Credit: Statuette of an 'Amazon Warrior on Horse' by Irish sculptor Olivia Musgrave
PART 1:
The EIGHT-WEEK PERIOD from the ROUTINE BREAST CANCER SCREENING to THE DAY OF THE SURGERY
No Joy-Ride
(breast cancer could be lurking in the shadows, ready to bop you on the head)
Tuesday, 23rd September
Routine breast-cancer check-up in Burela. They don't squash them as mercilessly as they used to, but it's still uncomfortable.
Friday, 26th September
Dreaded letter in the mail referring me to the Lucus Augusti University Hospital in Lugo for further examination.
My mantra these days is 'They must be mistaken'.
Monday, 29th September
My boss at the Academy asks me again if I would agree to foregoing the contract and just keep claiming social benefit. She makes it sound like it had been my idea the first time we talked about it.
I politely decline.
Wednesday, 8th October
The iodinized medium they inject me with prior to the contrast-enhanced mammogram gives me cause to wonder briefly whether I have wet myself - such is the sensation of heat extending from the head to the nether regions.
They squash both, twice. I suppose they need to be compared.
On to ultrasound.
My axillary lymph nodes are included in the investigation.
The doctor says she would like to perform a biopsy straight away; there's definitely 'something' in my right breast.
I ask how big this 'something' is.
Fifteen millimetres.
I had a mammogram done two years ago, and it hadn't been there - so in terms of a two-year interval, it's small - but what if it hadn't started growing until July, when I ignored the strange pain I felt in the bottom segment of my right breast because it went away after a couple of days?
Fifteen millimetres in three months, that's quite a growth-rate.
She extracts five samples - one extra because too little material came away in one - while I'm doing the maths in my head.
The sudden woosh-noise of the apparatus is having a bit of a disconcerting effect, but other than that it is only a little uncomfortable.
Now to await the phone call from Burela. She says: "If they don't call you within a week, let us know and we will put the pressure on."
Thursday, 9th October
At night, I experience a stinging pain in the anus, as if I had swallowed something square that has become stuck, the edges making themselves felt. I google how the body eliminates the contrast agent.
Via urine.
What the heck is going on?
Friday, 10th October
The call comes too soon, my head hasn't stopped spinning yet.
When the voice on the other end of the line says that she's calling from the surgeon's office I can hear myself think, 'Excuse me? Whose office?'
My mantra takes up speed. They want me to go to Burela first thing on Monday morning to talk to the surgeon.
The pain is gone.
It has been replaced by a gnawing doubt.
Monday, 13th October
Over the weekend I have been telling myself, 'It's not breast cancer.'
This mental shield is now slowly vanishing while I wait to be called into the surgeon's office around the corner.
My number comes up.
I walk to the door indicated on the screen, knock, then open it, only to be stopped in mid-stride by the doctor - not the one from last year - who gestures at me from behind his desk and tells me to wait outside for the current patient to leave.
The woman who had been waiting outside already, had remained seated.
When the door opens and the old man is wheeled out, I get up to go in, only to be stopped in my tracks once more.
The assistant waves the other woman in first.
I'm beginning to feel a bit hot under the collar.
Eventually, it's my turn, but the surgeon and his assistant ignore me for the first few minutes, and continue to chit-chat. I'm not sure they are aware of how unacceptable their behaviour is - why press the button if you're not ready for the next patient?
I would have patiently waited in front of the waiting area's screen, around the corner, oblivious of the other patients' comings and goings.
When he finally opens my file on his screen, he asks if I've come for the thyroidectomy.
No? I had that done over a year ago.
"I'm here to hear if my right breast carries a passenger that needs to be seen to."
"Oh," he says, "I can't seem to find this on your file."
"That's because the biopsy was done only five days ago in Lugo, not here", I tell him.
He manages to access the information - frowning at the screen for endless seconds - and mumbles, "We've had some bad luck here," under his breath, but still won't talk to me.
I'm doing my best to keep my calm, but inside my head an angry voice is making itself heard.
When he finally looks across at me, he says, "It's breast cancer, and we will try and resolve it within the next two months, but one result is still pending."
What is foremost on my mind, though, is to find out whether it's possible to ask for a referral to the University Hospital of A Coruña.
Yes.
This comes as a huge relief, as I wouldn't want a repeat performance of what I had endured at their hands in Burela the year before - but that's a different story*...
Routine breast-cancer check-up in Burela. They don't squash them as mercilessly as they used to, but it's still uncomfortable.
Friday, 26th September
Dreaded letter in the mail referring me to the Lucus Augusti University Hospital in Lugo for further examination.
My mantra these days is 'They must be mistaken'.
Monday, 29th September
My boss at the Academy asks me again if I would agree to foregoing the contract and just keep claiming social benefit. She makes it sound like it had been my idea the first time we talked about it.
I politely decline.
Wednesday, 8th October
The iodinized medium they inject me with prior to the contrast-enhanced mammogram gives me cause to wonder briefly whether I have wet myself - such is the sensation of heat extending from the head to the nether regions.
They squash both, twice. I suppose they need to be compared.
On to ultrasound.
My axillary lymph nodes are included in the investigation.
The doctor says she would like to perform a biopsy straight away; there's definitely 'something' in my right breast.
I ask how big this 'something' is.
Fifteen millimetres.
I had a mammogram done two years ago, and it hadn't been there - so in terms of a two-year interval, it's small - but what if it hadn't started growing until July, when I ignored the strange pain I felt in the bottom segment of my right breast because it went away after a couple of days?
Fifteen millimetres in three months, that's quite a growth-rate.
She extracts five samples - one extra because too little material came away in one - while I'm doing the maths in my head.
The sudden woosh-noise of the apparatus is having a bit of a disconcerting effect, but other than that it is only a little uncomfortable.
Now to await the phone call from Burela. She says: "If they don't call you within a week, let us know and we will put the pressure on."
Thursday, 9th October
At night, I experience a stinging pain in the anus, as if I had swallowed something square that has become stuck, the edges making themselves felt. I google how the body eliminates the contrast agent.
Via urine.
What the heck is going on?
Friday, 10th October
The call comes too soon, my head hasn't stopped spinning yet.
When the voice on the other end of the line says that she's calling from the surgeon's office I can hear myself think, 'Excuse me? Whose office?'
My mantra takes up speed. They want me to go to Burela first thing on Monday morning to talk to the surgeon.
The pain is gone.
It has been replaced by a gnawing doubt.
Monday, 13th October
Over the weekend I have been telling myself, 'It's not breast cancer.'
This mental shield is now slowly vanishing while I wait to be called into the surgeon's office around the corner.
My number comes up.
I walk to the door indicated on the screen, knock, then open it, only to be stopped in mid-stride by the doctor - not the one from last year - who gestures at me from behind his desk and tells me to wait outside for the current patient to leave.
The woman who had been waiting outside already, had remained seated.
When the door opens and the old man is wheeled out, I get up to go in, only to be stopped in my tracks once more.
The assistant waves the other woman in first.
I'm beginning to feel a bit hot under the collar.
Eventually, it's my turn, but the surgeon and his assistant ignore me for the first few minutes, and continue to chit-chat. I'm not sure they are aware of how unacceptable their behaviour is - why press the button if you're not ready for the next patient?
I would have patiently waited in front of the waiting area's screen, around the corner, oblivious of the other patients' comings and goings.
When he finally opens my file on his screen, he asks if I've come for the thyroidectomy.
No? I had that done over a year ago.
"I'm here to hear if my right breast carries a passenger that needs to be seen to."
