Credit: Statuette of an 'Amazon Warrior on Horse' by Irish sculptor Olivia Musgrave
PART 2:
The TEN TRYING WEEKS from SURGERY to STARTING THERAPY
The Sorrow-Ride continues (metastases could be lurking anywhere, ready to strike)
The TEN TRYING WEEKS from SURGERY to STARTING THERAPY
The Sorrow-Ride continues (metastases could be lurking anywhere, ready to strike)
Tuesday, 18th November
I come to at the recovery ward feeling great.
Nothing like the pitiful, shivering wreck from last time.
I'm thirsty.
Mind you, compared to the state I was in after the emergency surgery on my birthday last year, when my mouth was as dry as the Atacama Desert and my lips were like the skin of a scaled lizard, this is a piece of cake.
I'm actually feeling peckish!
I wonder if the woman who, together with her three daughters and husband, had arrived early in the morning to claim the other bed in my room and who had been wheeled off at around eight o'clock, is still around here somewhere.
Privacy curtains block the view. Luckily I had gone to the bathroom to have a shower before their arrival, shortly after someone's alarm had gone off at six o'clock in the morning. Her family had left just before eight, and I had introduced myself, addressing the curtain that separated us.
Her name is Carmen, and she is having her second breast removed by a lady surgeon.
My daughter arrives.
Nurses come and go.
I have to pee.
My surgeon stops by to chat a while. Apparently, my breast weighed seven hundred grammes.
I have no idea if that is a lot, or average, or why he should mention it.
Before taking his leave, he tells me that he is going to attend a congress and won't see me until the fourth of December.
Which means I will have to go back home, and then return, by coach, rather than staying in A Coruña until after the appointment.
I have to pee again.
I suppose that is a good sign.
Not that I have to go again, but the peeing as such.
At last one of the nurses has pity
on me and empties two mini sachets
of water into my mouth.
Not much after, I'm fetched to go back to the room.
Carmen is already there, and so is her family. She is not feeling too well.
When I need another wee, the male nurse encourages me to get up.
I'm not too sure that it is a good idea - I have a history of fainting in bathrooms.
He fetches a bandage and fashions a sort of belt that attaches the drainage system securely to my waist, and accompanies me to the bathroom door, handling the drip stand.
I'm really, really pleased with how good I feel, and how soon I can get up.
In the evening, they serve me a lovely hake and potatoes dinner, with roast apple for dessert.
The night nurse comes.
She is loud and pushy, and she wants me to take the antianxiety medication Lorazepam, the stomach protector Omeprazol - which I'm pretty sure should not be taken together - and the pain relief Paracetamol, which I refuse to take.
She insists.
I put the tablets in my bag when she is not looking.
Despite the nurse, my blood pressure is back to normal: 120 to 80.
Then we settle in for the night - the curtain is once again in place, as one daughter each will be spending the night, too.
Carmen - who was delighted to take the benzo - immediately falls asleep, and she is a snorer.
I would probably snore, too, if I could sleep, but being in a room with other people and having to lie on my back keeps me from falling asleep.
The daughters eventually settle down and fall asleep, too, so now I'm listening to the trio performing 'Eine kleine Nachtmusik'.
Their individual input is quite distinct: there's the tuba from the second bed, and cymbals and oboe from the sides, at different intervals.
They keep me amused, anyway.
Wednesday, 19th November
There is a bit of a palaver with the duo that do the morning shift - one must be a trainee - about having a shower.
I tell them I have already washed myself - showers aren't recommended in the first 48 hours, anyway - but they keep insisting, so I tell them I'm going home in a few hours anyway.
They stop pestering me.
Some time later, a nurse comes and removes the valve from the back of my hand. She then proceeds to take off the bandages taped to my chest. The scar is much longer than expected, and not neat.
I don't know how much is owed to swelling, but there also seems to be a lot more boob than I would like.
I feel let down, somehow.
Once more, I´m being asked for my bra size.
Good grief, I don't wear a bra.
She wants to know in order to find the correct size prosthesis.
They do go on.
I'm not going to bother with all that, thank you.
She insists, and finally hands me the size 90 - 'aha', I think, 'the Burela surgeon's assistant was spot on, after all.'
Apparently, they don't refer to the circumference with this number, as would be the case in bra sizes, they refer to the cup size, which should be a C in my case.
She also gives me a linen bag for the drainage system to wear around my waist, explains once again how to empty the fluids into a special bag - which nevertheless can be thrown out with the ordinary household rubbish - of which she hands us several.
She then goes off in search of a length of tubular bandage I can use in lieu of a bra, to keep the bandage that covers the suture in place.
I'm handed my papers.
We say goodbye to Carmen.
I'm fine - until we pop into a very busy supermarket, where I suddenly feel overwhelmed, and very afraid someone might accidentally bump into me, or get entangled with the linen bag containing the drainage.
I find myself unable to choose the bread, or think of what else I might need for the next few days.
Lily has to take over.
It takes me hours to find my equilibrium.
Friday, 21st November
Sleeping with the drainage system dangling from my flank continues to be a bother, and the bandage across where my right boob used to be isn't held in place, either, so I decide to leave the suture 'al aire' underneath my t-shirt.
In the afternoon I'm starting to fret a bit, as there are a lot of very unsightly clots in the tube that seem to impede the flow: the suction ball is nearly empty, and has been for hours.
After trying to manipulate first the tube and then the bulb, I send Lily - who has gone into town - a message asking her to accompany me to the University Hospital's emergency room, as it is past six by then.
She meets me downstairs and we set off to the taxi stand around the corner.
At the University Hospital, I'm allocated my number and we settle down for the wait. My number comes up surprisingly fast, but that is just the start of it.
Inside the cubicle, a young man asks what my problem is, does some typing, and sends me off to another waiting area.
Quite a few people are there, watching a popular Spanish T.V. series, while keeping an eye on the monitor that tells you where to go when it is your turn.
In many cases, you can't tell who is ill, and who is just company, or waiting for someone to come back from the doctors' offices.
After a very long while, I'm called to box three, where two women await me.
They, too, seem at a loss.
I could wait to see a surgeon, which, according to one of them, will take ages tonight.
Well I'm not leaving with the surgical drain blocked - risking seroma or worse - so I send my daughter home and opt to go back to the waiting area on my own, where I watch about twenty more episodes of the Spanish series - until one o'clock at night, when I'm finally seen by a young female surgeon who manages to unblock the valve and empty the tube's disconcerting gunk into the suction bulb.
