in Ward 32 - Part I
I awoke on the morning of Wednesday 12th August - the 'Glorious Twelfth' - being pursued by a problem. I felt nauseous immediately on awakening. And the nausea reminded me of a previous encounter with cellulitis. Not realising how seriously ill I was, I had tried to put off the situation as long as possible and then we needed to call a paramedic.
This time I wasn't going to wait. I saw inflammation near the scar and knew that it was time to go to hospital. Fortunately we were seen fairly quickly and ushered at least into a bed, because my head was beginning to loll and I felt giddy. My blood count showed an infection, and a Moldavan plastic surgeon called Sergei told me that I would be admitted for IV antibiotics.
Back to Ward 32. Back to the same bed space I occupied before.
It is now a week since that night and when I think back, I don't remember anything much for the first three days. I was given two types of antibiotic intravenously - one was flucloxicillin and the other was penicillin, Though I felt conscious enough, I was slipping in and out of consciousness for much of it. I didn't speak to my ward mates because of the energy it consumed. Keith visited as usual every night and I spoke to him on those occasions but I can't remember what it was really like. In the mornings it was always worse...nausea and swollen breast.
I do remember just weeping. The tears, flowing out of my eyes in torrents, feeling depressed and hopeless, but I can't remember the exact cause. I think on the first night I'd had no sleep at all because of discomfort and pain; further punctuated by the obs rounds and the IV infusions, and then the sun came streaming in straight into the ward along with a loud chorus of nurses and healthcare assistants. Some staff nurses are gentle and let us sleep in the morning, but others believe in being sadistic. On this morning we had a sadistic team who walked in and flung our curtains back. It was the last think I needed and I got up and wandered down the corridor to the end if the ward, and there I sat noiselessly weeping for some time.
That night when my dear OH visited, I had a thumping headache and aching breast. I could not talk so lay in bed while he stroked my head.
My other real memory was that the original cannula inserted by Sergei on the 12th, needed to be removed - which was a pity as it was a good one. In the blackness of night I was visited by a dashing, tall gay nurse called Barry and he proceeded to try an fit me with a new one. He tried three times and each attempt was agony, and each time he failed. To his mortification he had to go and find someone more experienced, and an hour later a short gay sister came to my bedside. She declared that the only place to spear me was under my left thumb at the bend of the wrist, which was excruciating to have inserted....but to be fair, the 6am infusion went well. It was not until my parents arrived to visit that the cannula gave up after the first bolus and the second was impossible to insert without serious agony. At first the nurse tried squeezing the syringe for a millimetre, and then resting, but even the resting was agonising. I was crying and calling out, "No! No! NO!" But she simply said that there was no reason for it to hurt so badly, as if I was making my pain up. My poor parents could only watch and stroke me while she pressed on, until finally she agreed to make up the rest of the drug in a drip bag. This seemed to work.
However that night it became apparent to the gorgeous night nurse immediately that this cannula was no good, and she managed to find a mysterious Night Sister who actually located another vein to cannulate. By now I had completely run out of veins on my upper body and was desperate for this one to work. Huge bruises had appeared on the other sites attacked by Barry the Bruiser, which still persist at the time of writing.
Friday, August 7, 2015
The brain awakens
Today I was achey on the left side, and even resorted to taking a couple of painkillers. It may be the soft bra top I was wearing, which was padded. My new nipple had flattened.
But at least my brain started working again. I started looking at interesting ideas to create an online marketplace for my OH's printing business - although the business is busy this week - I've been berating him for not trying to expand into the personal market, and he snapped back that someone else should do the work. I was more than happy about this because I've always wanted to explore this as a venture but he used to want to keep control if it.
But oh, I procrastinate. It's hard enough to settle because we've got a builder in, making me a studio in the garden, and he's got his radio blasting throughout the dat, and he drifts in and out to make coffee and use the cloakroom. He's a nice enough bloke but I still feel unsettled. I did some dusting and some cooking but could not relax.
I was worried about my father who was having an invasive MRI scan in Bristol, and not having heard from him until early evening, I found it hard to concentrate. Finally he called me on a crackly line to say that they'd only just started back and that the procedure had been arduous but that he felt okay. I was so relieved that I wept and suddenly discovered my appetite again. But I know he will be very very weary from the whole experience throughout the weekend.
I finally found the ability to get down to business when I heard the radio switched off and the blue van reversing up the drive. I started searching on the web in earnest. I found some fascinating products already in the marketplace in America, and made notes on how they could be replicated for the UK market. And these thoughts led to other ideas, which I need to harness and make into a map. I find that I will think of something with merit, only to completely forget it moments later. It's crucial to write it down while it's fresh. Even if I feel as though I couldn't possibly forget it, I do. Also I researched some domain names and there were done considerable surprises available.
