Strop central

Hello.  Have you come here looking for some not particularly amusing tales of three-legged cats, errant sisters and dopey other-halves?  Well sod off, you’ve come to the wrong place at the wrong time.  I’ve got a right strop on.

If you’ve been paying attention (and if not do try to keep up) you’ll know that I’ve been complaining about breathlessness and a cough.  Last week, seeing as the idiots health care professionals at the hospital didn’t seem too interested, I went to my GP.  It was there I discovered that the CT scan I had had three weeks earlier, to check for blood clots, had shown that the cancer in my lungs had grown.  The GP assumed that the hospital would have informed me about this.  He assumed wrong.  Since then my GP has been in touch with the hospital and I managed (after much gnashing of teeth) to get an appointment with the oncologist.  The oncologist says I have to have another CT scan and wait for results before he can decide what action to take.  That will take us to the middle of May. If they went any slower they’d be going sodding backwards. 

I am not impressed.  I’m not impressed with waiting, with not being told that the cancer was growing, with struggling to get appointments and when I do get appointments half my notes being missing.  So I hope to be heading to London in the near future to see an oncologist who knows his onions and who can move faster than an arthritic snail.  I will keep you posted.  In the meantime here’s a soothing picture of Wollerton Old Hall which I visited on Sunday, and very nice it was too.

The duck of doom

Meet Cyril the three-legged monster cat's arch enemy.  

He does look a little bit menacing I suppose

As mentioned previously, we are currently staying at my sister’s house while the building work back at Discombobulated Towers goes on and on and on (more on this later).  This duck sits under the chair in the hall of my sister’s house and Cyril is terrified of it.  Don’t ask me why.  I never said he was very bright.  Anyway this fear at least gives my sister’s cat, Tuppence, a safe spot to sit where Cyril will not dare to attack.

Oooh ducky, please don't let him get me

I just googled ‘fear of ducks’ to see if it has a specific name.  Weirdly I can only find a name of the fear of being watched by a duck.  The world is strange.

The building work is progressing but has been delayed by the discovery of a lack of foundations, dodgy electrics and The Thorny Issue of The Cat Flap.  The new kitchen will be twice the size of the old one but still not exactly the biggest room in the world.  So finding space for cupboards, french windows and a cat flap has been problematic.  The builder, who has no sense of priorities felt that cupboards and doors were more important than cat access.  After we explained the importance of all things Cyril the builder sketched a variety of options on the kitchen wall and we have gone for the cat tunnel:

Under construction

The electricians have offered to put a light in the tunnel.  I feel that they are not treating this matter as seriously as they ought.

To change the subject to my favourite thing, me, me, me I am now two thirds through radiotherapy.  Just one more week to go.  Here's a picture of the machine that does the zapping.  

All I have to do is lie still and do nothing - something I'm very good at. 

Cattiness

The planets must be curiously aligned, or it’s the dawning of the age of aquarius or something, in other words all three of my sisters are once again in Shropshire.  While the sister-glut means that I’ve been getting yummy grub and have been ferried about all over the place, there are also darker moments.  For example, I have been heartlessly abandoned at the hospital after a radiotherapy appointment with some flimsy excuse about mobile reception.  This abandonment forced me on to a bus (oh the horror).  To add insult to injury I’ve also been told that my hair is like a doormat.  How I suffer.  Would anyone like to adopt me?

I’m still at my sister’s house as the building work at my place continues.  Fingers crossed I might get a kitchen roof this week.  Cyril and my sister’s cat, Tuppence, are slowly learning to tolerate each other.  See below for a united approach to Squirrel Watch.

Let's get 'im!

And, finally, if you’re sick to death of cat photos you’re in the wrong place.  I went to Shropshire Cat Rescue again today and look what was there. 

Want one, want one, want one!