I watch her technique closely, just in case, because I'm not prepared to spend seven more hours at the CHUAC on a second occasion.
Saturday, 22nd November
I have settled into a routine of getting up, fixing myself some breakfast and a cuppa, and then doing some reading - the Primo Levi books I brought along should be made compulsory reading for everyone over the age of sixteen...
Then I watch a little telly - anything with Tim Roth in it - and to my delight I find that the British Crime series 'Luther' with Idris Elba is available on Prime. I'm not very successful at trying to not constantly feel hungry.
In addition to the stabbing pain that sometimes passes through like an electrical storm from the missing boob to the one that is left, there is now a pulling pain in my left ovary, as if I were still ovulating.
Monday, 24th November
I don't sleep well, obviously - or rather: even worse than usual - and I have trouble concentrating because of it, but the slight nausea and dizziness were probably due to the anti-inflammatory medication I had been taking until yesterday, because those symptoms are gone.
I suspect that the Angst I had experienced the day I was discharged keeps me indoors, which isn't so good.
I wished I had Susie, my dog, with me, encouraging me to go on our three daily rounds: once round the hamlet in the mornings, once past the containers at midday, and once through the woods in the evenings, just before dusk sets in.
Once more - just like four weeks ago - I sit on the loo and stare at the bloodstained plies of toilet paper in my hand: light red, 'fresh' rectal blood.
I guess I shouldn't ignore it this time.
I have an appointment with my GP in three days, so I will bring this up then, along with the pain in my ovary.
Tuesday, 25th November
Today is the day of the appointment with the nurse, but I'm afraid she won't relieve me of the tube yet – it is still draining around fifty millilitres daily.
On my way in I glance at a group of people coming towards me, and sure enough, it's Carmen with her husband, and another couple.
She also seems in good spirits, and we wish each other luck.
The nurse has a quick look at the state of the suture, changes the dressing and medical tape covering the exit hole of the drainage, hands me some more blood-bags, and expresses her satisfaction.
I take a taxi to the bus station. I'm about half an hour early for the express coach to Ferrol, so I sit on a bench by the monitor.
By the time I have sent messages to family and friends, and fathomed which dock my coach will be departing from, there is a very long queue - mostly out of sight around the corner - and I'm worried I might not be able to get on the bus at all.
I do - but not soon after, the ticket collector announces "Only three more seats on this one." My friend Antonio comes and sees me at the terminal in Ferrol, to keep me company until the Burela coach leaves.
We spend the next couple of hours chatting pleasantly.
It is chucking it down when I arrive at last, so I'm really grateful that instead of having to walk to gran Lola's house from the bus stop, Manu's dad is waiting for me in his car at the bus stop - along with Lola - to take me to the hamlet.
He asks me about my daughter and his son, and when I say I can't really say much, as I don't see them very often - they keep to themselves and are mostly in their room - he laughs, and lets on that they do the same when they are at his house. Well, at least now I know that it is nothing personal, apparently.
At home, everyone is pleased to see me: mum is smiling, Susie nearly falls over from wagging her tail, and Petey the cat comes out of the little cave he always digs for himself underneath the blanket in the dog bed - talking to me in a loud voice, purring and bumping his head into my hand.
Later, Michael calls from the States to find out how I'm doing, and to let me know that he won't be coming after all - his celiac disease is just too debilitating and the 24+hour journey, with several stop-overs, too frightening.
I thought as much, so I'm not too disappointed.
Wednesday, 26th November
My left ovary is playing up again.
Thursday, 27th November
After asking mum for a quick shopping list, I drive into town for my doctor's appointment.
I shouldn't, but the car needs to be driven once in a while, and it's only a five-minute drive.
The doctor, both nurses and the receptionist are in the lobby.
They are on strike, apparently, and only emergencies are attended.
I need my sick leave extended.
It will have to wait.
I dutifully pass the message on to my boss.
A little later in the day I realise I can now access the pathologist's report, dated the 25th, on my biopsied boob in the Sergas app because it is not aware that I wasn't really attended.
Not good news, I'm afraid.
There is evidence of cancer cells in the sentinel node - a cluster of about 3mm.
Bam.
As I said before: it could be lurking round the corner anytime, ready to bop you on the head.
This time, the wind is momentarily knocked out of me, like when the ghost train at the fun fair suddenly jerks around a corner and you see skeletal fingers reaching for you. Although you expect it to happen, your heart still ends up in your mouth.
I take Susie for a walk in an effort to get some extra oxygen into my system.
My own, personal, gaping hole opens up and threatens to swallow me up.
I teeter on its edge for some hours, but no, like on the very few traumatic occasions in the past - two, three at the most - when I found myself on the verge of giving into depression, I take a leap, and land safely.
Friday, 28th November
My doctor calls me and tells me not to worry about the sick leave.
I download it from the app and pass it on.
Sunday, 30th November
Today is Advent Sunday - time to get the Christmas decorations out. The fir branches I had bought before going to A Coruña for surgery have survived their wait on the balcony, absorbing moisture from the air.
One goes up on the living-room wall, adorned with silver baubles and ornaments in red and white, one is for the vase below the mirror in the hallway, and the third is placed on a shelf in the kitchen, both adorned with baubles in various shades of rose and dusky pink.
For my daughter's room, I have bought modest solar-powered fairy lights to be placed in the windows, and for all the other windows we have stickers of snowflakes in various shades of light blues and greens.
Silver stars dangle from our exterior plants around the front door. Nothing too fancy.
Monday, 1st December
The drainage tube is becoming a pain in the boob - it's not really draining anymore, but it has to stay in until my next appointment in A Coruña.
Tuesday, 2nd December
Today, I'm afraid I did myself a mischief while bending down and extending both arms to put Susie in her harness. There was a pain in my chest as if the connective tissue were tearing away from the muscle. Considering that a lot of material was cut out recently, that is probably exactly what it was.
One just doesn't think about these things, and nobody explains what the healing process involves.
Funnily enough, my non-existent breast feels a lot heavier than the remaining one, there's a feeling of tightness, and I get the 'zingers' all along the scar and especially where the tube exits. I sometimes have to pull away my t-shirt - or the duvet at night - due to scar-hypersensitivity.
Very uncomfortable.
Wednesday, 3rd December
My neighbour Alberto is taking me to see the midwife in Viveiro today, from where I will take the train to Ferrol.
