Getting radiotherapy

Two weeks after I finished chemo I started my radiotherapy trial (see 'Week 15 of cancer treatment').

When I arrived at the hospital, I was feeling both nervous yet excited.  I'd never had radiotherapy before and despite many people telling me it would be a doddle compared to chemo, I still had my neighbours' comments from six months ago ringing in my ears ('Oh, radiotherapy is awfully hard. So-and-so had a TERRIBLE time with it'.  Cheers, dear neighbours).  It was also going to be another significant milestone on my cancer journey.

Photographs

After I arrived at the Cancer Centre, I met one of the clinical researchers who took me to get my bloods taken, asked me to fill in a questionnaire and then took me to get my boobs photographed.  I already knew that was going to happen as I had signed up to it as part of the trial.  By taking photographs years apart, the trial team can see how the treatment affects my boobs over the years.

Now, when the researcher said they wanted to take some photographs I expected a nurse with a camera phone in a hall cupboard somewhere. Er, no.  The researcher took me down a series of corridors and when she finally opened the door to the room, I nearly died.  It was a full photographers studio with a backdrop and two massive super trouper studio lights.  It felt like I was going to do some sort of glamour modelling shot (not that I know what that's like, honestly).

'Oh. My. God. I can't do THIS!!' I spluttered.

'Yes you can, Karen,' the female photographer said.  'Just drop your cape, stand there, put your hands on your hips, then above your head and work it!'

Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound I suppose.  That's all I'm sharing with you.

Once it was done, the photographer said she'd see me in two years and then both her and the researcher shared recipes with me about how to cook special Christmas gammons.  As I may have mentioned before, I've never been bored on this cancer journey.  I've learned a hell of a lot about all sorts of things, not least how to improve my culinary repertoire (sounds posh, dunnit?).

The radiotherapy treatment

The radiotherapy waiting area was packed with people.  There was an in-house guitarist playing gentle, soothing music.  I looked around and watched the faces of the people waiting and wondered what their stories were and how they were feeling right at that moment.  Were they scared?  Were they hopeful?  Were they resigned to their fate?  I realised it wasn't helpful to think about things like that so gave myself a sharp talking to.

The radiotherapy itself was actually pretty uneventful.  I had to lie absolutely still on a bed below the radiotherapy machine whilst they set me up to match the measurements and tattoos that had previously been done at my planning session. 

There were lots of green laser lights (to help with the targeting of the radiotherapy beam), much whirring and buzzing and 'radiation on' signs turning red.  The radiographers kept nipping in and out to check measurements, making adjustments and programming the machine for the next bit of zapping.  They kept me updated and then would disappear into their lead lined room whilst I got zapped.

It was totally painless and is incredibly precise.  The only tricky bit was having to stay absolutely still so that the beam wouldn't go off target.  I kept sensing all these itches on my face (some real and some no doubt a figment of my imagination) which I was desperate to scratch but I knew I couldn't move a muscle. 

The radiographer gave me some special cream to slather on myself twice a day to keep my skin moisturised.  'Put it on the back of your shoulders too as the beam has to come out somewhere,' she said. Gulp.

I went back for four more sessions and then, a week later, I was finished. On my final day, I rang the bell in reception three times which signalled the end of my treatment.  Everyone clapped.  It was a wonderful moment.  I walked out of the hospital with a spring in my step.

Ringing the bell

What next?

I was able to meet the head of the clinical trial who was a lovely, charming man.  He thanked me for taking part and told me that I would be invited to come back in about three months time to see how I was and also to take me off anti-coagulation medication.   Other than that, I would be called for a mammogram around 12 months after surgery but that if I had any concerns in the meantime I could get in touch with the hospital straight away.

It's not the end

This isn't the end of my blog by the way.  

I've just started hormone therapy - a daily drug called Anastrozole - which I will take for the next five years.  There are a number of side effects with this drug which won't be very enjoyable (the worst menopausal side effects you can possibly think of) but you know what? It's better than the alternative.

I still have to go back to work and the thought of cancer recurring will never leave me.  These will be subjects I shall be writing about at some point.

Thank you for reading my blog.  Your company and comments have been truly wonderful.

Onwards and upwards!

Much love.

Karen
x

My breast cancer diagnosis

I must confess it sounds weird to write the words 'breast cancer'.  Breast Cancer.  Eurgh.  I have a 'bad boob' -  that sounds better!

Firstly a bit about me.  My name is Karen, I'm almost 55 years old, married, with a teenage son.  I'm English but I've lived near Belfast, Northern Ireland for nearly 20 years.  I've always been a bit work obsessed, I can't sit still for very long and get easily bored.

I always thought I was invincible.  I've never had much sick leave in the 36 years I've been working, nor I have I ever had any serious illnesses or incidents (touch wood, unless you count the time I nearly went head first into the Ennistymon Falls, Co Clare, Ireland but that's another story) and I probably rather naively never ever thought I would.  Ha!  How wrong could I be.

Before you start reading on, here's a bit of a heads up. I might use the occasional bad word.  Sorry about that but I want to write as a I speak and be true to the person I am.  I've also tried to be positive and avoid lighthearted as far as possible, despite the serious nature of the subject.

Finding a lump

How and when did I know I first had breast cancer?  I found a firm swelling in my right armpit.  I don't even know how I found it.  It wasn't through my regular mammograms, nor any self checking as, much to my shame, I was always pretty bad at that.  

