C-Day

My first day of chemo.  I put on the warpaint and my lucky pants.  One of my friends who will no doubt read this will know all about lucky pants (you know who you are 😘).  

Before I left the house, I saw that one of my eyebrows that I'd pencilled in was wonky and uneven.  Ah, bugger it.  No-one will notice.

Cancer and coffee

I arrived early with my husband for my appointment in the Bridgewater Suite of Belfast City Hospital and was given the old TGI Friday buzzer. Heck, I needed a coffee first and so made a beeline for the coffee dock. The teas, coffees and biccies are free but they have to be paid for by someone.  That's where the Friends of the Cancer Centre come in as they provide them but have to rely on donations.  Dig deep, folks!  

I plumped for a coffee and, trying to be healthy, I resisted the biscuits.

Waiting, waiting...

Nearly an hour later, I still hadn't been buzzed.  I was getting edgy.  I went and got a book out of the little library within the Suite.  I kept nipping to the loo.  I moved seats.  I went and got a cup of tea.  I asked a nurse if I had missed something but she told me that my treatment hadn't arrived in the Unit.  I knew I was being a 'fuss-arse', as my dear old dad used to call me.

Damn it, I couldn't resist any longer.  I succumbed to a packet of fruit shortcake biscuits.  They must have been magic biscuits 'cos the next minute my buzzer went.  At last!

The Treatment Unit

A lovely nurse greeted me in the Treatment Unit and took me to a chemo bay.  In it were eight comfy chairs with four on each side, with pillows and overhead TVs.  I sat down and waited.  

Now, even cancer patients can get a bit territorial apparently.  It seems that some regular patients have their own favourite chair in the bay.  It's not unknown for dirty looks to be exchanged if someone else takes a favourite seat.  Rumour also has it that some regular patients had worked out that if they sat in the first seat on the left hand side they would get treated first.  This was because they saw that the nurses went round the bay in a clockwise direction.  However one of the nurses told me that she had cottoned on to this and so would go anti-clockwise to keep them on their toes.  How hilarious.  

Even when getting chemo, it seems us cancer patients can still be bloody competitive.

Getting stuck in

I settled down into my chair and then had my blood pressure and oxygen levels checked.  They were fine.  Then another wonderful nurse turned up to do the deed.  She had been reading up on my notes and was getting the treatment all prepared.  

I had a decent vein just above my left wrist which the nurse stuck a thin tube (a cannula) into which she could use to connect the drug filled syringes.  I was hooked up to fluids as well.  I knocked back the steroids and anti-sickness tablet.

So far, so good.

The drugs

As the drugs are extremely toxic, the nurse had to wear protective clothing and plastic safety glasses (which she referred to as her gorgeous Gucci ones).  

The first drug to be injected was the red coloured one called Epirubicin. That's the 'E' in the FECD/FEC-T regime, plus it's the one that makes your pee go red and makes your hair fall out.  Three syringes of the little charmer.  

The nurse injected the first syringe slowly into the cannula, then the second one, then the third.  My forearm started to get a bit chilly so I was handed a heat pack to keep it warm.  Aahh, that was heavenly.

Around came tea, coffee and biscuits.  Ooh, another cup of tea?  Yes please.  And some biscuits too?  Don't mind if I do.  Oh bugger, I needed the loo.  I was going to have to hang on.

After the first three red syringes, I got the other two drugs: Fluorouracil (F) and Cyclophosphamide (C).  Again, they had to be manually injected into me very slowly.  I think the only side effect at the time were some slightly tingling fingers.  No stuffy sinuses or runny nose - another possible side effect - touch wood.

That's it!

The nurse and I chatted about loads of things.  Like all the other NHS staff I have had the pleasure of dealing with, she was brilliant.  After about an hour, it was over and I could go home.  I was unplugged from the various contraptions and given packets of anti-sickness tablets and steroids to take home.  Oh and I must remember to flush the toilet twice.

I went to the loo before I left.  I couldn't resist and looked down into the toilet bowl.  My wee wasn't red, it was orange: the red of my chemo drug and the yellow of my wee had mixed together.  I'd been Tangoed (look it up, kids).

You know what?  The whole experience wasn't too bad.

A bit of nausea

In the early afternoon, I started to feel a little nauseous and rang the Helpline.  They were quite surprised that I felt sick so quickly so suggested that I took an anti-sickness tablet at 6pm.  I haven't taken it 'cos I feel fine right now.  

Fingers crossed for the next 21 days...when I go for my next session.

PS

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Starting chemotherapy (almost)

This morning I went to the hospital to start my chemotherapy.  Or so I thought.  It turned out that I needed to go through some pre-assessment stuff first and then I would start the actual chemo tomorrow.

I went to the Bridgewater Suite at the Belfast City Hospital where I was given a contraption like you get in TGI Friday's (I'll have a full all day breakfast please).  It was actually quite a welcoming place, all bright and airy and buzzing with nurses and doctors. 

I sat with my husband drinking coffee and getting up and down to go to the toilet.  I must confess my nerves were a little on edge.  I was like a cat on a hot tin roof.

The TGI Friday buzzer

Blood and heart

I didn't have to wait long before my TGI Friday buzzer went off.  I went through to the Assessment Unit where a lovely nurse sat me down and took two vials of blood.  This was so that she could check things like my liver/kidney function, white cells, platelets etc.  