She will take the sample for the cervical cancer screening which I asked for, to be on the safe side. My appointment is at a quarter to twelve in room number 25 on the first floor of the Medical Centre, and, according to my ticket, I have ten minutes to spare.
I have to take a pyjama, a blanket and a change of clothes with me - although my daughter has hung out the washing to dry on Sunday, it's not ready to be brought in yet.
The two hour journey on the narrow-gauge train through the Galician landscape - rural and green on my left, coastal and blue on the right - is pleasant, and - contrary to expectation - I arrive on time.
Lily is already there, and I offload the bags onto her.
It nags me how little functional I am these days: I can only use my right hand and arm close to my body, really, and my left arm and shoulder have to take all the weight.
We quickly pop into C&A's to buy my mum a much needed new jersey and slouch jacket, and by the time I climb the last flight to their fifth floor apartment I feel knackered.
Thursday, 4th December
Today, I have the appointment with the surgeon.
According to him, everything looks and feels okay, and the nurse can finally remove the drainage.
She tells me to take a deep breath, and when I exhale she says "That's it, done."
Unbelievable.
I catch a quick glimpse of the tube - it's much thinner than I thought, and looks a bit yucky.
She cleans and bandages up the wound, and tells me to dab it with iodine tincture for a couple of days.
The surgeon confirms what I have already deduced from reading the biopsy report, and tells me that before starting radiotherapy - which will consist of 15 sessions - they have decided to ask for a case study to determine whether chemotherapy could provide an edge.
If so, they would start me on chemo straight away - but it will take about three weeks for the result to come through, as the contracting lab is in the United States .
And as if that wasn't enough, the committee will also discuss the third option: anti-hormone therapy, as the long-term option.
Here I was, hoping to escape all that by opting for the mastectomy, and now I might possibly have to have all three therapies available, anyway.
They give me some chits to hand in at reception.
The receptionist registers the appointment requests for the medical oncologist at the University Hospital, another for the radiotherapy oncologist and the gammagraphy at the Cancer Centre, and last but not least, one for the rehab specialist and the CT scan at the hospital where they operated me. In the afternoon, both oncologists cancel my appointments claiming that because I'm a resident of the province of Lugo, my hospital of reference is the one in Burela.
What a palaver!
Apparently Burela only transferred the actual surgery to Coruña and expect me to do the post-surgery treatment with them, or possibly in Lugo.
No no no.
I can't be expected to drive forty-five minutes to Burela (or twice that to Lugo) every day, on my own, for fifteen five-minute sessions. What if I don't feel well and cannot drive back? To go in an ambulance is too much hassle and not really cost-effective either.
I invite Lily and Manu to a lovely Kurdish meal at the ‘Mesopotamya’ Restaurant across the street. Funnily enough, the ovary pain has changed sides today.
Friday, 5th December
I send a message to my boss, asking for my November Pay - I worked right up until the 12th of the month, and I supposedly get sick pay from the fourth day after its beginning, but as yet, there has been no credit entry.
I shouldn't have to be dealing with this kind of crap right now.
We are all going home for a long weekend.
I've been having a couple of happy dreams lately, featuring the love of my life - I'm such a silly Sue!
Saturday, 6th December
There are bits of thread sticking out along the scar.
The sight of nylon thread makes my stomach turn.
One of my dogs - sweet, foolish little Mickey, Susie's brother - died of a perforated intestine a decade ago at only four years old after swallowing a length of it on the end of a baited fishing tackle some irresponsible cabrón had left lying around at the Canarian coast.
The flashback is upsetting.
The vet who had tried to save him by performing surgery felt so sorry he refused to charge me for it.
I snip the thread ends off with a vengeance.
The whole length of my scar is overstimulated, especially the exit-hole underneath the roll of remaining boob - I still cannot bear my clothes touching and have to pull them away.
Sunday, 7th December
An apple a day hasn't kept the doctor away, so I now eat two of the wonderfully tart and juicy Galician apples.
I wonder if there is a correlation between cancer and an increased appetite?
I'm always hungry these days.
I look it up and the contrary seems to be the case.
I have always been contrary.
There is the pulling pain in my left ovary again.
Monday, 8th December
Today is a Bank Holiday, and still no pay in sight.
The trip back to AC is uneventful.
Tuesday, 9th December
There is a message from my bank that my wages have been deposited.
At last.
Even less than I thought.
I wonder how I am going to pay the bills.
I suppose they think that my food bill will be a lot lower now.
I´m afraid I have always been a sarky cow.
I take a phone call from my coordinator, Carmen, advising me to try and get myself registered as a 'temporarily displaced patient', while I'm on my way to the Cancer Centre for my Bone Gammagraphy.
They call me in almost straight away, but then I'm sent back to the waiting area while the radioactive agent makes its way through my body.
Two and a half hours later, at around the proposed time, I make my way back, dutifully go to the loo, and mentally prepare myself.
The procedure itself takes around twenty minutes, maybe a little longer, and I can leave straight away afterwards.
Just my luck there should be no taxi outside.
I'm on the phone to call a taxi company, when I manage to flag a passing one down.
The short trip to the bus terminal seemingly takes ages, and I'm on tenterhooks - I really want to catch this coach, it would save me so much time, as there's a connecting one from another company in Ferrol that I could take straightaway.
The taxi comes to a stop opposite the terminal with only a few minutes to go, and I run across the busy road, through the station, to the dock where the coach left last time
- it says Vigo on its display - shit, it must be leaving from a different one today. I quickly scan the other coaches´ displays and find the right one in the second row of docks.
Its driver is already warming up the engines by the time I get on.
I sit down next to a woman in her thirties and briefly wonder if I should ask her if she is pregnant, but decide against it.
I'm out of breath, my hands are trembling and I was the last one to board, so I would probably come across as a lunatic rather than a concerned citizen.
Wednesday, 10th December
The GP is theoretically still on strike but he is seeing his patients anyway because the backlog would become too much to handle if he didn't.
He prescribes Amitriptilyne but I'm not even going to pick it up at the pharmacy.
I ask for the 'displaced patient' card at the desk, but they tell me I have to get myself registered at the Health Centre that is nearest to my new residence.
Saturday, 13th December
Today, my therapy is going to be baking - I googled recipes with crème fraîche this morning and found one for small apple cakes I want to try.
I'll be needing a hundred grammes of shredded nuts, so I crack a heap of the walnuts I had been collecting for weeks, and then put them through our fifty year old nut mill.