I found the lump by accident and could only feel it when I was lying down or when I raised my arm above my head.  I thought maybe I had, rather laughingly, built up a super strong armpit muscle due to regular physiotherapy exercises I had been doing for impingement in my right shoulder.

I left it for a couple of weeks to see if the lump would disappear.  But it didn't.

The GP appointment

I went to see the GP, who looked like a 12 year old. She asked me if I had lost any weight to which I replied 'No, I wish I flaming well could'. She asked me about my appetite, to which I replied 'I eat like a horse'.  The GP examined me, did a blood test and then said she would refer me to the hospital for a possible ultrasound.  Alarm bells started to ring.  

When I left the surgery I read her referral in which she described me as a 'pleasant 54 year old lady'.  Blimey!  That made me feel like a dead old fuddy-duddy.  She also mentioned that the lump was 'tethered'.   Back home looking at Google (yes I know, it's the wrong thing to do when you're worried about something), I discovered that a lump that stays in a fixed place isn't usually a good sign.  Oh heck.

I decided not to wait for an NHS appointment which I was told could take a while to come through (wrongly as it turned out), so with the help of the wonderful Benenden Healthcare Society I got an appointment the following week to see a consultant privately.  I was told I would definitely find out at the consultation if I had breast cancer or not.  Bitter sweet, eh?

The consultation

On the evening of the consultation, I sat in the waiting room with other women, many of whom were wearing headscarves.  Please god, I don't want to end up like that, I said to myself.  One overly chatty woman with a headscarf sat right next to me and started to talk to me about breast cancer, how great the consultant I was seeing was and the treatment she was going through etc.  All I could think of was 'Shut the f*ck up!  I don't know that I have cancer and you're not bloody helping!'.

To cut a long story short, following an immediate mammogram, an ultrasound and a core biopsy (during which I yelped in surprise and went 'oh shit!') the consultant told me that as well as the lump in my armpit she had also found a small lump in my right breast which, as she put it, was rather 'worrying'.  I looked right into her eyes and I asked her outright if was cancer.  She said 'Yes, I'm afraid it is'.  I cried, she held my hand and she was lovely.

The breast care nurse then joined us and they called my husband in.  He gripped my hand so tightly as he listened to the words…'there are signs of cancer cells in Karen's breast…have spread to her lymph nodes'.  I felt like I was in a fog of despair and disbelief as they told him.  I felt completely well and healthy - how could I have cancer?  It was like a bad dream.  Surreal, almost. 

The date was 3 April 2017.  I'll never forget that date as long as I live.  There were many tears in our house over the next few days.

Waiting for the biopsy results

A week later, I had to go back to get the biopsy results.

Allow me to digress a little here.  It was a strange time between the biopsy and getting the results, almost like a state of limbo and suspended animation.  We all cried quite a lot during that week.  My mind was working overtime and I still couldn't believe that I had breast cancer and how it was all a terrible mistake as I felt so well and healthy.

Telling people

I was dreading breaking the news to my son.  My husband and I had already agreed that we wouldn't tell him until we knew what the results were and had a positive plan of action to tackle the cancer.  I'd got advice from various cancer support groups about how to break the news to teenagers but it was still unbelievably hard.  The look on my son's face will stay with me forever.

I sent a simultaneous Facebook message to my brothers and sister as I knew if I told one of them first the others would quite possibly get the hump.  My sister later rang me and her first words were, 'Where the f*ck did you get that from?!'.  She always makes me laugh.

My work colleagues were amazing too.  I had to email them because they're based all over the UK.  My phone never stopped ringing and emails kept popping into my inbox with people wishing me well, offering support, sharing their own personal experiences and generally being fantastic.

It's a times like this you realise how wonderful and supportive people can be.

A woman with cancer

I often looked at myself in the mirror and would see my usual face staring back. That's what a woman with cancer looks like, I thought. I looked normal, not ill.  But over the next few days, I somehow slowly started to get my head together a bit more.  I even managed to sort out a load of old personal documents which I'd put off doing for years.  Yet my mind could only focus on one thing.  Even fish and chips and Ben and Jerry's ice cream on the seafront that Friday night didn't help, and that's saying something.

Aches and pains: did that mean…?

I also couldn't help but worry myself sick about every ache and pain I had as I thought that meant the cancer had spread and that I would die. It's amazing how your mind goes into overdrive.  I kept imagining that I wouldn't be around to see my son go to university, to see him get married and then become a father to my first grandchild.  I had to know for sure what I was facing and I was desperate to know as quickly as possible.  I now know that I didn't know enough to know that it was too soon to know all of that!

The results

I waited nervously to be called in to find out what I thought would be my fate.  When I went in, the consultant explained that my breast cancer was the most common type: invasive ductal carcinoma.  It was grade II, oestrogen positive and was treatable, she said.  Phew!  I would however need what's called a wide local excision, lymph node clearance, possibly supplemented by chemotherapy and/or radiotherapy, hormone therapy to fight the oestrogen and CT/bone scans for completeness.  Oh god I thought, what if the scans tell me it's spread?

Ah well, if it turns out the b****rd has spread, I told myself, I would handle it and would enjoy every moment of my life from now on.

Next time...

I'll tell you more about having my CT and bone scans. Now they were very interesting!

PS:

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

Please also consider donating money to my step-daughter, Fiona Dougan, who is running a half marathon in September 2017 to raise money for Macmillan Cancer Support.

Sponsor Fiona Dougan to help raise money for Macmillan