It is just over a year since I was diagnosed with
cancer.
It’s not an exact anniversary – I’m rubbish at remembering
anniversaries. Anyway, which date would
I have chosen? When I saw my GP about
The Lump? 8 days later when I was seen
at the breast clinic and was told, yes it is cancer? A week later when the results of my biopsies were
available (but not communicated)? Or a
fortnight later when I was finally told the type, size and spread of the
cancer?
All valid reasons for not being too pernickety about the
date.
I’m still here and feeling pretty well. In the past 12 months, I’ve completed 6
cycles of chemotherapy (FEC-T), one operation, 25 radiotherapy treatments, 3 months
of daily Anastrozole tablets, and I’ve lost count of how many Herceptin
treatments (and a partridge in a pear tree!)
Which of them was the worst aspect? Actually none of the above.
It was the waiting: for
the outpatient appointment, to be seen at the clinic, for further appointments,
for tests and scans, for the results, and then finally waiting to start
treatment. Then there was The Fear: of the unknown, of dying, of leaving people
behind.
Once you actually start treatment, everything is a doddle by
comparison. Yes, really.
Of course chemo is crap (loss of hair, eyebrows, eyelashes,
feeling and being sick, fatigue, sore toenails, food tasting strange, diarrhoea
and constipation (but not at the same time).
For 4 long months. But starting treatment means that battle has finally
commenced: you are fighting back and the
tumour is shrinking.
Once you’ve done with the chemo, things start to look up. Hair re-growth, spring arriving then summer,
holidays and sunshine. Surgery and radiotherapy
are just little blips along the way.
I’ve got a few more months of Herceptin to go, 5 years of
Anastrozole (at least), and some reconstruction work ahead.
No big deal.
As long as this lousy cancer doesn’t not come back...