I peel three apples and slice them.
The dough doesn't come together easily, and by the time I put them in the oven I fear I might have done myself another mischief.
I now have six heavenly individual cakes - baked in the silicone mould I have for burger buns - but my axilla aches.
My daughter comes in - following her nose - and snaffles one right away.
She uuhs and aahs, so apparently they are a success.
Sunday, 14th December
We travel back to Coruña in the comfort of my 'son-in-law's' car, and I'm taking the rental contract for the Coruña flat and a copy of my daughter's Coruña student’s registration with me, just in case.
The flat is cold, and electricity prices are high.
Lily makes us wonderful pizza.
Monday, 15th December
On my way to the Healthcare Centre Casa do Mar, I take a call from the oncologist's office asking if I have been able to resolve the problem.
Not yet, I'm afraid, but I'm on it.
I don't have to wait long, and the registration itself is pretty straightforward.
I take the bus from a stop across the road to go to the Hospital to try and get me rescheduled, hopefully before the holidays.
My surgeon comes out of his office while I'm waiting in the corridor outside the coordinator's room, and he remembers me by name and all.
I’m given a new date for the Radiotherapy Oncologist, in January, but I run into the same old wall regarding the Medical Oncologist – 'displaced patient' doesn't do the trick where they are concerned.
They promise to get the Head of Admissions involved to try and find a solution and ask me to wait for their phone call tomorrow.
On my way back to the flat I want to pay the Artisan Baker's in our street a visit, but it is closed on Mondays.
No luck today.
Tuesday, 16th December
In the end I have to call Carmen the Coordinator, but she hasn't heard back, either.
I get a call from the Radiology department, though, and it seems that my appointment on the 12th of January is suspended until further notice. Again.
I once more try my luck at the Panadería Suso, but it is closed in the afternoons.
My luck seems a little off, lately.
I take it back: my Cervix smear test just came back negative! Yippee.
There's this pulling pain again, though - right and left ovary.
Wednesday, 17th December
I still have this strange pulling sensation in my ovaries - as if they were straining to release an ovum.
I start an online query with Sergas - maybe they have mercy on me and transfer my case.
In the evening, Lily and I go to an Asian supermarket, and I find a lovely earthenware dish with a fish design, reminiscent of ancient plates dug up on archaeological sites of the Impero Romano.
Thursday, 18th December
I have a little talk with my new GP at the Casa do Mar, and she promises me to call me on Christmas Eve to let me know what Sergas' reply to her appeal to get me scheduled for an appointment with the Medical Oncologist is.
Friday, 19th December
Lily is already on holiday, so she can accompany me to the Abente y Lago Hospital for my CT scan.
I can't remember if they had told me to come in on an empty stomach, so I don't have breakfast even though the appointment isn't until half past two.
We wait a while, and when I'm finally called in she gives me two cups of water to drink.
She has trouble with my veins, but strikes lucky on the third try.
Once again, I'm injected a radioactive agent.
Call me Radioactive Sue.
I wished it was a superpower.
Last time they put me in the tube, at the Cancer Centre the day before my operation, I was just looking at the explanatory pictures when the laser suddenly came on, so this time I close my eyes as soon as the technologist hits the button, but I don't really pay attention to the automated voice until I hear 'respira' - breathe. Next time it comes on, I realise that I should have breathed in when it started talking, and then held it until it tells you to breathe again.
Oops a daisy.
They are not doing their job properly - they could mention all this beforehand.
Afterwards, I down half a bottle of water in the corridor, and we are off.
We are going to do some Christmas grocery shopping at Lidl's, and I can have a bite to eat at last - it is past four.
Monday, 22nd December
We are back home, for mum's birthday.
I want to go to Burela today, to talk to someone at Customer Attention, but my car's battery has had it.
The problem is, the way my car is parked, my neighbour wouldn't be able to jump start it, and I doubt that a breakdown lorry could pass through the narrow access roads, so I call my local garage and plead with him to come out with his little portable starter case.
He eventually does, fixes the problem, and I follow him back to the garage where he puts in a brand new one.
After nine years of service, I think I can consider myself lucky that it was replaced with so little hassle.
Now I have to get a move on, though - I know from experience that they take out the roll of numbers outside the hospital's Customer Service office at quarter to one.
I manage to arrive just before, and to my surprise there isn't anybody waiting.
I take a number anyway, but I knock on the door to let them know that they have a costumer.
I'm asked to wait outside.
When she calls me in, I explain my case, only to be informed that the person responsible is on holiday until the 29th.
She has a look anyway, and says that Sergas has posted a note that I'm already being attended in A Coruña.
I explain that it might look that way to anyone not familiar with the intricacies of my case, but I wasn't really present at the appointment with the medical oncologist on the 3rd of December, although it may say presential – all they did was take a sample from my cancer boob to be sent to the U.S. lab.
She leaves a note for her colleague and asks me to get back to her sometime after the 29th.
Back home, my daughter is preparing the birthday supper: vongole with french bread for starters, pork knuckle with red cabbage and 'Knödel' - German potato dumplings - as our main course, and 'Apfelstrudel' for pudding.
We are giving her an upholstered footstool that matches her armchair as a present.
Tuesday, 23rd December
Both Lily and I have an appointment with our GP today.
He is already about an hour behind schedule when he is called away for an emergency and everyone has to reschedule.
I get my sick leave extended, no questions asked, but the next available appointment slot isn't until the 5th of January.
I get a phone call from the Oncology department of the University Hospital to tell me that they cannot see me as a displaced patient, it has to be a definitive referral.
I google the procedure, and it seems pretty straightforward.
I have to ask my principal GP for a favourable report and he has to initiate the proceedings, and give me a chit to hand in at destination.
I'll try to get him to cooperate on the 5th, and on the 8th I'll try my luck at the Casa do Mar again.
Wednesday, 24th December
I scared myself this morning, doing a quick hands-on check of my remaining breast - I'm not sure if what I thought I had felt to be a bit lumpy, is in fact fat, a gland, or something suspicious, so I'm going to ask my daughter when she comes.
Still lounging in bed, with my cat snuggled up against me under the covers, and my dog on top of the covers, I schedule appointments for myself via the Sergas app.
I have an appointment due with the endocrinologist, so I need to get my blood checked beforehand, and I need a second dose of the shingles vaccine.
Hey! I can access the CT scan results!
Mainly good news.