Laurie

Have I ever mentioned that having secondary breast cancer (SBC) is a right bag of bollocks?  Well it is.  Look, I’m not denying that some good stuff has come out of it:  Early retirement from work – big tick, no longer worrying about who’ll look after me in my old age – big tick, people being extra nice to me – very big tick.  However, the bottom line is that sooner or later, given a lack of out-of-control double-decker buses or rogue elephants, cancer will be the thing that kills me.  And please, please don’t say ‘oh well, any of us could die at any time’ or I will have to set about you with a rancid kipper and a tray of used cat litter. 

And of course it’s the same for all the other people with SBC who I’ve met (virtually and/or in real life) via Breast Cancer Care’s forum and a Facebook group specifically for people with secondaries.  Already this year some members of the Facebook group have died and, while no death is any more tragic than any other, I’ve been particularly saddened by the loss of Laurie.  I won’t be able to attend her funeral today as I’ll be back in the radiotherapy room, but I’ll be thinking of her, her husband and children.

Fourteen months ago when I was diagnosed with secondary breast cancer I was devastated, terrified and also mightily pissed off.  I turned to Breast Cancer Care’s online forum as an outlet for my shock and fear.  Luckily for me Laurie was an active member and, right from the start, she gave me the most incredibly caring, sensible and funny support.  Her unique mixture of wit, realism and kindness was instrumental in helping me get back on my feet and start living my life again (up until that point I had been trapped in a fog of fear, sherry and dreary daytime tv).  Laurie not only responded to my posts on the forum but also took the time to email and phone me.  She did all this even though she had a busy life and, of course, worries of her own. 

And I am just one of the people she helped.  The comments on UK and American forums and also the Facebook group following Laurie’s death show that she made an impact on many, many people.  If you’d like to see more of her, she made a short film last year which can be seen here.    

So I’ll be thinking of her and her family this afternoon while I’m being zapped at my radiotherapy appointment and will try to take a leaf out of her book by trying not to moan about the hand I’ve been dealt, making the most of life but also swearing my head off when the going gets tough.

Cyril's squirrels and my niggles

Cyril (three-legged monster cat) is enjoying our stay at sis no 1’s (while the building work continues back at Discombobulated Towers).  His war with Tuppence (my sister’s cat) keeps him fairly busy. He now no longer has the upper paw as he has received a few well-deserved cuffs to the head courtesy of the ginger ninja.  And as if this wasn’t exciting enough he has also found a new hobby.  Squirrel watching.

That looks yummy

On the health front I had my first radiotherapy session today.  One down, fourteen to go.  Nothing exciting to report yet but obviously it’s early days.

Since the mastectomy (at the end of February) I’ve been getting out of breath every time I go up the stairs or have to go anywhere even slightly up hill (I’d never noticed how much up-hill-ness there is in  Shrewsbury before, but blimey I’m well aware now).  I’ve also got an annoying dry cough.  I reported all this to the medical bods last week when I went to hospital for a herceptin top-up.  I was given a blood test, an x-ray and a CT scan to make sure I didn’t have a blood clot (I didn’t).  I have to wait until later this month for another fuller CT scan to see if that reveals what’s going on.  I veer between thinking it’s nothing to worry about to being convinced all sorts of horrors are going on in my insides.  My outsides aren’t too wonderful either – my hair is still curling like crazy.  I thought ‘chemo curl’ was supposed to calm down after a couple of months.  Not for me though.  Still to be honest I’m just grateful to have hair even if I do end up looking like Art Garfunkel.

Me or Art?  (Picture from here)

The big question

Sis no 2 has just returned from Australia bearing gifts (see above).  I’d never had a Tim Tam before but understood that they are similar to the mighty Penguin.  In fact there seems to be some internet debate about which is the best.  So, purely in the name of scientific research, I have tried them out.  It is my unpatriotic duty to announce that Tim Tams win hands down.  They are Penguiny but also with a hint of Crunchie Bar.  A marriage made in heaven (or New South Wales according to the packet).