"Oh," he says, "I can't seem to find this on your file."
"That's because the biopsy was done only five days ago in Lugo, not here", I tell him.
He manages to access the information - frowning at the screen for endless seconds - and mumbles, "We've had some bad luck here," under his breath, but still won't talk to me.
I'm doing my best to keep my calm, but inside my head an angry voice is making itself heard.
When he finally looks across at me, he says, "It's breast cancer, and we will try and resolve it within the next two months, but one result is still pending."
What is foremost on my mind, though, is to find out whether it's possible to ask for a referral to the University Hospital of A Coruña.
Yes.
This comes as a huge relief, as I wouldn't want a repeat performance of what I had endured at their hands in Burela the year before - but that's a different story*...
*'The Birthday Massacre', included in Robert Fear's '25 Treasured Memories' ISBN-13 979-8346270591
While I'm waiting for him to do a quick examination, from across the room - shielded once again by his monitor - he asks what size bra I'm wearing. I try to remember the last one I had bought when I was much younger - 75B, or was it C? Now, it would more likely be an 85C... So that is what I say.
"Nooo", the assistant says, "you're a 90, I think."
Well thanks a lot. I'm perfectly aware of my surplus weight, but surely my frame hasn't broadened that much...
Then they haggle over when I can expect to be called with more information, before they settle on the 23rd of October.
I leave the building feeling like I've just been bopped on the head with a club, and don't remember until I arrive at home almost an hour later, that I was probably required to hand in the piece of paper the assistant had given me, at reception.
So now I have to make a phone call to try and get them to register the appointment on my say-so.
Which they do.
Off to work, the show must go on!
Tuesday, 14th October
I call reception again, as the appointment doesn't show up on the Sergas App.
She recalls yesterday's conversation - how embarrassing - and assures me that all's well.
Well not in the State of Denmark, and not in my mind, it isn't, but thank you anyway.
I've spent some time googling - I'd rather expected to live a good thirty or forty years more, not just two to four, which is the worst case scenario.
This is outrageous. I'm not having that. This new little buddy of mine will just have to go away - I will give my body all the help I can muster: my sweet tooth will have to be pulled, and I will eat my cheese without bread for the time being, at least until I can get my hands on some German wholemeal rye bread, or pumpernickel...
Friday, 19th October
I managed to survive the school week without any incidents, but I can feel my patience wearing thin.
I've been on this no-sugar, no-flour diet for five days only, and it's harder than you would think.
Chocolate has been a provider of comfort for as far back as I can remember, and crusty bread had taken the place of meat in my diet eight years ago...
Saturday, 18th October
I have prepared a list of questions I need an answer to - to wait patiently for the promised phone call on the 23rd is too much to ask for in my current state of mind, so I am going to take my piece of paper to my family doctor's practice before going to work on Monday to try and glean some more information.
If I can avoid chemo- and radiotherapy without prejudicing my own chances of recovery, I will - conserving or reconstructing the breast(s) is of no importance to me whatsoever, so I will tell them that as far as I'm concerned, I'll be opting for a mastectomy rather than the lumpectomy the Burela surgeon mentioned on Monday.
The fact that my own body has turned against me and is now trying to destroy me from within is a hard lump to swallow, so I'm going to try to get it ship-shape, along with my mind and my soul.
The first thing that will have to go is my surplus fat. I'm working on that.
To achieve Peace of Mind, I will have to focus it. I've started on this with the A4 page of my battle plan to guide me through the medical interviews, and also this 'chronicle' I'm writing to navigate the High Seas of turmoil ahead.
Soul Searching is going to be an essential, albeit private, part of this challenge.
I'm confident that being, or rather becoming, the best version of myself I can hope to be, is achievable.
Sunday, 19th October
I distinctly remember the endocrinologist telling me, after they had removed my thyroid gland in summer, that its pathological report had come back negative.
So why does my patient's electronic report card have a November entry that reads 'malignant neoplasms of the thyroid'?
This is scary.
This is cancer speak.
I was told it was benign.
The nursing team had ignored me when I had kept telling them after surgery that I was on a decline, that I couldn't breathe, even when I was vomiting blood and had swelled up to the dimensions of a manatee, they had just shrugged it off until the surgeon came upon me on his round the following day - apathetic and barely able to respond - and had whisked me off for an emergency surgery.
I made a request to be given a copy of the report in October last year, which to this day hasn't been answered.
What else are they hiding?
For a start, they never informed me about the correlation between thyroid cancer and breast cancer.
They never checked whether there were metastases.
My tormented brain is screaming at me, 'What if there's now a fat chance of it having propagated not only to my right breast via my lymph glands, but also to the liver, located where the July pain was?'
My family doctor has been replaced so many times since they deemed the nodules in my thyroids suspicious enough to require action that I don't know who I'm going to be talking to tomorrow, but I'm going to grill him good.
I'm going in prepared.
I have an appointment with my endocrinologist on the 4th of November - I'm going to go accompanied and listen patiently to his little speech about the results of my latest thyroid gland-related blood-levels, and then I'm going to ask him about the pathological report of the extracted thyroid tissue.
I think I'm going cuckoo.
Paranoia seems to be taking over.
My mental loop has now changed to 'Shit, I have cancer.'
Monday, 20th October
As I expected, a new face calls me into the office.
Oscar.
His accent is very familiar - there were quite a few Venezolanos in the Canary Islands, where I had lived for over 15 years.
It's a soothing accent.
First of all, I ask him if he can access the pathological report from after the thyroidectomy to see whether cancer was discarded or not.
He can.
There was no sign of cancer in the tissue sample.
I'm hugely relieved.
I ask him why it showed up as it did in my report card, and he says it's how it's classified, under the headline, so to speak.
Then I ask him for a complete analysis, blood, urine, the works.
"No problem, come in on Friday."
He tells me that my referral to the CHUAC has been approved.
In Burela, they had told me that I had to ask for it once they gave me the paperwork for the waiting list.
Never mind. It has taken up speed.
I ask about the pending biopsy report. Still pending.
I ask if he can find any more information, and he tells me it's apparently a grade II.
With that little snippet of information I can at least try to draw my own conclusions: since it's too small a lump yet to automatically classify as a grade II, there must be some additional inconvenience, in my case probably lymph nodes that the Lugo radiologist deemed affected.
Which in turn means I might be needing radiotherapy.
One more thing I'll have to investigate is the procedure concerning the suture after the mastectomy - Oscar's reaction when I tell him that instead of a reconstruction of the breast I will opt for leaving it flat, is "No, that's not possible, it would not be flat, they will have to leave a little bump there."
"I don't see why?" I ask, and he mumbles something about excess skin blah blah. Thank God for Google - what I have to request is an 'aesthetic' flat closure.
I don't want to contemplate what one could end up with, innocently asking for a non-conserving, non-reconstructive surgery, like I would have done. If the surgeon isn't up to it, I can even ask for the assistance of a plastic surgeon.
Wednesday, 22nd October
I'm not expecting a phone call today, not from one of those long numbers public administrations use.
To my surprise it is the Burela surgeon, asking me to come to his office on the 2nd floor at the hospital, tomorrow at half past ten.
This is not what he had said the week before, so I ask him what this is about. He tells me that my case has already been discussed by the committee, and the treatment plan has been agreed.
"Okay", I say, a little taken aback.
I'll have to make my pitch tomorrow, good job I'm prepared for it.
They are going to have to hear me out, and change their plan, if needs be.
All this is making me a bit nervous, it's like going before a tribunal.