Only problem is, that now I have switched the brain on, it's feeling rather difficult to switch off.....
But at least my brain started working again. I started looking at interesting ideas to create an online marketplace for my OH's printing business - although the business is busy this week - I've been berating him for not trying to expand into the personal market, and he snapped back that someone else should do the work. I was more than happy about this because I've always wanted to explore this as a venture but he used to want to keep control if it.
But oh, I procrastinate. It's hard enough to settle because we've got a builder in, making me a studio in the garden, and he's got his radio blasting throughout the dat, and he drifts in and out to make coffee and use the cloakroom. He's a nice enough bloke but I still feel unsettled. I did some dusting and some cooking but could not relax.
I was worried about my father who was having an invasive MRI scan in Bristol, and not having heard from him until early evening, I found it hard to concentrate. Finally he called me on a crackly line to say that they'd only just started back and that the procedure had been arduous but that he felt okay. I was so relieved that I wept and suddenly discovered my appetite again. But I know he will be very very weary from the whole experience throughout the weekend.
I finally found the ability to get down to business when I heard the radio switched off and the blue van reversing up the drive. I started searching on the web in earnest. I found some fascinating products already in the marketplace in America, and made notes on how they could be replicated for the UK market. And these thoughts led to other ideas, which I need to harness and make into a map. I find that I will think of something with merit, only to completely forget it moments later. It's crucial to write it down while it's fresh. Even if I feel as though I couldn't possibly forget it, I do. Also I researched some domain names and there were done considerable surprises available.
Only problem is, that now I have switched the brain on, it's feeling rather difficult to switch off.....
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
The Arden Centre
I had a surprisingly sleepy night. Which surprised me more than anyone.
The Arden Centre is the cancer department of the Coventry and Warwickshire Hospital, where I am being treated. From the outside it looks modern and streamlined, and quiet, like a gravestone on the edge of the hospital.
Inside, I was surprised. The revolving doors lead into a light and open area furnished with soft and comfortable chairs in turquoise and purple chairs. Above, there's gentle purple mood lighting, and under, there's a plentiful open refreshments shop, and plenty of books to read.
The people look normal: most of them are a little older than me, but they all look human and ordinary. This is not what I was expecting: I thought everyone would look like yellowed cadavers which hollowed eyes. People were chatting in groups, although in hushed tones. There is a large screen which puts up names matched with the booths which I suspect are the chemo chairs.
I am called by a nurse and all I need to do right now is give my weight and height and blood pressure reading. My blood pressure is very high at 170/93 (which for me is better than normal) but the nurse assures me that everyone is high because no one wants to be there. She warns me that I will probably not see The Professor, but I will see his second in command and it's almost as good. She also says that a) there will be a long wait and b) I will feel better before I leave.
In fact, I don't have to wait so long, and to my surprise I'm soon called through by The Professor himself. He asks me why I think I'm there, and I tell him, and he agrees.
It turns out that they aren't going to tell me today whether I need chemo. I still have to wait for two weeks while they send off my tissue to America. But what I do hear is the reason hat if it does come back telling me that chemo is a good idea, then it will be a good idea. It is called the Oncotype DX procedure. It will take the soul-searching away. Also he tells me that if I need the chemo, it WILL be the kind that makes my hair fall out, and they can do a lot about the sickness. But it will only last for four and a half months.
So it was a good thing, today, although I didn't get the answer I wanted.
Bizarrely then when I was having pre-chemo follow-up tests, I was standing in the main hospital entrance and my ex sister-in-law walked in, along with her son and her father, who used to be my father-in-law. The son looked instantly pleased to see me, and smiled. The sister-in-law just looked and walked straight past, and so did the father. I couldn't believe the ignorance level. For all they know, I was there to visit a member of their family, but because of their ignorance, they didn't even bother to come over and enquire.
I had a blood test, which for me was like the very walk through the valley of death. After a long weight my number was called and I had to walk through opened cubicles with people sitting down having their arms pumped for blood, and hearing the nurses shout things like, "Now that's a nice juicy vein!" "Look at all the blood you're producing" and so on. I was allowed to lie down and be pampered. Then I had an ECG.
But in all, a productive day although it didn't start off seeming so.
The Arden Centre is the cancer department of the Coventry and Warwickshire Hospital, where I am being treated. From the outside it looks modern and streamlined, and quiet, like a gravestone on the edge of the hospital.
Inside, I was surprised. The revolving doors lead into a light and open area furnished with soft and comfortable chairs in turquoise and purple chairs. Above, there's gentle purple mood lighting, and under, there's a plentiful open refreshments shop, and plenty of books to read.