Anyway I’m soothing my soul with Tim Tams while the building work continues.  My uninhabitable house currently looks like this:

I shamelessly (and rather cheaply) ‘let slip’ to the builders that I’ve got cancer.  My not very subtle subtext being ‘so please do the work extra quickly and extra well’.  My cheek has been rewarded as now, every time I go to see the work in progress, I get a hug from the chief builder.  As a result, I am now about to tour the building sites of Shrewsbury, pulling my poorly face, in search of sympathetic cuddles from all and sundry.

The quilt of guilt

Picture from here

Building work has started on Discombobulated Towers, you should see the mess.  Predictably enough we’ve already run into a problem.  It turns out that one of the kitchen walls had been built on jelly or a plague pit or something else equally gooey and now has to be rebuilt.  Good start.

I’m happily ensconced at Sis No 1’s house for the duration of the building work.  I’m not so sure that Sis’s cat, Tuppence, is particularly happy about the ensconcing though.  Cyril (my three-legged monster cat) is being a thug, chasing Tuppence and stressing her out.  He is  an ASBO cat.  On the first day of our stay someone peed on my sister’s bed.  The jury is out as to whether this was Tuppence, Cyril or the Other-half.  Strangely, no-one seems keen on taking up my suggestion of DNA testing or calling in CSI Shrewsbury to unmask the culprit.  When we dropped the quilt off at the cleaners, we quickly exited the premises without mentioning why it needed cleaning.  The nice lady behind the counter will have a bit of a surprise when she opens up the bin bag containing the quilt.  I’m a bit scared about going back to collect it. 

I had my radiotherapy planning appointment today.  This involved a woman with extremely cold hands drawing all over my chest with a biro, running me through a CT scanner a couple of times and then tattooing me.  Now I’m all ready for the zapping process which will start in April and will mean a trip to the hospital everyday for three weeks.  Everyone assures me that radiotherapy is easy-peasy in comparison to chemo.  We’ll see.  I should think it’ll probably make me too ill to go to collect the quilt though, don’t you?

Irritations

Love letters to and from the Inland Revenue

See that picture?  That’s the correspondence I’ve had with the tax office over the last six weeks.  It’s a long and dull story best summed up as they are doing my bloody head in!  I am battling on and think I might be wearing them down as the latest letter from the powers-that-be said, amongst other things, that they were ‘sending me kind thoughts’.  Sweet, but I’d prefer it if they just got my tax right. 

I’ve got a seroma (collection of icky fluid at the operation site).  Maybe don’t click on that link if you’re about to eat.  Too late?  Oops sorry.  I had the fluid drained on Friday by the surgeon but by Friday evening it was back.  I thought I was tremendously brave putting up with it all weekend and called the hospital on Monday morning expecting them to rush me in to mop my brow and drain the gunk.  They were unimpressed.  I have to wait until Wednesday to get it drained again.  Meanwhile I’m walking around with what feels like a small water bed on my chest.  This in turn has put the kibosh on my radiotherapy planning appointment (also scheduled for Wednesday).  I spent all day yesterday (apart from the two hours I spent composing my latest letter to the tax office) trying to phone the radiotherapy department to reschedule my appointment.  The phone rang and rang and rang and rang.  No-one answered all day.

I’m still pathetically tired.  I walked for 10 minutes yesterday, had a major (and embarrassing) coughing fit in the post office then walked 10 minutes home and had to have a lie down. 

I’m persisting with the grotty post-mastectomy exercises as instructed by the physiotherapist.  They hurt and make me even grumpier.

Building work on the kitchen starts on Monday.  There is still So Much To Do Before The Work Can Start.  And Cyril (three-legged monster cat) is not helping much with the packing.