Thursday, 23rd October
There are six or seven people already waiting for the surgeon. When he finally arrives, he calls the first one in, and then they go in in order of arrival.
Most almost immediately come back out.
I wonder what he tells them in those few seconds?
When it's my turn, he asks me for the room number.
"No," I say, "you called me yesterday and asked me to come in."
He looks at me, perplexed, and then he remembers.
He asks me if there's anyone waiting still.
Two more, yes.
Once again, I'm sent to wait outside in the corridor, like a naughty schoolgirl. Right.
I go in again.
The 'headmaster' tells me to come with him.
He walks me down a long corridor with patients hanging about outside their doors, then past the second floor's reception area, to another small office. He asks me to sit next to him, as the room lacks a desk - there are just a few 'work stations' with desktop computers.
He pops in his card, waits for the screen to light up, and then proceeds to outline the surgery.
"Wait a minute," I say. "I don't want a lumpectomy, I want a mastectomy."
"Nooo, it's unnecessary. That was twenty years ago. We can conserve the breast. We just take out the tumour, set a sentinel marker to see if it has spread into the armpit, and will clean that out as well, if necessary. That's it."
If it were that simple.
I ask if he can give me some information about the cancer itself.
He says it's a Luminal B HER2 negative.
He sees me looking at my battle plan spreadsheet and starts mumbling about looking for information on the internet. He patronisingly takes my piece of paper and says, "Here, I'll write it down for you."
"I don't want reconstruction." I say.
"But we're not going to do any reconstruction."
There's a knock on the door, and a hospital employee comes in. He politely asks if someone who has arrived a little late could quickly be attended.
The 'headmaster' jumps up and leaves the room.
There's no getting through to him.
I'm getting anxious.
When he comes back, I change my pitch.
"I want to make it clear that in the event of a mastectomy, I want an aesthetic flat closure."
Exasperated, he says that it won't come to this.
"The tumour is very small. Forget all that."
We have to go to the surgeon's office on the first floor, where his assistant is, with a lady surgeon I remember from last year's prolonged stay at the hospital.
He asks to print out all the necessary paperwork for me to sign and then hand in at Customer Service.
He obliges me to show them my notes, making fun of me.
"She did well", his colleague says. "My notes were less extensive, but that's because it's my line of work."
A little deflated, he takes his leave. Good riddance.
They eventually shove a batch of papers into my hands and tell me to go to Customer Attention at the end of the long corridor.
There are at least ten people waiting, some seated, some standing.
I take a number and sit down across from the door.
Eventually, someone comes out of the office and leaves.
No one goes in.
I wonder how this works.
After a while, an employee pops her head out of the door and mumbles something about complaints.
Someone goes in.
Another employee comes in and calls out, "Report?"
I don't need a report, so I stay put.
No one seems to be sure who should go in, so I get up, knock on the door, and ask. Transferrals are the other colleague's domain, apparently, so I go back to my chair.
She comes back out after a while, and adds a few more things to reports.
Someone gets up and goes in.
I wonder what the numbers are for if they don't call you in by number - apparently we have to organise ourselves into groups, so I ask who's got seventy-seven.
A timid elderly man raises his hand.
I smile at him and thank him.
I ask if he's in the complaint or in the report group, and he answers in Gallego that he's not sure.
Back to square one.
Thankfully, someone a little more knowledgeable asks what he's here for, he explains himself, and is told he's in the complaints group.
Okay, now I know when to go in.
We all compare our numbers so we have at least an inkling of who should be next. Most seem to be in the complaints group, as new arrivals eventually go in ahead of everyone else.
At last it's the old man's turn.
He comes back out, says goodbye to everyone, and leaves.
She doesn't call anyone else in.
After about ten minutes, she appears in the door, but she pulls it shut behind her and shuffles up the corridor.
"Hey, where's she going? ", I say under my breath, and the remaining people, four or so, all roll their eyes.
Someone suggests she's gone for a break. At quarter to one - I had arrived at the hospital at quarter past ten - the other employee comes out and takes the roll of numbers out of the dispenser.
The one I need to talk to hasn't come back yet.
The Customer Attention office closes at one!
At five to one, she comes back, not saying a word to anyone, so I wait.
She calls me in.
I state my case.
She takes my papers.
She asks for my ID and my NIE (Identity number for non-nationals), and tells me to wait outside while her colleague will be filling in the form.
As I'm leaving, they're both on the phone. To the surprise of the others, I sit back down on my chair and tell the group I've been told to wait.
The other one eventually calls me in and asks for my phone number and email address.
She tells me that she's now going to another office to have my papers stamped, and that I should wait outside.
I'm getting a little pissed off, but I do as I'm told.
Two other hospital workers go in.
After about five minutes, she comes back but goes straight into the office.
I wait.
When the door opens again, the woman who had gone to talk to the first employee comes out, and I can see the second peeking out and looking around, but she doesn't look at me and disappears.
"Who is she looking for?", I say to no one in particular. The two other employees appear in the door, and I can hear her say my name inside the office. I get up quickly, turn back to the group just before I go in, and make a circular motion at the height of my temple with my index finger, rolling my eyes.
The group cheers up considerably.
At last I'm given my stamped papers.
It's half past one.
I have to rush home - home is a forty-five minutes' drive away - quickly get some shopping done on the way, tell mum the news while I grab a bite to eat, and head to work at twenty past three.
Friday, 24th October
I pee into the plastic pot with the new-fangled screw-on top where you have to insert the vial, turn it all upside down and supposedly everything's hunky-dory. Well, no, it isn't.
The vial isn't filling up, so I have to try and do it manually.
The same spiel with the second one.
I remember to take the little green plastic bag with the other sample out of the fridge, and off I go to my local GP surgery to have my blood taken for analysis.
Back home, I receive a phone call from a long number, and it's A Coruña, telling me to come and see the surgeon on the 29th.
That was quick!
I want to take a closer look at the papers they had thrust into my hands yesterday.
The first thing I notice is that the second Customer-Service lady has made a mistake copying the last letter of my National Identity number. It should be a B, not a W.
Blimming hell.
It's just unbelievable how incompetent they all are.
Then I realise that there were two slips - one for x-rays and the other for an ECG - they haven't told me about and which should have been handed in.
I return to the surgery in town, and ask for their help.
They give me an appointment for the ECG, and advise me to ask for the x-rays in A Coruña.
That went well for once.
Saturday, 25th October
I'm on the toilet, looking in disbelief at the little sausage smothered in `ketchup´.
It's not from a small fissure, as the toilet paper comes off clean. I haven't had any hemorrhoid pain lately, either.
Shit.
Literally speaking.
The question is: is it in any way connected to the tumour?
I'm going to ignore it for the time being - I have enough on my plate already.
After working a little while on getting the garden, orchard and vegetable patch ready for the cold and rainy season, I hang up the washing in the 'garage' and suddenly find myself out of breath, and with cold sweat covering my face.
I sit down in the adjoining kitchen and drink some Kombucha - within a few minutes I recover.
I'm studying all the reports available to me when my daughter arrives from A Coruña.
Her face feels wet against my neck as she holds me in her embrace.
I make the most of this rare moment, and hold her tight while she allows herself to sob.
I eventually plant a kiss on her shoulder and murmur that we're going to pull through.
Later, I resume the task of scrutinising the reports: the fact that it's a Luminal B isn't good news - more aggressive, more persistent.
All the more reason to not just 'take the lump out'.
It all depends on the state of my lymph nodes. If they're ok, I might be allowed to avoid all the therapies that they employ post-surgery.
Monday 27th October
More blood - though not as much.
No symptoms otherwise.