Merry Christmas everyone.
But there is a slight endometrial distension of just under a centimetre a gynaecologist needs to have a closer look at, and some millimetric cysts and/or cherry angiomas on the dome of my liver.
I'm in the kitchen where mum is preparing Coq au Vin when the phone rings.
It's the A Coruña doctor, suggesting I come by with my rental contract and ask to be allocated a definitive doctor instead of a provisional one.
Yes, that is the plan.
I thank her and wish her a Merry Christmas.
My daughter can't find anything suspicious, so that's a relief.
Thursday, Christmas Day
I just realised that there's been a shift in my attitude towards the therapies: whereas before I had wanted to avoid them, now I'm anxious for them to start sometime soon!
Bite the bullet I believe it is called.
Friday, 26th December
I feel stressed.
All this toing and froing and being sent from Pontius to Pilates is wearing me down.
On my usual round with Susie, the sight of one of my neighbour's plot cheers me up no end, though.
It seems that he has acquired a hyperactive mole.
One little hill after the other adorns his lawn - I count nine on an area of maybe forty square metres. What a busy little bugger!
A strange moistness makes me rush up to the bathroom in the afternoon - the toilet paper comes away bloody.
Not from the back, this time.
This time it's from the front.
It can't be.
The pulling ovary pain suddenly makes sense.
My period has come back!
Saturday, 27th December
It is definitely my period, requiring me to ask my daughter for OBs.
This possibly changes how they are going to treat me as to anti-hormone therapy – I might not be quite post-menopausal after all.
This effing hormone junkie of a cancer is probably having a party.
Wednesday, 31st December
I think I may be losing it a bit.
I have always had the habit of talking to all kinds of animals including slugs and snakes - all through summer I addressed the group of young cows in one of the fields I walk along with Susie, as 'Ladies' - or an individual one who ventured a bit closer as 'Blondie' - until one day I had a closer look and realised they hadn't got an udder between them - but this morning I caught myself talking to an apple!
The poor thing was hanging a bit forlornly from the branch of an otherwise barren tree.
A smallish, yellow apple, which seemed to me was contemplating throwing itself off the branch - so I had wanted to lift its spirits with some encouraging words.
For the moment it is still hanging on for all that it is worth.
My scar cream has arrived!
Thursday, New Year´s Day
First act in the new year: put scar cream on before going to bed while listening to a Simply Red concert on telly and telling the tumour to beat it.
That is all I wish for.
I notice that some more cherry angiomas have appeared on my skin, below where my boob used to be.
Most likely caused by hormonal changes.
You bet.
Friday, 2nd January
I'm going in first thing in the morning to have my blood taken for analysis.
My thyroid function hasn't been right since their removal, and although the Burela endocrinologist has adjusted the dose of my medication once – on my say-so - the test results keep coming back reflecting a disorder.
I'm going to ask to be seen by a different one in A Coruña.
While I'm there, I ask the nurse why the first dose of the shingles vaccine isn't showing up on the app, as this might possibly cause a problem when I turn up for the second dose in A Coruña.
She promises to fix it.
Okay, I just checked the app again, and the information is now complete.
There's something else that is starting to bother me: the lymph nodes in my left armpit - on the other side that is - are making themselves felt.
I don't even want to think about why.
Monday, 5th January
Went to see my local GP today, and I now - hopefully - have the correct paper in hand to initiate the transferral in a few days.
He added the news about my period to my file and speculated - like I did - that it might have something to do with the findings of the scan from two weeks ago.
I'm going to have to ask for an appointment with a gynaecologist in A Coruña.
I have been looking at caps and turbans and all that, and should it come to hair-loss due to chemo therapy I would rather wear a hoodie.
But it is not as easy as it seems to find a lightweight, pure cotton, long-sleeved hooded tee.
The other thing proving difficult to find are suitable wash and moisturising lotions for when my skin will be exposed to radiation: it has to be soap free, ph-neutral, and free of preservatives, metals, alcohol, perfume or fragrance, and, most importantly, antioxidants.
Wednesday, 7th January
Lily and I are going back to Coruña in my car - she has to go back to school tomorrow, but Manu's classes won't start until Monday.
We stop at Lidl's and do ten days’ worth of shopping.
I also buy a pillow for myself and little imitation sheepskin for our three pets.
We settle down to binge watch "This is going to hurt".
Thursday, 8th January
Had a restless night - I was cold, the bed is uncomfortable, the duvet too thin and I was generally fretting.
The Lidl pillow is alright, though.
I reserve a 'Too Good to Go' bag at a nearby grocer's for 2.99€.
I try if they let me check out the blood test results, and yes, they are already available on the app - the T3 levels are in red again, being too low.
I ask auntie Google: it means too little T4 is being converted to T3.
Taking Eutirox 100 had the opposite effect if I remember correctly, so really I would need a dose between my current 88 and the 100 - this could be achieved by prescribing a packet of the lowest dose, 25, which would last me a year if I quartered the pills to take one additional quarter daily to bring my dose up to 94. But I would need to talk to the endocrinologist.
Maybe, if all goes well with the transferral, which I am going to try and sort out today, I will be able to convince my new GP to not only get me referred to the oncologist, but also authorise consultations by both an endocrinologist and a gynaecologist.
I would have liked another hour of peace in bed, as since I checked the time shortly before seven, worrying that my daughter might have overslept - she hadn't, I could see light in her bedroom when I went to the bathroom - I have not stopped going through my internal checklists in my mind and consulting my smartphone.
But this flat is poorly soundproofed and the neighbour listens to the news on some horrid radio station in the mornings - on full blast for ten minutes, every hour, it seems.
So I get up, and get ready instead.
I know my way to the Centre now, and when I get there, I don't have to wait long at all before one of the two ladies looks up and indicates to me to step forward.
She interrupts my explanation of why I'm here with a clipped "It is not possible."
I insist, and her colleague comes to my aid, saying that as I already have a Sergas healthcare card, it should be possible.
She does some typing, but comes to another snag, and again says that it is impossible.
Once more, her colleague advises her on how to continue.
But then she exclaims "But you are on sick leave," as if that were unusual, considering that she works as a receptionist in a Healthcare Centre.
The colleague looks up and takes over.
Thank God for this woman because I'm on the verge of a fit.
She explains that my sick leave is registered in the province of Lugo, and only they can authorise its transferral to Coruña. "I see," I say, "where do I have to go and who do I need to talk to?"