To cap it all I’ve opened a new tub of margarine when we already had an unfinished tub in the fridge.  Argh.  As John Shuttleworth says 'two margarines on the go, it's a nightmare scenario'.  See below for his musical masterpiece:

Medical update

With all the ranting I forgot to update you on my recent surgeon and oncologist appointments.  The surgeon is happy with my progress (the seroma problem is common and nothing to worry about).  Sufficiently clear margins were taken out around the tumour so I don’t have to have more surgery.  The main tumour itself was a bit smaller than expected and the other cancer in the breast found during biopsies a year ago was nowhere to be seen.  The surgeon suspects it was zapped by the chemo.  The oncologist (the one that looks like Smokey Robinson, he’s my new favourite) decided I should have radiotherapy because, although it will not help with secondary cancer, it can reduce the risk of a recurrence of a new cancer in the same area as the first.  So pretty good news all round.  I really shouldn’t be so grumpy, but I am.   

 

I live here

Note proximity of cuppa, biscuit tin, iPad and cat - all life's essentials

My life is still revolving around the sofa.  I’d no idea that having an operation would make me feel so tired.  I’ve read bits and bobs on recovering from a mastectomy and there is every shade of opinion from people who think that, at two weeks on from the op, I should be leaping around like a young and frisky gazelle to others who reckon I’ll be out for the count for up to six months (six months? bugger off). 

Apart from the tiredness all seems to be going well.  I am (as yet) untraumatised by the whole thing and while I’m in a bit of pain it’s not horrendous, nothing like having toothache or, as I can bloody well testify, stubbing your toe by walking into the clothes airer with bare feet.

I’m sorry for the extra dull post but I’ve very little to report (aside from the horror that is walking into the clothes airer with bare feet).  However, during a period of intensive research (which some people might mistakenly call faffing about on the internet) I found the only source of information anyone will ever need.  Click here to find the most useful database* in the universe (click on the dots within the table for pictures/films). 

* I hate the word ‘database’ and am a bit ashamed at myself for having used it.  I also hate ‘pantyhose’, ‘matrix’ and ‘comfy’. 

Snoozing on the sofa

I'm back home, being pampered by the other-half, getting meals on wheels from sis no 1 and more cards, phone calls and flowers than I deserve:

Lovely, lovely, lovely.  Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I had a couple of fantastic handmade cards, one of which was covered in glitter.  The other day Cyril (three-legged monster cat) brushed against the card and was immediately coated in spangles.  Then he went outside to hang out with his rufty-tufty mog-mates.  I was worried that he'd get beaten up for being so flamboyant, but he strutted home (as best a three-legged cat can strut) in fine fettle.  I think perhaps he is a fashion-leader, so now I expect to see the other neighbourhood cats sporting glitter encrusted coats too.  It's the new spring look.

Anyway, I'm home from hospital and and am now officially an amazon.  Admittedly I'm a bit of a delicate amazon at the moment but I'm on the mend and making the most of sofa time before a truck load of hospital appointments next week.

I'll be pestering you again shortly but thought I'd let you know that as I drifted in and out of sleep after returning from the operating theatre (where I'd just lost* a breast) I could hear the other-half droning on and on to the nurse about his backache.  No-one suffers like he does.

*OK, seeing as the departed breast contained the malevolent cocktail sausage of doom perhaps 'lost' isn't the right word.

Breaking news

You know how there's been endless news reports lately about horsemeat finding its way into products supposedly made from beef?  Well, the scandal is about to get much, much worse.  Today I went to Llandrindod Wells and look what I saw in a butcher's window:

Pet mince!  You heard it here first.

I'll be keeping Cyril (three-legged monster cat) well away from that butchers (although maybe that is where his missing leg ended up).

So, tomorrow is mastectomy day.  I'm beginning to get a bit nervous now but the other-half has been distracting me by taking me to Wales today, swearing at other drivers and buying bags of chocolate covered raisins (food of the gods).

On the way back from Wales we stopped at one of my favourite places.  Mitchell's Fold, a Bronze Age stone circle in South Shropshire.

More atmosphere than you could shake a druid at (if you were that way inclined)

It had been a grim and grey day in Wales but true to form the sun made an appearance as we returned to Shropshire.

