Just over a year ago was the funeral of a very significant family member. Cancer had very definitely made a point of coming to get her and try as she might over several years she just couldn’t release herself from it’s malevolent grip. I sobbed my way through the funeral along with a more than full house of family and friends all saying goodbye to this wonderful, vibrant, funny, nutty, lovely woman who had been taken too soon. It was a religious service and whilst I do not detract from those who take great comfort in their religion, that day did for any belief I might previously have held.
I mentioned in one of my first blogs that I had renounced God and Christianity just before my diagnosis and this was the reason why. OK, so I’ve never been a huge believer anyway but I simply cannot comprehend why so many people I have loved should have been killed by cancer. Yes, I know cancer is the bad guy here, but – and this is an age-old argument – if there truly was a God wouldn’t they stop this crap from happening? Wouldn’t God, in His/Her splendid supremacy, come down here and knock cancer into the middle of next week? Surely any decent deity worth their salt would do cancer in if they possibly could? I know I would.
Five days later I was unofficially diagnosed.
I don’t think the two are linked, I think it’s just rotten luck.
That day I went trotting along to the breast unit for a mammogram not thinking for one minute that when I left I’d be a wobbly mass of tears on the brink of the biggest adventure of my life. Is adventure the right word? I don’t know. I thought about using ‘challenge’ but as you know I shy away from these battle war cries and prefer to be less confrontational about it. Adventure feels a bit too positive, I’d better get thinking. I digress.
The weird thing about that day was that I did it on my own. It was the third appointment I’d had to do with the dimple I’d found; 1) the dismissive doctor who referred me under duress, 2) the zealous consultant who examined me roughly and barked at his student when she was too gentle with me and finally 3) the mammogram which I knew would be painful but had to be done. My parting words to Dave that morning were ‘It’s only if I have a biopsy I have to worry,’ and I had laughed. I had actually laughed at the unlikelihood of me having to have a biopsy as if it were something that would never happen to me. Silly old me.
Waiting for the results in the waiting room one of the two friends I had told I was going for the appointment texted me asking how it was going. I told her I’d been mammogrammed and she replied ‘Home and dry, babe. x’ and that’s the last thing I remember about life before I had cancer. I know I was reading a book on my Kindle but I can’t remember which one, I know I would’ve checked my emails but I can’t remember any of them, I know I would’ve looked at Facebook too but I can’t remember any of that either. Home and dry is all I remember. Home and dry.
Then they called me for a biopsy.
The room was large, with lots of screens, a female consultant and two lovely nurses. I got changed behind the curtain – which coyness always seems needless as you’re going to be wapping your baps out anyway – and lay on the high bed covering my dignity with a towel. The consultant was very efficient and reminded me of Germaine Greer, she was focused on the screens then told me with a more serious face than I’ve ever seen that she was ‘very worried’ about something. I couldn’t really speak; as soon as I’d walked into the room I had felt the leaden force of impending doom begin to shroud me and I knew if I opened my mouth marbles would fall out of it.
I bit back my voice and my tears and stared at the polystyrene tiled ceiling and listened to the women chatting about their weekends and telling me what they were going to do next. I gritted my teeth against the local anaesthetic needle sinking into my breast and I tried not to jump when the metallic pop of the biopsy needle rang out. I tried to remain still and calm in the face of this farcical situation, which surely wasn’t really happening to me.
Half way through another person came in, a nurse in more traditional nurse get up. She was introduced to me as Debbie and I read the badge she was wearing – breast care nurse – it might as well have said – let’s not beat about the bush, you’ve got cancer.
After the introduction there was a bit of a kerfuffle and the consultant and Debbie locked heads for a few moments. Debbie bid me goodbye promising to come back shortly. The consultant wanted to do another biopsy. There was something else she was ‘very worried’ about.
The tears started flowing then. There I was, in the undignified position of having my boobs out, my arms raised above my head, a couple of towels shoved under my side to wedge me into the right place and all of this stuff was going on around me and not involving me at all really, except it was. The nurses had to put immense pressure on my first two biopsy wounds because the bleeding wouldn’t stop, I started making jokes which made everyone laugh (god knows what about), the next biopsy needle was slightly misplaced and the pain made me cry out loud, and over and over again I repeated the mantra ‘it’s not my time, it’s not my time, it’s not my time.’
Then it was over and Debbie came back and took me down the hall to a little room with low chairs, a coffee table, a box of tissues and a small vase of fake flowers. Debbie arranged the appointment for me to come back the following week for the biopsy results and to talk about ‘treatment’. I cried a bit more, promised I’d be fine to drive home and left, tears running down my face. Nobody actually mentioned the word cancer but we all knew this was what was happening. It just wasn’t official yet.
That feels enough reminiscing for today, there’s plenty more to come over the next few weeks. I’ve been dreading these anniversaries coming up; I knew they’d be conduits for going back over the trauma and the terror, for that is indeed what it was. Lying on that bed, staring at that ceiling, feeling the piercing sharp pain of the needles, knowing my life would never be the same again was truly terrifying. I’m only just starting to realise that.
Thanks for bearing with me, readers. I feel very lucky to have you.
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