She advises me to try my luck at the Territorial Inspection here in A Coruña, and to come back as soon as I have the authorisation, in writing, in hand.
I thank them, and go up to the bus stop, where a nice gentleman tells me to cross the road and take the bus from there.
I cross the road, but I can't figure out which bus stop I would have to get off, as the office isn't on the main road, but in one of the many little side streets.
I used to be able to find my way around anywhere with ease, whereas now it seems I couldn't find my way out of a sock.
So I cross the road again and take the one taxi that is waiting at the stand a little further up the road.
It costs me a fiver to get there.
I go in and talk to the guard, who tells me to take the lift to the 6th floor, take a right, and talk to someone there.
Which I do.
Another nice gentleman patiently listens to my story and writes down the phone number of the Burela Office for me and coaches me on what to say to them.
I exit the building, make the phone call in the street, and ask today's third nice gentleman to send the necessary document to the Coruña Office.
He tells me that it has to be authorised by the chief inspector.
Asked how long it would take said chief inspector to sign said document, he says "Maybe half an hour."
The smile returns to my face, and I thank him.
I remain where I am and phone my mum to pass the time, and then go in again, in passing telling the guard that I'm going up to the 6th floor again.
Upstairs I explain that they should be receiving the document anytime soon, and take a seat in the waiting area.
I can hear him make a phone call to the health centre asking them for the name of the doctor they are going to assign me. Then, he goes to another office, or maybe to the printer, before going back to his computer.
A short while later, he waves me in, and hands me an envelope.
Hurrah!
I thank him, and rush off to the bus stop with my mobile's battery on three percent.
Now I'm worried that my phone will conk out before the lector can read the QR code to pay my fare.
Today is my lucky day.
I walk up to the lady from earlier and triumphantly hand her the envelope.
"That was quick", she says.
When she informs me that it will now have to be sent to yet another office, my smile turns into a bit of a grimace, and I ask how long it will take them to get it done.
The reply is in accordance with the cliché: "Mañana."
Back home, I need to quickly charge the phone, because I have to go out again to pick up my first 'Too Good to Go Magic Bag' at a fruitmonger's between two and three.
I get lost on the way, and my phone conks out.
I rush back home, again walk up five flights - no lift in this building - put the phone to charge, and rush back out.
The 2.99€ bag contains four big oranges, two clementines, six humongous salad tomatoes which are slightly mouldy round the stem, three limp hearts of lettuce, and a huge bunch of wilted kale.
My phone rings.
It is the woman from the Health Centre, to tell me that the petition has already gone through.
Yay!
I try to phone the Oncology Department to let them know that I have at last managed to get the authorisation and to ask them for an appointment.
No one picks up the phone.
I try several times, both numbers.
I phone switchboard and they put me through. No answer.
I send them an email. Mailer Daemon throws it right back at me.
Bloody hell.
Chopping tomatoes will help.
By the time I have trimmed off the yucky bits, there is still enough tomato for a big family, and there are only two of us. Well, one - Lily uses some of the lettuce for her lunch, ignores the cubes of tomato and informs me that she hates kale.
Right.
The oranges and clementines are nice.
Lily has to study for an exam tomorrow, so I'm left to my own devices.
Much later she comes back out of her room and declares she is going to make pizza.
The delicious smell is mouthwatering.
When she brings it into the living room, I'm really glad for the company.
She wants to share it with me and when I mention that I would like to watch 'My Lady Jane', she is all for it.
We watch not just the first, but two episodes, we enjoy ourselves so much - we totally agree for once: we can't get over the fact that someone with a face right out of a Picasso painting like the leading man's, could be so undeniably irresistible.
Oh, and the narrator is great, too.
Not to mention Lord Dudley's outrageous outfits.
If it weren't for the exam tomorrow, we would probably have watched all eight episodes in one go.
Friday, 9th January
I have nothing else to do, so I phone those numbers again.
The same recorded message I already listened to numerous times yesterday.
I try my luck with the coordinator.
She tries to phone them on her second phone, but doesn't get through, either.
She calls me back to say that they will call me today to tell me a date for the appointment.
I have another goodie bag reserved in a Delicatessen just up the road - after getting lost the first time, I narrowed the radius down a bit, to shops closer to home - and I can pick it up any time between ten and one o'clock.
Just as I step out the door, it starts to rain.
This time, the 'basic bag' contains a large piece of minnow pie, two half loafs of dark bread, and a vacuum pack of diced chorizo and salchichón ends.
I phone Carmen again just before three o'clock, and she tells me to phone her on Monday.
Righto.
I make a hearty stew with kale as its main ingredient.
A message from my boss, at long last.
She thinks she has fulfilled her obligations by paying me my wages plus the sick pay from day 4 to day 15, and that from day 16, Social Security will take over.
I reply, but she has already turned off her phone.
I check the information again, and she is under a misconception, or - I wouldn't put it past her - is pretending to be so.
Yes, Social Security ultimately pays as of day 16, but the Academy is required to fund it for the first six months, and deduct it from what is owed to Social Security.
I spend the rest of the afternoon researching how to claim it from her, and - Plan B - how to ask Social Security for direct payment in case she remains unwilling.
Eventually, Lily comes out of her room and we watch the rest of the series, bemoaning the fact that Amazon cancelled the second season.
Saturday, 10th January
I wake up and start drafting the letter to the Academy.
After breakfast, Lily stays in her room studying for an exam on Monday, and today she doesn't make an appearance, not even at night.
I call it a night around midnight.
Sunday, 11th January
Lily is off to Santiago by train, to have lunch with a mate from the two-year pharmacy course she graduated from in June, who will be coming up from Padrón.
All I have to do today is meet her fiancé who is coming down in the afternoon, at the parking garage, so he can park his car while I look for a spot in the street for mine.
I'm very lucky and find one very close by underneath the passover where I can leave it until at least Friday.
On the way home I pick up a six pack of 1.5 litres each of bottled water and lug that up five flights.
Gosh, I'm getting old.
My favourite neighbour writes me a message saying that he will go and have a little chat with his saint - apparently there is a little chapel somewhere close to our hamlet - to help my luck along a bit.
Monday, 12th January
My boss has sent me another deluded message.
It is seven o'clock in the morning.
She thinks I was required to ask SS to pay me and that she has done her duty.
Lucky me, I only have cancer.
Doesn't bear thinking about all the workers and employees who are struck down by a heart attack or a stroke, yet are required to pop down to their neighbourhood Social Security Office to beg for their livelihood if it is the last thing they do...