View from Mitchell's Fold, told you it was atmospheric

I'm not sure how long I'll be in hospital for, but it will probably be a good few days before I next get to post here.  I bet you're missing me already.  So I'll say goodbye for now and warn you to stand by for a lot of whinging on my return.  The photo below was supposed to be a lovely shot of me waving as the sun sets.  The other-half informs me I looks like a Martian. 

Greetings Earthlings.

Boggle blues

I have given up online Boggle for Lent.  This has made me grumpy (but not as grumpy as my inability to find a photograph to illustrate my fed-up-ness with the deprivation).  The other-half reckons I was addicted, just because I used to shout at him if he dared to speak to me, or indeed breathe, during my two hour long Boggle sessions. 

Fear not though, I’m still finding reasons to shout at him even without the irritating Boggle interruptions.  The other day I informed him he was ‘relentlessly annoying’ so he told me he was giving up being married for Lent.  I should, grudgingly, also point out that he cooked a surprise Valentines breakfast (scrambled egg, smoked salmon accompanied by red rose).  We don’t usually ‘do’ Valentines Day so this was a big deal.  Mind you since then he has blotted his copybook by repeatedly pointing out that I didn’t get him anything in return and how much he would love to receive a massive Easter egg.  Dream on matey.

Since I last posted I’ve had another Herceptin top-up, a pre-op assessment (surgery scheduled for 28^th February) and an appointment with the oncologist.  Yet another new one, Smokey (he looks like Smokey Robinson).  Smokey was upbeat and even spoke about the monitoring procedure should the disease remain stable for a couple of years.  This is the first time any oncologist has mentioned the possibility of me being around in two years time so I’m a Smokey fan.  (For any long term readers Smokey also informed me that the Anti-Doogie has left the hospital and gone to Kuwait.  And he never even said goodbye).

Happily to fill the time previously taken up by Boogle I have found (via Useless Beauty) a brilliant blog called Streetmogs.  I suggest you rush there now for an immediate cat fix. 

King of the world

Me?  Blowing my own trumpet?  Never.

I have been doing battle with my ex-employer (the local council) and I have emerged victorious, yay me.  The ratbags* decided to make deductions from my notice-period salary as I was also receiving a state benefit (Employment Support Allowance).  I checked with the Benefits Bods and the Citizens Advice Bureau and both advised me that my employer was wrong, wrong, wrong.  There followed an exchange of emails between the ratbags and I, where I gamely bandied about phrases like ‘custom and practice’,‘unlawful deductions’ and ‘employment tribunal’.  After some initial resistance, a white flag has been waved and I will be getting a full refund.  Disco Del 1 – Ratbags 0.

(*I should point out that my ex-employer was only a ratbag about this one particular thing.  When it came to sick leave, sick pay and early retirement they were helpful, kind and cuddly.  So they’re not all bad.  Look at me being all magnanimous in victory.  I hope you’re wearing sunglasses as my halo must be dazzling.)

Anyway the refund will go towards the new kitchen.  If it ever happens.  We are still waiting for quotes from a couple of builders.  If they went any slower they’d be going backwards.  Makes you wonder how long it will take them to actually build if merely quoting takes this long.  The other-half is tearing his hair out.  I am rising above it.  Although it’d probably be more truthful to say that I haven’t got enough space in my addled brain to worry about builders and my forthcoming surgery.

My latest brain melt down has seen me lose a whole box of Tamoxifen on my way home from the chemist on Friday.  So I have been without medication all weekend.  I’ve phoned the doctor and groveled and hope to get a replacement prescription this afternoon.  I will guard it with my life.

In other tales of stupidity, all my previous talk of healthy living came to naught over the weekend, when I slid off the wagon.  A friend rather selfishly had a birthday (you know who you are!) so I had to drink champagne and red wine, it’s the law.  The next morning was not great.  I am back on the wagon again.

It’s still chilly here but on Saturday we put on a thousand layers and went for a stroll.  And look, the snowdrops are out!    