"Ignore it", I tell myself.
Tuesday 28th October
"NO blood today, mum."
I hear a relieved "OKAY" from the direction of her bedroom as I head down the stairs.
It's exactly five weeks after the original mammogram - it's a race against time, so I'm counting the days nowadays.
Whereas before I wasn't too concerned with being fifty-seven, I'm now acutely aware of a certain limit to my days.
ECG done.
I can't glean any information from looking at it, it's just squiggly wiggly to me.
Wednesday 29th October
On my way to the big city.
It takes just under two hours to get there, but I lose faith a few times, thinking that this can't be right - it's such a winding, scenic route that I feel like a tourist.
To get to the old military hospital, located in the medieval maze that is the old town of A Coruña, I rely on Google Maps - at one point I'm laughing so much about how this lady manages to mispronounce absolutely everything that I have to do a second lapse in one of the roundabouts, not having paid attention as to which exit she wants me to take.
I manage to find a highly sought after parking space across from the Pablo Picasso Art School, and with the help of a friendly lady from Venezuela I actually make it to the hospital in time.
By the time I find the correct waiting area on the first floor, though, ticket M85 is being attended, while I'm clutching ticket M80 in my slightly damp hand.
I settle down for the wait and contemplate the rather tacky sprayed landscape on the hallway wall.
When I'm called in, I'm pleasantly surprised by the welcome I'm given by the surgeon, who introduces himself, a lady doctor-in-training and his assistant to me before asking why I chose to not have the surgery done in Burela.
I explain my reasons, and to my relief, he accepts my decision without further ado.
Again, I'm asked to sign some papers so he can include me in the waiting list, and I'm being asked to wait for the coordinating staff member to call me into her office.
When she does, she gives me a card with three appointments on the 6th of November, and she calls Viveiro to have the x-ray done tomorrow.
She also offers to schedule psychological support, which I decline.
Leaving the building, I feel confident that I'm in good, professional hands.
Thursday, 30th October
I don't even have to take my top off to have the pre-surgery torso x-ray done - one from the front and one from the side, and goodbye.
On the way back, I take a call via Bluetooth from Sergas, guaranteeing me a surgery slot within sixty days.
Better sooner than later - I'm hoping for a slot right after the 6th.
Friday, 31st October
I won't have to go to work today, so the call from Michael* just before nine in the morning catches me lounging in bed still.
"I wanted to call you before I go to bed", he says.
"Nooo", the assistant says, "you're a 90, I think."
Well thanks a lot. I'm perfectly aware of my surplus weight, but surely my frame hasn't broadened that much...
Then they haggle over when I can expect to be called with more information, before they settle on the 23rd of October.
I leave the building feeling like I've just been bopped on the head with a club, and don't remember until I arrive at home almost an hour later, that I was probably required to hand in the piece of paper the assistant had given me, at reception.
So now I have to make a phone call to try and get them to register the appointment on my say-so.
Which they do.
Off to work, the show must go on!
Tuesday, 14th October
I call reception again, as the appointment doesn't show up on the Sergas App.
She recalls yesterday's conversation - how embarrassing - and assures me that all's well.
Well not in the State of Denmark, and not in my mind, it isn't, but thank you anyway.
I've spent some time googling - I'd rather expected to live a good thirty or forty years more, not just two to four, which is the worst case scenario.
This is outrageous. I'm not having that. This new little buddy of mine will just have to go away - I will give my body all the help I can muster: my sweet tooth will have to be pulled, and I will eat my cheese without bread for the time being, at least until I can get my hands on some German wholemeal rye bread, or pumpernickel...
Friday, 19th October
I managed to survive the school week without any incidents, but I can feel my patience wearing thin.
I've been on this no-sugar, no-flour diet for five days only, and it's harder than you would think.
Chocolate has been a provider of comfort for as far back as I can remember, and crusty bread had taken the place of meat in my diet eight years ago...
Saturday, 18th October
I have prepared a list of questions I need an answer to - to wait patiently for the promised phone call on the 23rd is too much to ask for in my current state of mind, so I am going to take my piece of paper to my family doctor's practice before going to work on Monday to try and glean some more information.
If I can avoid chemo- and radiotherapy without prejudicing my own chances of recovery, I will - conserving or reconstructing the breast(s) is of no importance to me whatsoever, so I will tell them that as far as I'm concerned, I'll be opting for a mastectomy rather than the lumpectomy the Burela surgeon mentioned on Monday.
The fact that my own body has turned against me and is now trying to destroy me from within is a hard lump to swallow, so I'm going to try to get it ship-shape, along with my mind and my soul.
The first thing that will have to go is my surplus fat. I'm working on that.
To achieve Peace of Mind, I will have to focus it. I've started on this with the A4 page of my battle plan to guide me through the medical interviews, and also this 'chronicle' I'm writing to navigate the High Seas of turmoil ahead.
Soul Searching is going to be an essential, albeit private, part of this challenge.
I'm confident that being, or rather becoming, the best version of myself I can hope to be, is achievable.
Sunday, 19th October
I distinctly remember the endocrinologist telling me, after they had removed my thyroid gland in summer, that its pathological report had come back negative.
So why does my patient's electronic report card have a November entry that reads 'malignant neoplasms of the thyroid'?
This is scary.
This is cancer speak.
I was told it was benign.
The nursing team had ignored me when I had kept telling them after surgery that I was on a decline, that I couldn't breathe, even when I was vomiting blood and had swelled up to the dimensions of a manatee, they had just shrugged it off until the surgeon came upon me on his round the following day - apathetic and barely able to respond - and had whisked me off for an emergency surgery.
I made a request to be given a copy of the report in October last year, which to this day hasn't been answered.
What else are they hiding?
For a start, they never informed me about the correlation between thyroid cancer and breast cancer.
They never checked whether there were metastases.
My tormented brain is screaming at me, 'What if there's now a fat chance of it having propagated not only to my right breast via my lymph glands, but also to the liver, located where the July pain was?'
My family doctor has been replaced so many times since they deemed the nodules in my thyroids suspicious enough to require action that I don't know who I'm going to be talking to tomorrow, but I'm going to grill him good.
I'm going in prepared.
I have an appointment with my endocrinologist on the 4th of November - I'm going to go accompanied and listen patiently to his little speech about the results of my latest thyroid gland-related blood-levels, and then I'm going to ask him about the pathological report of the extracted thyroid tissue.
I think I'm going cuckoo.
Paranoia seems to be taking over.
My mental loop has now changed to 'Shit, I have cancer.'
Monday, 20th October
As I expected, a new face calls me into the office.
Oscar.
His accent is very familiar - there were quite a few Venezolanos in the Canary Islands, where I had lived for over 15 years.
It's a soothing accent.
First of all, I ask him if he can access the pathological report from after the thyroidectomy to see whether cancer was discarded or not.
He can.
There was no sign of cancer in the tissue sample.
I'm hugely relieved.
I ask him why it showed up as it did in my report card, and he says it's how it's classified, under the headline, so to speak.
Then I ask him for a complete analysis, blood, urine, the works.
"No problem, come in on Friday."
He tells me that my referral to the CHUAC has been approved.
In Burela, they had told me that I had to ask for it once they gave me the paperwork for the waiting list.
Never mind. It has taken up speed.
I ask about the pending biopsy report. Still pending.
I ask if he can find any more information, and he tells me it's apparently a grade II.
With that little snippet of information I can at least try to draw my own conclusions: since it's too small a lump yet to automatically classify as a grade II, there must be some additional inconvenience, in my case probably lymph nodes that the Lugo radiologist deemed affected.