Honestly.
Well, now that I am wide awake and fuming, I might as well rise and shine.
At quarter past eight, I call the coordinator again, and she asks me to stay put while she phones the medical oncologist's office on her other phone.
I can actually hear her talking to someone, so it seems that she got through.
She comes back on and tells me that they are waiting for the doctor to tell them a date. If they don't call me until Wednesday, I'm supposed to let her know so she can put the pressure on.
I ask her about the result of the oncotype study.
Apparently it isn't available yet.
They said three weeks.
Tomorrow it will be six.
Not good.
I have my appointment with the oncologist responsible for radiotherapy, and she is a very nice lady.
She tells me all about her three months internship in Heidelberg.
And about her German writer friend - from Bavaria like me - who is married to a Spanish musician and lives in Madrid.
Other than telling us our life stories there is little else we can do until the result of the oncotype study comes through.
She leaves a message for her colleague over at the University Hospital, examines me, tells me that they will be doing another CT scan to determine and then mark the area that will be exposed to radiation, hands me some paperwork to sign and bids me farewell.
A little further down the street, I find my way down to the main road by using a parking garage's lift to the second floor and crossing the road on a pedestrian footbridge.
There is a bus stop for four different routes there, and I opt for waiting for number 12, which I know has a stop close to the house, as I have used it once before - going in the other direction - when coming home from the hospital where they operated me.
I remember the name of the bus stop, so I sit where I can see the LED ticker.
As we go along the road where I will eventually have to get off - the roads are so long that you will have five bus stops along it, only differentiated by house numbers, the name of a particular building or a street close by - I suddenly recognise the deli where I bought the rescue bag the other day, and which has two exits: one on our street, and one on this road.
But although I quickly press the stop request button and call to the driver, he pulls out regardless.
I guess I will have to do some more walking. I wonder why it wasn't displayed as I remembered it.
Okay, here is why: in the direction I was going, they state the house number, whereas in the other it is the name of our street.
The Oncology Department didn't call.
At exactly six o'clock p.m. I inform my boss that time is up and that I will send the certified electronic mail first thing tomorrow morning, with the deadline for payment being Friday the 16th.
Tuesday, 13th January
I can hear my daughter getting ready to go to school.
I stay put until she leaves just before eight, when I take my thyroid medication along with a big glass of water to get the digestive system going, and then I have a look at my phone.
And what do I see?
My luck has changed.
A notification from the bank that at a quarter to two in the morning, my pay has been credited to my account.
Whoa, someone has been having a bad night.
'Boss Lady' also sent my pay sheet and wants it signed.
Hold your horses.
I have a closer look and can't find any sign of her having paid the three last days of November that she claimed until the last moment not to be responsible to pay for.
I find November's pay sheet in documents on my phone, and whoa and behold: they are right there!
So I send her a message, asking when exactly had she decided that she could just stop paying my sick pay?
I finish the message off with a pun in Spanish, to say that the count sums up but not the tale: 'Cuadra la cuenta pero no el cuento'.
Ha. Teach her a lesson.
She doesn't realise who she is up against: slightly radioactive German Steel Woman.
No call, though.
Wednesday, 14th January
An incoming call, long number.
Can I come in at 12:20? Yes, Ma'am.
I take the bus, manage to get off at the right stop, enter the building, find the terminal, feed it my card, and it spits it right back at me.
I try inserting it the other way round.
Nope.
Reminds me of the goat in the Grimm fairytale 'The Wishing Table': "Not a leave more I'll touch. Meh meh."
I go up to the fourth floor, find my way to the oncology department, and there is a queue, a mile long.
I have five minutes to find a solution.
I queue up, but when a nurse walks past, I ask her if there is another way of obtaining your turn ticket.
She tells me to come with her, and I follow her into the day clinic wing.
They already have a piece of paper there with my name on it, and while a nurse goes off to fetch the ticket, another one weighs me, measures me, and takes my vital signs.
I really have to go on a diet.
I have shrunk two centimetres, which makes it even worse.
And maybe I'm a tad nervous, because she asks me to stay put and relax, so she can measure my blood pressure a second time.
It's still a hundred and fifty.
I don't have to wait long at all, and my number pops up on the screen.
The gist of our conversation is that I can avoid chemotherapy.
On the Oncotype scale, my score is 14 - low to intermediate risk - so the focus is now on endocrine therapy.
She puts in a petition for a priority referral to see a gynaecologist sometime soon and orders a hormone blood panel.
Thursday, 15th January
There is the pulling sensation in my left ovary again.
Am I imagining things? Is my body playing tricks on me? Or why is there a pain in my other boob now?
I buy loose fitting clothes in C&A: three tops, a new pair of black jeans and a black, fleece-lined hooded jacket for under 90€.
I found the jacket in the men's department after I had decided against the exact same jacket in the ladies' department because it wasn't lined.
Same price! Goes to show.
Friday, 16th January
Time to meet my new GP.
She is sympathetic concerning my concerns of having to go back to the Academy sometime soon.
Since I didn't take the anti-depressant for the post-surgical neurological pain, I'm now being prescribed benzos for my nervous state.
I'm not going to take them, either - thank you all the same.
My appointment with the nurse has been cancelled because of some problem with the shift change - they offer to fix it, but I prefer not to have it today in case it interferes with my driving home alone tomorrow and opt to have it a week later, after the appointment for the blood screening.
I take a bus from the Casa do Mar and arrive much too early for my appointments at the Oncology Centre.
I decide to sit out in the sun on a bench, but after about five minutes the weather changes and it starts to drizzle, so I enter the building, go down to the 'Nuclear Department' - as I call it - and try my luck.
The head nurse sees me first, and then I'm sent to do the CT scan.
I'm told to bring a towelling robe and slippers for the therapy sessions.
I ask why.
Otherwise I would have to cross the corridor in the nuddy to enter 'the bunker', apparently.
I wonder if this is the correct term or if the staff here lovingly refer to the treatment room in that way.
I'm put on the patient table.
It isn´t comfortable, and the small claw clip I use to keep my hair from blowing into my face pushes into my scalp.
Mental note: come without.
On the bus back home, I ask auntie Google about the radiotherapy treatment rooms, and they really are called bunkers: they are heavily fortified, concrete-shielded rooms designed to safely contain high-energy radiation generated by linear accelerators.