 

So maybe spring is just around the corner.  But just in case it isn’t and you’re in need of cheering up, here’s my latest YouTube find.  The best clip of a cat riding on a sheep’s back you’re ever likely to see.  Enjoy.

Trying to find a balance

Oh alright the photo's a bit dark.  The lighting crew were on lunch break.

The trouble with my Attacking-Cancer-on-all-Fronts scheme is that it can end up making my life all about cancer.  Or, to put it another way, I'm in danger of doing my own bloody head in. In between meditating, visualizing (and I visualize my main tumour as a sort of malevolent cocktail sausage just in case you’re interested), juicing, cooking from scratch, reiki-ng, taking the medication, reading up on the disease (which includes a lot of trying to sort the wheat from the limitless bloody chaff),there doesn’t seem to be a lot of brain-space left over for other things.  Like cat-worship, husband-baiting or continuing my bitter feud with the allotment Nazis.  I just did some on-line shopping but even that was for pyjamas for my hospital stay (mind you that was essential as I don’t want to disgrace myself by wearing my usual threadbare jim-jams). 

I can imagine you rolling your eyes and saying ‘well stop doing all the cancery stuff then idiot’.  But ‘aha’ I reply, ‘there’s evidence in something I read somewhere (what do you expect? Academic footnotes?) that patients who do more than sit back and leave everything totally in the hands of the medics survive for longer’.  So I’m between a rock and a hard place and on the horns of a dilemma.  It’s a good thing I’m wearing reinforced knickers.

Have you noticed the new, improved blog design?  Actually I’m not sure that it is improved but it’s different anyway.  My apologies to anyone who saw it during its change in a brief putrid peach incarnation.  I hope you’ve managed to get the vomiting under control and that you find dreary grey less distressing.

And now, in an effort to restore some balance to my life, I am going to do a rash, dangerous and non-cancery thing.  I’m going to Tidy The Cupboard Under The Stairs.  Here’s the magnitude of my task:

Somewhere in there is the camera charger.  I hope.

 Wish me luck.

In the wars

Cyril after the fray

Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) is being tormented by a bully.  My money is on the culprit being Big Bad Brown Fluffy Cat (BBBFC), the local thug.  I know Cyril doesn’t look too distressed in this photo, fast asleep propped up on velvet cushions, but look at the gash on his nose.  I’m thinking of getting a second cat to act as minder, maybe one like this:

Picture from here

Our lack of heating and hot water saga continued, with the brand new boiler not working when it was finally fitted.  I'll spare you the long tedious story but suffice it so say that all is now sorted and warmth reigns at Discombobulated Towers.  Which is probably why the other half and I have come down with the lurgy and are coughing, spluttering, sneezing and generally being pathetic.  I'm sitting in bed in a lemsip haze.  I'm one of those weird people who love lemsip so things could be a lot worse.

Before being struck down I'd been as busy as anything with a panto, a party, the cinema and meditation class to name just a few of the highlights of my exciting life.  I can really recommend this early retirement lark.

I've also been to see the breast surgeon and it's all change on the treatment front.  As the crap in my lungs doesn't  seem to be growing at the moment (a relief after the scare from the last but one CT scan), the oncologist and surgeon put their heads together and decided to go ahead with surgery.  So I'm booked in for a mastectomy and full node clearance at the end of February.  Being a wonderfully deep and complex person, this feels me with horror and relief in equal measure.  At the moment I feel pretty calm about it all, but then it is a month away.  I reserve the right to go into meltdown as the operation day approaches.

Meanwhile my attacking-this-crappy-disease-on-all-fronts continues.  So as well as Herceptin,  Tamoxifen and shortly surgery, I'm meditating, visualising, reiking and experimenting with clean living.  The clean living thing went a bit haywire at the panto when I sat and scoffed my own body weight in popcorn and jelly babies, but I'm viewing that as a blip.  In fact my attitude to it all can be summed up as below (image nicked from a friend's FaceBook page, ta C).