Which in turn means I might be needing radiotherapy.
One more thing I'll have to investigate is the procedure concerning the suture after the mastectomy - Oscar's reaction when I tell him that instead of a reconstruction of the breast I will opt for leaving it flat, is "No, that's not possible, it would not be flat, they will have to leave a little bump there."
"I don't see why?" I ask, and he mumbles something about excess skin blah blah. Thank God for Google - what I have to request is an 'aesthetic' flat closure.
I don't want to contemplate what one could end up with, innocently asking for a non-conserving, non-reconstructive surgery, like I would have done. If the surgeon isn't up to it, I can even ask for the assistance of a plastic surgeon.
Wednesday, 22nd October
I'm not expecting a phone call today, not from one of those long numbers public administrations use.
To my surprise it is the Burela surgeon, asking me to come to his office on the 2nd floor at the hospital, tomorrow at half past ten.
This is not what he had said the week before, so I ask him what this is about. He tells me that my case has already been discussed by the committee, and the treatment plan has been agreed.
"Okay", I say, a little taken aback.
I'll have to make my pitch tomorrow, good job I'm prepared for it.
They are going to have to hear me out, and change their plan, if needs be.
All this is making me a bit nervous, it's like going before a tribunal.
Thursday, 23rd October
There are six or seven people already waiting for the surgeon. When he finally arrives, he calls the first one in, and then they go in in order of arrival.
Most almost immediately come back out.
I wonder what he tells them in those few seconds?
When it's my turn, he asks me for the room number.
"No," I say, "you called me yesterday and asked me to come in."
He looks at me, perplexed, and then he remembers.
He asks me if there's anyone waiting still.
Two more, yes.
Once again, I'm sent to wait outside in the corridor, like a naughty schoolgirl. Right.
I go in again.
The 'headmaster' tells me to come with him.
He walks me down a long corridor with patients hanging about outside their doors, then past the second floor's reception area, to another small office. He asks me to sit next to him, as the room lacks a desk - there are just a few 'work stations' with desktop computers.
He pops in his card, waits for the screen to light up, and then proceeds to outline the surgery.
"Wait a minute," I say. "I don't want a lumpectomy, I want a mastectomy."
"Nooo, it's unnecessary. That was twenty years ago. We can conserve the breast. We just take out the tumour, set a sentinel marker to see if it has spread into the armpit, and will clean that out as well, if necessary. That's it."
If it were that simple.
I ask if he can give me some information about the cancer itself.
He says it's a Luminal B HER2 negative.
He sees me looking at my battle plan spreadsheet and starts mumbling about looking for information on the internet. He patronisingly takes my piece of paper and says, "Here, I'll write it down for you."
"I don't want reconstruction." I say.
"But we're not going to do any reconstruction."
There's a knock on the door, and a hospital employee comes in. He politely asks if someone who has arrived a little late could quickly be attended.
The 'headmaster' jumps up and leaves the room.
There's no getting through to him.
I'm getting anxious.
When he comes back, I change my pitch.
"I want to make it clear that in the event of a mastectomy, I want an aesthetic flat closure."
Exasperated, he says that it won't come to this.
"The tumour is very small. Forget all that."
We have to go to the surgeon's office on the first floor, where his assistant is, with a lady surgeon I remember from last year's prolonged stay at the hospital.
He asks to print out all the necessary paperwork for me to sign and then hand in at Customer Service.
He obliges me to show them my notes, making fun of me.
"She did well", his colleague says. "My notes were less extensive, but that's because it's my line of work."
A little deflated, he takes his leave. Good riddance.
They eventually shove a batch of papers into my hands and tell me to go to Customer Attention at the end of the long corridor.
There are at least ten people waiting, some seated, some standing.
I take a number and sit down across from the door.
Eventually, someone comes out of the office and leaves.
No one goes in.
I wonder how this works.
After a while, an employee pops her head out of the door and mumbles something about complaints.
Someone goes in.
Another employee comes in and calls out, "Report?"
I don't need a report, so I stay put.
No one seems to be sure who should go in, so I get up, knock on the door, and ask. Transferrals are the other colleague's domain, apparently, so I go back to my chair.
She comes back out after a while, and adds a few more things to reports.
Someone gets up and goes in.
I wonder what the numbers are for if they don't call you in by number - apparently we have to organise ourselves into groups, so I ask who's got seventy-seven.
A timid elderly man raises his hand.
I smile at him and thank him.
I ask if he's in the complaint or in the report group, and he answers in Gallego that he's not sure.
Back to square one.
Thankfully, someone a little more knowledgeable asks what he's here for, he explains himself, and is told he's in the complaints group.
Okay, now I know when to go in.
We all compare our numbers so we have at least an inkling of who should be next. Most seem to be in the complaints group, as new arrivals eventually go in ahead of everyone else.
At last it's the old man's turn.
He comes back out, says goodbye to everyone, and leaves.
She doesn't call anyone else in.
After about ten minutes, she appears in the door, but she pulls it shut behind her and shuffles up the corridor.
"Hey, where's she going? ", I say under my breath, and the remaining people, four or so, all roll their eyes.
Someone suggests she's gone for a break. At quarter to one - I had arrived at the hospital at quarter past ten - the other employee comes out and takes the roll of numbers out of the dispenser.
The one I need to talk to hasn't come back yet.
The Customer Attention office closes at one!
At five to one, she comes back, not saying a word to anyone, so I wait.
She calls me in.
I state my case.
She takes my papers.
She asks for my ID and my NIE (Identity number for non-nationals), and tells me to wait outside while her colleague will be filling in the form.
As I'm leaving, they're both on the phone. To the surprise of the others, I sit back down on my chair and tell the group I've been told to wait.
The other one eventually calls me in and asks for my phone number and email address.
She tells me that she's now going to another office to have my papers stamped, and that I should wait outside.
I'm getting a little pissed off, but I do as I'm told.
Two other hospital workers go in.
After about five minutes, she comes back but goes straight into the office.
I wait.
When the door opens again, the woman who had gone to talk to the first employee comes out, and I can see the second peeking out and looking around, but she doesn't look at me and disappears.
"Who is she looking for?", I say to no one in particular. The two other employees appear in the door, and I can hear her say my name inside the office. I get up quickly, turn back to the group just before I go in, and make a circular motion at the height of my temple with my index finger, rolling my eyes.
The group cheers up considerably.
At last I'm given my stamped papers.
It's half past one.
I have to rush home - home is a forty-five minutes' drive away - quickly get some shopping done on the way, tell mum the news while I grab a bite to eat, and head to work at twenty past three.
Friday, 24th October
I pee into the plastic pot with the new-fangled screw-on top where you have to insert the vial, turn it all upside down and supposedly everything's hunky-dory. Well, no, it isn't.
The vial isn't filling up, so I have to try and do it manually.
The same spiel with the second one.
I remember to take the little green plastic bag with the other sample out of the fridge, and off I go to my local GP surgery to have my blood taken for analysis.
Back home, I receive a phone call from a long number, and it's A Coruña, telling me to come and see the surgeon on the 29th.
That was quick!
I want to take a closer look at the papers they had thrust into my hands yesterday.
The first thing I notice is that the second Customer-Service lady has made a mistake copying the last letter of my National Identity number. It should be a B, not a W.
Blimming hell.
It's just unbelievable how incompetent they all are.
Then I realise that there were two slips - one for x-rays and the other for an ECG - they haven't told me about and which should have been handed in.
I return to the surgery in town, and ask for their help.
