Today my world fell apart. This time much more than it did before at initial diagnosis of cancer. Which is weird right? But honestly, I took this news internally worse than I did the first time.
I need to rewind a little bit. I was in to see the consultant again today. I was already in a bit of a weird mood after my dark thoughts the last few days, but Ryan and I were bantering again in the waiting room. I mean there is only so many times we can share and read the ‘Caravanning Club’ magazine!!! We literally at this point had read / scanned every twenty-hand magazine in there!! (P.S. I should buy them some mags or pass on the cubs RSPB ones to give some new life to the place!!).
By the time we got called I was chilled. It was fine as I was about to get the next plan. Two weeks post op and I was first seen by our lovely Pauline. She checked the wound and removed the dressing, ugh (still a lower armpit wax and it ripped lovely!). It’s not a bad sight but its still a scar right under my armpit. Which will be interesting trying to ever wear a summer dress or a bikini. (To be honest this is also pretty slim option for me – we go camping in the British Isles – there is rarely any bikini wearing! And a summer dress, well its knocking on winter so everything is going to be covered lovely, so what I am worried about at this point is beyond me!). I also spoke to her about the weird tendons that I believed were popping out of my armpit. No, no, they had a medical term. Cording. That happens to 5% of folk (of course that would be me), and is a tightening of the lymphatic fluid solidifies (by this point I was in a blur so maybe that isn’t the right wording) and causes the skin to cord. I can do exercises but possibly that won’t help and I will have to live with. Oh joy! Lets start weird arm exercises. The numbness I was still experiencing was also discussed – that could very well be permanent – I’m telling you, it is the most bizarre feeling in the world!
Then we trotted out of the medical room into the consultant room – I mean they are both concrete in their humanity. They have no windows, more doors than a room should have and reek of clinical oppression.
So my consultant started talking. With his beautifully low toned voice he caresses you into a calm space. Then he delivered the blow. The news. The real facts of bloody cancer. They had taken seven lymph nodes from my armpit (no wonder I was in bloody agony and appreciate I am numb now). From those seven lymph nodes two were cancerous. My mind was blown at that point – at no point when they did previous tests did they say this had spread to lymph nodes. In fact I’m sure when I had the crazy mammogram day they had taken a sample and it was clear. So think sparklers going off in my head at this moment.
Then the Catherine Wheel went off – ‘so Kirsty, one side out of six of the breast lump wasn’t clear of cancer, so we need to re-operate’.
BOOM. My head exploded. My thoughts exploded. My world exploded. And I still sat there, just nodding nicely at the nice consultant, the lovely Pauline, some random trainee, the man cub who was clutching my knee by this point. AND I JUST NODDED. As if we were discussing a lovely situation, a holiday perhaps, a nice bit of news. I kept nodding even as the paperwork was filled in again for the next operation. As I was asked if I consented and understood. As the date was set for 9 October, another two weeks later. I signed paperwork, I wrote down the date. And the whole time I didn’t say a word, just kept nodding.
Further news from the consultant – that he had moved ‘things” about in the boob so they weren’t as lopsided (I mean they already were so I don’t know why you tried – but do I say thank you? And also – WTF did he move?). I was so conflicted by this point it was ridiculous. I just wanted this current situation to end.
The man cub and I walked out of the room, did what we do best, and bantered. Could only happen to us, we said. Of course it wasn’t all out, we said. We laughed as we exited the corridor of doom and into the waiting room which was full for the afternoon clinic. They must have thought we had good news. They couldn’t be further from the truth.
Then off we went to my parentals – which is exactly what both of us did not need or want. But exactly what they needed. As a child to an parent, this is the worst conversation you want to have. As a parent, I do never want to hear those words out of my child’s mouth and kind of appreciate that the parentals are freaking the absolute shit out! We chatted with the usual outcome – I am waiting for the next stage, I know nothing, I am living it, I am sorry you are living it. And then we had to pick the cub up. Pretend we were both ok. Play, act, dance, read – the routines stay the same even though the world is imploding. Or is that exploding. I don’t even know anymore.
The alcoholic drinks started pouring at 7pm, and we tried to put it to one side and pretend that this was ok. We were ok. But this was the first time I really knew it wasn’t. I couldn’t ignore this anymore. There was an odd tear, but I still kept the floodgates closed. I know that if I open them they’ll erupt, and I don’t know how I’ll close them again. I know that I’ll end up down a rabbit hole of irrational thoughts and fears that I can’t realistically do anything about. So I maintain steel. It might not be the best way, it probably isn’t, but its my way. And for the moment its what keeps me getting out of bed in the morning.
I still have this. It is a blip in the road. But I’ve still got it.