The people look normal: most of them are a little older than me, but they all look human and ordinary. This is not what I was expecting: I thought everyone would look like yellowed cadavers which hollowed eyes. People were chatting in groups, although in hushed tones. There is a large screen which puts up names matched with the booths which I suspect are the chemo chairs.
I am called by a nurse and all I need to do right now is give my weight and height and blood pressure reading. My blood pressure is very high at 170/93 (which for me is better than normal) but the nurse assures me that everyone is high because no one wants to be there. She warns me that I will probably not see The Professor, but I will see his second in command and it's almost as good. She also says that a) there will be a long wait and b) I will feel better before I leave.
In fact, I don't have to wait so long, and to my surprise I'm soon called through by The Professor himself. He asks me why I think I'm there, and I tell him, and he agrees.
It turns out that they aren't going to tell me today whether I need chemo. I still have to wait for two weeks while they send off my tissue to America. But what I do hear is the reason hat if it does come back telling me that chemo is a good idea, then it will be a good idea. It is called the Oncotype DX procedure. It will take the soul-searching away. Also he tells me that if I need the chemo, it WILL be the kind that makes my hair fall out, and they can do a lot about the sickness. But it will only last for four and a half months.
So it was a good thing, today, although I didn't get the answer I wanted.
Bizarrely then when I was having pre-chemo follow-up tests, I was standing in the main hospital entrance and my ex sister-in-law walked in, along with her son and her father, who used to be my father-in-law. The son looked instantly pleased to see me, and smiled. The sister-in-law just looked and walked straight past, and so did the father. I couldn't believe the ignorance level. For all they know, I was there to visit a member of their family, but because of their ignorance, they didn't even bother to come over and enquire.
I had a blood test, which for me was like the very walk through the valley of death. After a long weight my number was called and I had to walk through opened cubicles with people sitting down having their arms pumped for blood, and hearing the nurses shout things like, "Now that's a nice juicy vein!" "Look at all the blood you're producing" and so on. I was allowed to lie down and be pampered. Then I had an ECG.
But in all, a productive day although it didn't start off seeming so.
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Moving along
It's funny. The pain is receding and so are the blog posts.
I've had no painkillers for almost three days now. Yes, I get twinges for no good reason: yes, my breast is a hotbed of pain if you were to really press it, but on the whole the pain is really in the background now. In general the breast feels as if it has pins and needles. I still feel the implant inside swishing around, but perhaps I am more used to it now.
Some of the worst pain that needed fighting last week was the shingly, tingly pain at the site of the drain. It spread right across underneath the armpit to get right shoulder blade, right around the back. I thought it couldn't be right, but as the surgeon told me, everything eventually settles down. Tonight I was surprised when my OH asked me if I was okay, snuggling up to him as I always do, and I realised that unconsciously I had settled with him on my left hand side, which I haven't been able to do for weeks now. And I was able to stay in that position. My left hand ribs still feel very sore indeed and I am not sure of the reason.
My strength is returning in other ways. Where I could only manage to hold a teacup in my left hand, I can now hold significantly more...maybe several plates? Even a full kettle? What I still cannot do is really to push against an object sigh my left arm. It still feels very odd to hold a loaf while I am cutting a slice if bread.
Today I have managed light housework, including ironing, hoovering and cleaning. However I feel very unmotivated out doing anything more creative. I have been presented with pure free time with no responsibilities and yet I'm unable to find the strength to fill it. Part of the problem lies in my depression about my dad's condition. If I hear he's had a bad day, all I want to do us sleep, like a blanket of unconsciousness that I can pull around my head, so I don't feel the pain and the worry.
I've had no painkillers for almost three days now. Yes, I get twinges for no good reason: yes, my breast is a hotbed of pain if you were to really press it, but on the whole the pain is really in the background now. In general the breast feels as if it has pins and needles. I still feel the implant inside swishing around, but perhaps I am more used to it now.
Some of the worst pain that needed fighting last week was the shingly, tingly pain at the site of the drain. It spread right across underneath the armpit to get right shoulder blade, right around the back. I thought it couldn't be right, but as the surgeon told me, everything eventually settles down. Tonight I was surprised when my OH asked me if I was okay, snuggling up to him as I always do, and I realised that unconsciously I had settled with him on my left hand side, which I haven't been able to do for weeks now. And I was able to stay in that position. My left hand ribs still feel very sore indeed and I am not sure of the reason.
My strength is returning in other ways. Where I could only manage to hold a teacup in my left hand, I can now hold significantly more...maybe several plates? Even a full kettle? What I still cannot do is really to push against an object sigh my left arm. It still feels very odd to hold a loaf while I am cutting a slice if bread.