They give me an appointment for the ECG, and advise me to ask for the x-rays in A Coruña.
That went well for once.
Saturday, 25th October
I'm on the toilet, looking in disbelief at the little sausage smothered in `ketchup´.
It's not from a small fissure, as the toilet paper comes off clean. I haven't had any hemorrhoid pain lately, either.
Shit.
Literally speaking.
The question is: is it in any way connected to the tumour?
I'm going to ignore it for the time being - I have enough on my plate already.
After working a little while on getting the garden, orchard and vegetable patch ready for the cold and rainy season, I hang up the washing in the 'garage' and suddenly find myself out of breath, and with cold sweat covering my face.
I sit down in the adjoining kitchen and drink some Kombucha - within a few minutes I recover.
I'm studying all the reports available to me when my daughter arrives from A Coruña.
Her face feels wet against my neck as she holds me in her embrace.
I make the most of this rare moment, and hold her tight while she allows herself to sob.
I eventually plant a kiss on her shoulder and murmur that we're going to pull through.
Later, I resume the task of scrutinising the reports: the fact that it's a Luminal B isn't good news - more aggressive, more persistent.
All the more reason to not just 'take the lump out'.
It all depends on the state of my lymph nodes. If they're ok, I might be allowed to avoid all the therapies that they employ post-surgery.
Monday 27th October
More blood - though not as much.
No symptoms otherwise.
"Ignore it", I tell myself.
Tuesday 28th October
"NO blood today, mum."
I hear a relieved "OKAY" from the direction of her bedroom as I head down the stairs.
It's exactly five weeks after the original mammogram - it's a race against time, so I'm counting the days nowadays.
Whereas before I wasn't too concerned with being fifty-seven, I'm now acutely aware of a certain limit to my days.
ECG done.
I can't glean any information from looking at it, it's just squiggly wiggly to me.
Wednesday 29th October
On my way to the big city.
It takes just under two hours to get there, but I lose faith a few times, thinking that this can't be right - it's such a winding, scenic route that I feel like a tourist.
To get to the old military hospital, located in the medieval maze that is the old town of A Coruña, I rely on Google Maps - at one point I'm laughing so much about how this lady manages to mispronounce absolutely everything that I have to do a second lapse in one of the roundabouts, not having paid attention as to which exit she wants me to take.
I manage to find a highly sought after parking space across from the Pablo Picasso Art School, and with the help of a friendly lady from Venezuela I actually make it to the hospital in time.
By the time I find the correct waiting area on the first floor, though, ticket M85 is being attended, while I'm clutching ticket M80 in my slightly damp hand.
I settle down for the wait and contemplate the rather tacky sprayed landscape on the hallway wall.
When I'm called in, I'm pleasantly surprised by the welcome I'm given by the surgeon, who introduces himself, a lady doctor-in-training and his assistant to me before asking why I chose to not have the surgery done in Burela.
I explain my reasons, and to my relief, he accepts my decision without further ado.
Again, I'm asked to sign some papers so he can include me in the waiting list, and I'm being asked to wait for the coordinating staff member to call me into her office.
When she does, she gives me a card with three appointments on the 6th of November, and she calls Viveiro to have the x-ray done tomorrow.
She also offers to schedule psychological support, which I decline.
Leaving the building, I feel confident that I'm in good, professional hands.
Thursday, 30th October
I don't even have to take my top off to have the pre-surgery torso x-ray done - one from the front and one from the side, and goodbye.
On the way back, I take a call via Bluetooth from Sergas, guaranteeing me a surgery slot within sixty days.
Better sooner than later - I'm hoping for a slot right after the 6th.
Friday, 31st October
I won't have to go to work today, so the call from Michael* just before nine in the morning catches me lounging in bed still.
"I wanted to call you before I go to bed", he says.
* He is featured in the short memoir piece 'Players', also included in Robert Fear's anthology '25Treasured Memories' ISBN-13 979-8346270591, and also in the short autobiographical piece '(Not) in Pieces', included in Sue Bavey's anthology 'Not Marriage Material' ISBN-13 979-8308867845
I had been holding him off until after the appointment with the A Coruña surgeon, as I wanted to be on firm ground and as informed as possible before discussing my case with any of my friends on the phone.
He surprises me even more when, towards the end of our nearly two-hour long chat, he blurts out that he wants to come over.
"Oh no," I say, "that's not really necessary! It would be so hard on you - my kitchen is not apt for a celiac!"
"I could go and forage in the woods", he says laughingly.
"Don't be silly, you'd be competing with the wolves and the boars! But I suppose we could get you a brand new table grill, and some disposable tableware, and you could do your own cooking. I have seen some Schär products on the supermarket shelves."
"I have a couple of things to do in November, and one appointment at the beginning of December, but after that I'm free to go."
"Have you talked to Dianne about this? Is she ok with it?" I ask.
"Oh yeah", he says, "she likes you."
In the afternoon I google flights, so we have an idea of the itinerary and cost: he could fly to Madrid, and then on to A Coruña - and back - for under six hundred dollars, and it would take about 24 hours.
I suppose I'm his next mission.
We've known each other for about 35 years, and we had last seen each other twenty years ago, when he made a stop-over on his way back to the States from the Middle East, to help me and my nineteen months' old daughter settle in on Tenerife.
Saturday, 1st November
I feel strangely dizzy and faint this morning.
I'm just glad this happens to be a long weekend.
Walking Susie the dog, I'm happy to see that the camellias are in bloom now.
Tuesday, 4th November
Today my boss at the English Academy stops me before I leave, and hands me my payslip, which, at a glance, seems ridiculously low.
She casually tells me that she is going to prepare the dismissal papers for the following week.
Run that past me again?
She once again tries to pass this off as my idea, and actually claims that it would be to my advantage, since Social Security would only pay me a pittance on sick leave and I'd be better off claiming unemployment benefit.
I obviously won't be able to catch a good night's rest tonight.
Wednesday, 5th November
I'm lucky and a lady at the Employment Office sees me - I inscribe myself in the 'betterment of employment' plan, which basically means I'm on the lookout for a new job because the one I hold is lacking.
I send a communiqué to my boss, objecting to both the pay and the dismissal.
Now, I dread having to go in.
Not something you wish for when your world is already topsy-turvy because of a fecking tumour.
At school, she avoids talking to me by going to the bathroom in between classes, and I see her disappear into the parking garage just as I come out of my last class.
Thursday, 6th November
I have my windscreen-wipers on fast mode the whole journey to A Coruña, and there's so much water on the road that my car goes sailing twice - luckily I manage to reign it in both times.
This time, I'm not going to look for a parking spot in the maze of the old town, I'm going straight to a parking garage.
Even in the garage, finding a spot that is not reserved, is tricky.
I find my way to the hospital, get my ticket to see the anaesthetist, and get called in straight away although I'm half an hour early.
Give me time to breathe.
I've lived on a minute island with only a couple of major roads and hardly any traffic for twelve years, and in a rural coastal village for the last four years, so coming to A Coruña is a hassle for me.
He gives me a little prep talk, has my blood pressure taken (140 to 80) and sends me on my way to see the surgeon.
Whereas the last time I was here, there was only one more couple in the waiting area, today it is full.
Headscarves and harrowed faces aplenty.
My heart skips a beat.
My number eventually comes up on the screen and I go in.
Different office, different lady doctor-in-training, different assistant, same pleasant surgeon.
He once more explains the procedure by drawing me a little picture.
He then tells me that on Monday the 17th - a day before the actual surgery - I'll have to go to the Cancer Centre for the sentinel-node procedure.