I also had another ECG to check my heart's rhythm and electrical activity.  It literally took five minutes.  My heart rate was 'excellent' apparently:  51bpm.  I was recently told I must be fit to have such a low heart rate.  Yeah, right.

Helpline

I had a chat too with a breast care nurse who explained about chemotherapy, its side effects and what to do if I felt unwell at any time. The overriding message - which she and everyone else I spoke to today kept drumming home - was that I absolutely had to ring their 24 hour helpline if I had a temperature or didn't feel well.  They would honestly shout at me if I didn't.  Even if I had any doubt about whether to ring the helpline, I had to ring it.  There could be serious consequences if I got an infection and they would be able to help me quickly if I contacted them.  

Side effects

The oncology doctor also came to see me to sign the consent form for treatment.  She explained the side effects again just so that I was absolutely clear about what to expect. 

Hearing the side effects hit me quite hard, even though I'd heard and read about them many times before.  There are three side effects that are certain: hair loss, fatigue and sickness.   They can give you medication for the sickness thankfully.  But there are other possible side effects too.  For example, there may be a risk of blood clots, blood cancer, weakened heart muscles, death from infection and other equally cheerful ones.  In my case, the benefits would outweigh the risks.   

One of the more light hearted side effects apparently is that my pee will go red as one of the chemicals is a strawberry colour.

My stomach was in knots as I signed the consent form to proceed with treatment.  Oh crap.  In for a penny, in for a pound I suppose. 

End of life considerations?

After all the tests and signing the consent form, I had a further session with another nurse.  She was kind and down to earth and spoke very quickly with a Belfast accent that even I couldn't quite follow after nearly 20 years of living here.  She explained that it would still be traumatic losing my hair even though I'd had it cut short and that I would look like the archetypal chemo patient when I looked at myself in the mirror.  

She asked me various questions, one of which was whether I had made any death or end-of-life considerations.  Um, no I hadn't.  Oh heck does that mean I should have?  I suppose I'd better get that Will written after all.

Workboots on

I sat with my husband back in reception and got a bit tearful.  I think the thought of what I'm about to face was starting to hit home.  

I've tried to be really positive so far but I feel like there are many dark days ahead and my positivity is in danger of completely melting away.

This sh*t is about to get real.  Or as Adam Keefe, Head Coach of the Belfast Giants, said to me: #workbootson.

I feel scared.

PS

Let me know below if there's anything specific about my breast cancer journey you'd like me to blog about.

If you've enjoyed my blog, feel free to follow me on Twitter: @luvvacurry

My surgery results

Two weeks after my surgery, I went back to the hospital to get my results.

That's about the size of it

The consultant explained that the lump she'd removed was 32 mm in size and over half of the lymph nodes in my armpit had cancer.  Thankfully, I didn't need any more surgery as the margin of tissue they took from my breast that encircled the lump was clear.  However, there were still 'starbursts' of cancer cells in my breast and these would be treated as part of my regime. 

I didn't flinch or get upset when the consultant explained my results.  I'd already got my head around having breast cancer and so the pragmatic part of me just wanted to get on with the next step in my journey. 

Dodgy lung

The other strange thing the consultant told me was that the CT scan had shown that one of my lungs was partially collapsed and that it had been like that for years.  Well I never!  Down to having pneumonia when I was a baby or when I was thrown from a galloping horse into a concrete wall as a 'should-have-known-better' adult?  Hmm, the consultant reckoned it was the pneumonia.

The treatment

I was told I needed six sessions of chemo with one session every three weeks, following a regime called FEC-T (ha, I thought of Father Ted at that point), and then I would have three weeks of daily radiotherapy.  I would also have to have an echocardiogram to check my heart would be OK for the treatment, plus I would be given hormone therapy to tackle the oestrogen.  It was likely I would be on it for up to 10 years.

The consultant told me that I would lose my hair.  Funnily enough, the thought of losing my hair has never really bothered me.  There have been times when my hair has driven me up the wall and on more than one occasion I've just wanted to shave it off in a moment of madness.  I don't feel phased at all.  Well, not yet anyway.    

Workboots on

That night, I posted an update on Facebook about my results.   All of a sudden I saw a comment appear from Adam Keefe, the very 'easy-on-the-eye' former captain but now Head Coach of the Belfast Giants, my beloved ice hockey team.  

I'm embarrassed to say that I screamed like a girl when I read Adam's lovely comment.  I couldn't believe he had spotted my posting and had taken the trouble to reply to me, using the hashtag #workbootson.  I was absolutely bowled over and so excited.  'Oh for crying out loud Karen. You're acting like a bloody teenager,' my husband said through slightly gritted teeth.  

Adam Keefe - you're a legend.

Pictures by www.presseye.com and used with their kind permission.

                                

Prognosis

So what's my prognosis?  

'Intermediate' apparently, which is worse than 'good' but better than 'shit'.

There is a saying which says 'If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.'  I think I prefer 'If life gives you juniper berries, make a fecking big gin and tonic.'

Next time...

I'll be blogging about getting out and about, moving more and meeting cancer mentors.

PS

Please feel free to follow me on Twitter: @luvvacurry