Today I have managed light housework, including ironing, hoovering and cleaning. However I feel very unmotivated out doing anything more creative. I have been presented with pure free time with no responsibilities and yet I'm unable to find the strength to fill it. Part of the problem lies in my depression about my dad's condition. If I hear he's had a bad day, all I want to do us sleep, like a blanket of unconsciousness that I can pull around my head, so I don't feel the pain and the worry.
Tomorrow is a new age.
I can't find yesterday's post, though God knows it took long enough to get around to writing it. It was a busy weekend, seeing my lovely boys at last and I'm pleased to say that they were very well- behaved and I was sorry to see them go on Sunday. We played games together and I think they enjoyed themselves too. Hopefully I will be able to see them more this coming weekend...
...which we are already halfway towards. And tomorrow I think is what you might call s 'red letter' day, and one I am nervous about, because for the first time, I'll be walking through the doors of the Arden Cancer Centre. I haven't been brave over the last few weeks, because despite the pain send the surgery, it has been as though it was so long ago that they told me that I had cancer, and it seems all like a bit of a dream. A haze of drugs and pain and adjustment, followed by bouts of euphoria when I got the relatively good news that there was nothing in my lymph nodes and that they though they had removed everything.
But tomorrow I may learn what else is waiting, and perhaps I shall get the test results which will indicate how likely if is that my cancer will return. They say it is unlikely that I should need chemotherapy, but then by they I mean the surgeon who didn't even operate on me, so what does he know? The specialist seeing me has an impressive pedigree but I note that he is also involved in a clinical trial which looks at the value of chemotherapy on pre-menopausal women. Of which I am currently one.
Currently, because my likely treatment is a five-year course of Tamoxifen, which will put me squarely in the menopause, and I am hearing so many tales of woe about it. One friend found it so dreadful that she stopped taking it: she had a complete personality change, became angry all the time. Another did not lose her temper or her libido, but suffers from blood clots. Though I try to determine not to read things on the web, it's impossible to avoid them when I'm genuinely trying to find out what I can about the drug. And until last week, I was thinking that I had until mid-September until my body began this change, because they'd told me I wouldn't get an oncology appointment until a least then.
Will I get fat? Grow a moustache? Lose my libido? I won't mourn losing my period, but the inevitable loss means that I am going to age. My skin will become thinner and dryer, my hair will thin and my bones will become porous. Night sweats, hot flashes and temper tantrums to look forward to. This is the good outcome for tomorrow. The bad outcome will be being told that I would benefit from chemotherapy as well. Not simply because chemotherapy is a bitch, but because the genes in my tissue will have indicated that the cancer might return.
Whatever the outcome, you will see it here.
...which we are already halfway towards. And tomorrow I think is what you might call s 'red letter' day, and one I am nervous about, because for the first time, I'll be walking through the doors of the Arden Cancer Centre. I haven't been brave over the last few weeks, because despite the pain send the surgery, it has been as though it was so long ago that they told me that I had cancer, and it seems all like a bit of a dream. A haze of drugs and pain and adjustment, followed by bouts of euphoria when I got the relatively good news that there was nothing in my lymph nodes and that they though they had removed everything.
But tomorrow I may learn what else is waiting, and perhaps I shall get the test results which will indicate how likely if is that my cancer will return. They say it is unlikely that I should need chemotherapy, but then by they I mean the surgeon who didn't even operate on me, so what does he know? The specialist seeing me has an impressive pedigree but I note that he is also involved in a clinical trial which looks at the value of chemotherapy on pre-menopausal women. Of which I am currently one.
Currently, because my likely treatment is a five-year course of Tamoxifen, which will put me squarely in the menopause, and I am hearing so many tales of woe about it. One friend found it so dreadful that she stopped taking it: she had a complete personality change, became angry all the time. Another did not lose her temper or her libido, but suffers from blood clots. Though I try to determine not to read things on the web, it's impossible to avoid them when I'm genuinely trying to find out what I can about the drug. And until last week, I was thinking that I had until mid-September until my body began this change, because they'd told me I wouldn't get an oncology appointment until a least then.
Will I get fat? Grow a moustache? Lose my libido? I won't mourn losing my period, but the inevitable loss means that I am going to age. My skin will become thinner and dryer, my hair will thin and my bones will become porous. Night sweats, hot flashes and temper tantrums to look forward to. This is the good outcome for tomorrow. The bad outcome will be being told that I would benefit from chemotherapy as well. Not simply because chemotherapy is a bitch, but because the genes in my tissue will have indicated that the cancer might return.
Whatever the outcome, you will see it here.
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