He draws me another little picture to explain where the centre is situated.
He does me the favour of having me admitted on that day rather than on the day of the surgery, as is standard procedure.
I have to take a seat in the waiting area once more, until the coordinator is ready to issue all the relevant paperwork and show me an explanatory video of how to care for the surgical drain they are going to send me home with the day after.
I beg your pardon?
They'll give you a suture needle next.
I send my boss a text saying that I will be on medical leave as of the day of my hospital admittance, and back as soon as possible, providing I can drive.
I arrive back in Viveiro just in time to open the Academy.
After the first lesson, she calls me into an empty classroom to hassle me.
She asks for the doctor's appointment slips although she had previously told me they wouldn't be necessary, and she only had to look after my class for 45 minutes once when I couldn't get back on time from the first appointment in A Coruña.
Friday, 7th November
Even on the day she doesn't come in, her comments when I send the report of who's missing in class give me reason to think that she's looking for an excuse to sack me anyhow.
Mum thinks I'm an idiot for still wanting to go in.
Monday, 10th November
During the weekend I had a close look at all my paysheets, and there are enough inconsistencies to warrant a trip to the accountant's in town.
Luckily, my boss only comes in for an hour on Mondays, and there are no further incidents.
Tuesday, 11th November
My daughter tells me that their car has developed a clutch problem, so I might need a Plan B to go to A Coruña on the weekend.
Wednesday, 12th November
The accountant couldn't make head nor toe of my paysheet, either, and tells me that the monthly 'dedication' bonus of about 60€ isn't included.
I feel my stomach knotting up all through my classes.
During the night I develop the symptoms of a cold, and I decide to try and see the doctor in the morning.
Thursday, 13th November
They call me to let me know I have the green light for the shingles injection.
I get the sick note.
I pass it on by email.
I make some purchases to ensure business as usual for my mum while I'm gone.
My neighbour is going to look in on her daily in case she needs something.
It feels a bit strange to sit around at home in the afternoon, doing nothing instead of coaxing English words out of reluctant Spanish school children.
Friday, 14th November
Tying up loose ends.
The car now has two new front tyres, and the broken rear reflector that had been a minor issue at the last MOT inspection has been replaced. It's also fuelled up.
The key to the Academy has been returned.
I've had the injection.
The Saint Nicholas sack for Lily and her fiancé has been filled with Lindt goodies.
I have lugged two butane bottles home.
Anything else?
I wished I could just will this intruder away.
I'm made of German steel, after all.
Sunday, 16th November
Bags are packed - clothes, bed linen and towels, toothbrush and a few toiletries, a bag full of groceries, the laptop, and three Primo Levy books.
I'm planning on staying at my daughter's student flat until the surgeon will see me the week after the surgery.
I scrubbed myself red in the bath - now I'm waiting for my daughter to come home to cut my hair.
Last time, my hair was in a right Medusa state after the emergency surgery the day after my thyroidectomy - I had blood in my hair until, after a few days, I was fit enough to drag myself to the hospital room's bathroom.
So this time, I'm going in with a bob.
At night, at my daughter's flat in A Coruña, I feel a bit forlorn.
No small body of my dog Susie pressing into mine and weighing down my duvet like a millstone, and no purring, vibrating little one demanding I lift a flap so Petey the cat can nestle in my armpit.
Monday, 17th November
At half past eleven, I'm allocated the number seventy-four at the Cancer Centre.
The nurse calls me in and explains that she will inject the radiopharmaceutical into my breast in four different places.
She then tells me to come back at three p.m.
What?
I was told to check in at the Abente y Lago no later than two o'clock.
I call the coordinator and leave a message for her explaining my dilemma and asking her to call me back.
After half an hour of dithering on a bench outside the Centre, I call Admission to ask them directly.
The lady seems flustered and tells me she will call me back.
It has started to rain.
After waiting for another half hour inside, I decide to take a taxi and go to the hospital.
They tell me that I'll have to come back after three and go directly to the second floor.
I arrange for my daughter to wait for me by the lift in the hospital lobby sometime after three - I was supposed to be in my room already by the time she finishes school...
Back to square one, it is.
Luckily, my overnight bag includes an apple and a banana, which I eat sitting on the wet bench outside the Centre.
Then, I wait in the room assigned to gammagraphy patients.
In the meantime, my daughter has arrived at the hospital and is waiting for me in the lounge.
It is past half past three when they call my number.
Gammagraphy, CT, something else, and a doctor who marks my armpit with a marker pen.
At quarter past four, I finally join her.
They take me to room 2 - it has a view across the bay, my bed is next to the window, and the other one, as yet, is unoccupied.
They give me some biscuits and a cup of coffee. As I'm starving, I have the biscuits, and my daughter has the coffee.
The twinkling lights, reflected beautifully in the bay, remind us that Advent is imminent.
She takes the bus home, and will be back to look after me in the 24 hours following surgery.
I'm hoping for dinner, but I'm not sure if I might be hoping in vain, as I haven't been told when my surgery is scheduled for.
I'm lucky - there's lukewarm soup, a salad, a roll, and some tortilla.
Pretty bland, but I'm hungry.
Curiously, the card attached says pre-school age.
I eat it all up like a good girl.
Tuesday, 18th November
Couldn't sleep because I could hear people - the nurses? - talk until way after midnight.
And who sets their alarm for 6 o'clock when in hospital?
It will be a long wait.
First, the surgeon swings by, another hopeful in tow, marking my boob with an orange pen while explaining the procedure to his trainee – turning me into a work of art.
Next, a lady anaesthetist makes an appearance, talking me through the procedure.
Exactly eight weeks after the initial screening, I'm mentally preparing myself for being wheeled into the operating room, to the tune of Annie Lennox ghost-singing 'Don't let it bring you down. It's only castles burning' in my head.
Wednesday, 19th November
Call me Penthesileia, and give me a bow and a horse.
He surprises me even more when, towards the end of our nearly two-hour long chat, he blurts out that he wants to come over.
"Oh no," I say, "that's not really necessary! It would be so hard on you - my kitchen is not apt for a celiac!"
"I could go and forage in the woods", he says laughingly.
"Don't be silly, you'd be competing with the wolves and the boars! But I suppose we could get you a brand new table grill, and some disposable tableware, and you could do your own cooking. I have seen some Schär products on the supermarket shelves."
"I have a couple of things to do in November, and one appointment at the beginning of December, but after that I'm free to go."
"Have you talked to Dianne about this? Is she ok with it?" I ask.
"Oh yeah", he says, "she likes you."
In the afternoon I google flights, so we have an idea of the itinerary and cost: he could fly to Madrid, and then on to A Coruña - and back - for under six hundred dollars, and it would take about 24 hours.
I suppose I'm his next mission.
We've known each other for about 35 years, and we had last seen each other twenty years ago, when he made a stop-over on his way back to the States from the Middle East, to help me and my nineteen months' old daughter settle in on Tenerife.
Saturday, 1st November
I feel strangely dizzy and faint this morning.
I'm just glad this happens to be a long weekend.
Walking Susie the dog, I'm happy to see that the camellias are in bloom now.
Tuesday, 4th November
Today my boss at the English Academy stops me before I leave, and hands me my payslip, which, at a glance, seems ridiculously low.
She casually tells me that she is going to prepare the dismissal papers for the following week.
Run that past me again?
She once again tries to pass this off as my idea, and actually claims that it would be to my advantage, since Social Security would only pay me a pittance on sick leave and I'd be better off claiming unemployment benefit.
I obviously won't be able to catch a good night's rest tonight.
Wednesday, 5th November
I'm lucky and a lady at the Employment Office sees me - I inscribe myself in the 'betterment of employment' plan, which basically means I'm on the lookout for a new job because the one I hold is lacking.
I send a communiqué to my boss, objecting to both the pay and the dismissal.
Now, I dread having to go in.
Not something you wish for when your world is already topsy-turvy because of a fecking tumour.
At school, she avoids talking to me by going to the bathroom in between classes, and I see her disappear into the parking garage just as I come out of my last class.
Thursday, 6th November
I have my windscreen-wipers on fast mode the whole journey to A Coruña, and there's so much water on the road that my car goes sailing twice - luckily I manage to reign it in both times.
This time, I'm not going to look for a parking spot in the maze of the old town, I'm going straight to a parking garage.
Even in the garage, finding a spot that is not reserved, is tricky.
I find my way to the hospital, get my ticket to see the anaesthetist, and get called in straight away although I'm half an hour early.
Give me time to breathe.
I've lived on a minute island with only a couple of major roads and hardly any traffic for twelve years, and in a rural coastal village for the last four years, so coming to A Coruña is a hassle for me.
He gives me a little prep talk, has my blood pressure taken (140 to 80) and sends me on my way to see the surgeon.
Whereas the last time I was here, there was only one more couple in the waiting area, today it is full.
Headscarves and harrowed faces aplenty.
My heart skips a beat.
My number eventually comes up on the screen and I go in.
Different office, different lady doctor-in-training, different assistant, same pleasant surgeon.
He once more explains the procedure by drawing me a little picture.
He then tells me that on Monday the 17th - a day before the actual surgery - I'll have to go to the Cancer Centre for the sentinel-node procedure.
He draws me another little picture to explain where the centre is situated.
He does me the favour of having me admitted on that day rather than on the day of the surgery, as is standard procedure.
I have to take a seat in the waiting area once more, until the coordinator is ready to issue all the relevant paperwork and show me an explanatory video of how to care for the surgical drain they are going to send me home with the day after.
I beg your pardon?
They'll give you a suture needle next.
I send my boss a text saying that I will be on medical leave as of the day of my hospital admittance, and back as soon as possible, providing I can drive.
I arrive back in Viveiro just in time to open the Academy.
After the first lesson, she calls me into an empty classroom to hassle me.
She asks for the doctor's appointment slips although she had previously told me they wouldn't be necessary, and she only had to look after my class for 45 minutes once when I couldn't get back on time from the first appointment in A Coruña.
Friday, 7th November
Even on the day she doesn't come in, her comments when I send the report of who's missing in class give me reason to think that she's looking for an excuse to sack me anyhow.
Mum thinks I'm an idiot for still wanting to go in.
Monday, 10th November
During the weekend I had a close look at all my paysheets, and there are enough inconsistencies to warrant a trip to the accountant's in town.
Luckily, my boss only comes in for an hour on Mondays, and there are no further incidents.
Tuesday, 11th November
My daughter tells me that their car has developed a clutch problem, so I might need a Plan B to go to A Coruña on the weekend.
Wednesday, 12th November
The accountant couldn't make head nor toe of my paysheet, either, and tells me that the monthly 'dedication' bonus of about 60€ isn't included.
I feel my stomach knotting up all through my classes.
During the night I develop the symptoms of a cold, and I decide to try and see the doctor in the morning.
Thursday, 13th November
They call me to let me know I have the green light for the shingles injection.
I get the sick note.
I pass it on by email.
I make some purchases to ensure business as usual for my mum while I'm gone.
My neighbour is going to look in on her daily in case she needs something.
It feels a bit strange to sit around at home in the afternoon, doing nothing instead of coaxing English words out of reluctant Spanish school children.
Friday, 14th November
Tying up loose ends.
The car now has two new front tyres, and the broken rear reflector that had been a minor issue at the last MOT inspection has been replaced. It's also fuelled up.
The key to the Academy has been returned.
I've had the injection.
The Saint Nicholas sack for Lily and her fiancé has been filled with Lindt goodies.
I have lugged two butane bottles home.
Anything else?
I wished I could just will this intruder away.
I'm made of German steel, after all.
Sunday, 16th November
Bags are packed - clothes, bed linen and towels, toothbrush and a few toiletries, a bag full of groceries, the laptop, and three Primo Levy books.
I'm planning on staying at my daughter's student flat until the surgeon will see me the week after the surgery.
I scrubbed myself red in the bath - now I'm waiting for my daughter to come home to cut my hair.
Last time, my hair was in a right Medusa state after the emergency surgery the day after my thyroidectomy - I had blood in my hair until, after a few days, I was fit enough to drag myself to the hospital room's bathroom.
So this time, I'm going in with a bob.
At night, at my daughter's flat in A Coruña, I feel a bit forlorn.
No small body of my dog Susie pressing into mine and weighing down my duvet like a millstone, and no purring, vibrating little one demanding I lift a flap so Petey the cat can nestle in my armpit.
Monday, 17th November
At half past eleven, I'm allocated the number seventy-four at the Cancer Centre.
The nurse calls me in and explains that she will inject the radiopharmaceutical into my breast in four different places.
She then tells me to come back at three p.m.
What?
I was told to check in at the Abente y Lago no later than two o'clock.
I call the coordinator and leave a message for her explaining my dilemma and asking her to call me back.
After half an hour of dithering on a bench outside the Centre, I call Admission to ask them directly.
The lady seems flustered and tells me she will call me back.
It has started to rain.
After waiting for another half hour inside, I decide to take a taxi and go to the hospital.
They tell me that I'll have to come back after three and go directly to the second floor.
I arrange for my daughter to wait for me by the lift in the hospital lobby sometime after three - I was supposed to be in my room already by the time she finishes school...
Back to square one, it is.
Luckily, my overnight bag includes an apple and a banana, which I eat sitting on the wet bench outside the Centre.
Then, I wait in the room assigned to gammagraphy patients.
In the meantime, my daughter has arrived at the hospital and is waiting for me in the lounge.
It is past half past three when they call my number.
Gammagraphy, CT, something else, and a doctor who marks my armpit with a marker pen.
At quarter past four, I finally join her.
They take me to room 2 - it has a view across the bay, my bed is next to the window, and the other one, as yet, is unoccupied.
They give me some biscuits and a cup of coffee. As I'm starving, I have the biscuits, and my daughter has the coffee.
The twinkling lights, reflected beautifully in the bay, remind us that Advent is imminent.
She takes the bus home, and will be back to look after me in the 24 hours following surgery.
I'm hoping for dinner, but I'm not sure if I might be hoping in vain, as I haven't been told when my surgery is scheduled for.
I'm lucky - there's lukewarm soup, a salad, a roll, and some tortilla.
Pretty bland, but I'm hungry.
Curiously, the card attached says pre-school age.
I eat it all up like a good girl.
Tuesday, 18th November
Couldn't sleep because I could hear people - the nurses? - talk until way after midnight.
And who sets their alarm for 6 o'clock when in hospital?
It will be a long wait.
First, the surgeon swings by, another hopeful in tow, marking my boob with an orange pen while explaining the procedure to his trainee – turning me into a work of art.
Next, a lady anaesthetist makes an appearance, talking me through the procedure.
Exactly eight weeks after the initial screening, I'm mentally preparing myself for being wheeled into the operating room, to the tune of Annie Lennox ghost-singing 'Don't let it bring you down. It's only castles burning' in my head.
Wednesday, 19th November
Call me Penthesileia, and give me a bow and a horse.
...to be continued