Later in the day, I burn off some of this irritating nervous energy by rearranging the living room, hoping that the heat of the radiator can now actually warm up the room instead of remaining trapped behind the settees.
The dining table is now by the window, and the clothes horse – unfortunately, there is no other place for it while I occupy the spare room - can now profit from the heating, too.
I feel manic.
My mind is constantly firing on all cylinders.
Whereas I would normally best be represented by a calm bloodhound, at the moment I would associate myself with a highly-strung chihuahua.
Saturday, 17th January
It takes me four attempts to find the correct way out of the bloody city so I can stop off at Aldi's on my way home.
Michael's call luckily comes in via Bluetooth on a straight twenty km stretch of road and we chat for a while.
I'm glad to be home.
I can only hope that everyone is glad I'm home.
In the evening, I have a look at the Social Security information concerning my employment data, and to my surprise, the pay group has changed - lowered, in fact - as compared to last year, when I started at the Academy.
So this is how she values the fact that I agreed to a second year, and now know the ropes.
The last straw.
Sunday, 18th January
My left breast seems atomic now that there is only a bulge left of its sister.
It really sticks out.
It is so bloody obvious that I'm a cancer victim.
I know it is frowned upon to say the v-word.
But it is what I am.
The tumour is an aggressor, and it has left me mutilated for life.
Even stainless steel can be corroded.
But now it can bloody well bugger off.
I think I also have developed an eating disorder.
I'm not constantly hungry anymore, but I eat all the time anyway.
I'm going to have to try to curb my appetite.
I'll go back to intermittent fasting, and only eat between twelve and eight o'clock. That way I can also give my body the chance to concentrate on other things than my digestion.
I have breakfast at twelve because I take my thyroid medication with a large glass of water at eight, and I take that seriously - I know they generally advise you to take it half an hour before breakfast, but – frankly - that is crap.
It is also crap to take medication with less than a large glass of water: the pill can get stuck somewhere down the line, or just lie there in your stomach waiting for it to spring into action - which needs a certain amount of input to happen.
I send my boss a message.
Monday, 19th January
I spend all day scrutinizing pay sheets and normatives.
Tuesday, 20th January
The call comes in with my gynaecologist appointment: the day my radiotherapy starts, I will have to go to yet another clinic in the morning.
I send my boss a screen shot of the Social Security info concerning my pay group, and spend the rest of the day calculating and trying to match numbers.
I can borrow my daughter's terry robe, but I have to bring it on the coach.
There is a major electricity disaster in Lily's building, probably caused by the workmen doing the refurbishment in the stairwell.
In my daughter's flat alone, the ceramic hob, the dishwasher and the cables of the router and the charger are shot.
She left the building after sparks and smoke rendered the dishwasher kaputt, to buy candles, and watched her first ever football game in a bar while waiting for our landlord to come to her rescue.
There are twenty flats all in all - someone is going to have some explaining to do, I'm afraid.
Wednesday, 21st January
I spend half the day drafting the letter concerning all discrepancies in my pay sheets and demanding everything to be put right pronto.
Sent.
There is a hail storm.
My daughter sends me an audio on WhatsApp saying she has been in a car accident: a woman reversed her car into Lily while she was crossing the street on a zebra crossing, and dragged her for about two metres, injuring her hand.
The x-ray reveals no broken bones, but she is in pain and she can't stretch out her index and middle fingers.
Not to mention the scare she had.
Thursday, 22nd January
I feel slightly sick on the coach all the way to Ferrol.
To my surprise we arrive twenty minutes early.
My daughter sends me a message to buy minced beef on the way to the flat.
The flat is as cold as a tomb.
Friday, 23rd January
I walk to the health centre in the early hours of the morning on crunchy hail pellets to have my blood taken for the hormone panel.
The same nurse later gives me my second dose of Shingrix - straight from the fridge, and it hurts.
In the evening, I can already access the blood-test results: low count for white blood cells - in this case, neutrophils - which might be a sign that I'm missing copper, contained in nuts, pulses, and wholemeal products, which I eat enough of. Or the vitamins B12, contained in mackerel, eggs and dairy products and B9 from wholemeal products, pulses, eggs, nuts and leafy greens like spinach, endive, chicory and kale.
Okay, let's try the mackerel and leafy greens approach.
My cholesterol is a little high: 250.
I could try to reduce butter, yoghurt and cheese, because I already do everything else: I eat oats, pulses, apples, red fruits, nuts and wholemeal rice, use rapeseed oil and drink green tea in the form of Kombucha.
My glomerular filtration rate is low, which indicates reduced renal function.
What on earth?
I already eat blueberries, but I can up cauliflower, cabbage and red bell peppers.
I sign the bloody paysheet with 'not in agreeance', add the dates of my previous reclamations, and the date my sick pay was actually paid into my account: the 13th.
Manu has a university get-together tonight, so Lily suggests watching 'House' together.
I get the shakes at around nine, and after about two hours of constant shivering, the muscles in my neck and shoulders are painfully contracted.
I can't bear the thought of taking off my clothes, and feel too stiff anyway, so I slip into my cold bed fully clothed, with my sweatshirt's hood up.
It takes me three hours to get warm and relax my stiff muscles, and four for my feet to get warm.
Saturday, 24th January
I can hear Manu come home at around two o´clock, and am finally able to take off my clothes.
At twenty past six I can hear the neighbour getting ready for work, stomping from one room to the other, and when she leaves at around twenty to seven, I get up, go to the loo, turn off the dehumidifier that is acting as a clothes dryer, and switch on the heating in the living room.
I turn off the heating in my bedroom and go back to bed with aching muscles.
Later in the day my friend Coen lets his guard down and actually acknowledges how frightful this cancer issue really is.
I had sent him a message telling him I felt a little down, and he had written back saying that maybe I should do a little less research.
I answered that my current state of mind is owed to feeling abandoned because everyone just keeps saying "Yes, hum."
I've finally had enough of "You'll be alright" and "They're on top of breast cancer these days" comments.
I can't help but look beyond the 'almost 100% survival rate after five years' - for this particular bastard it would be, if it hadn't spread to the lymphatic nodes already, which brings it down to maybe 87% - and I wished they would say how high the rate for ten, twenty, thirty years is.
I wasn't planning on joining my grandparents in their wall niche by the orange tree in six years from now, but there isn't much - if anything - I can do to combat the twenty-five percent possibility that it might cause metastases even though it was detected at a fairly early stage.
The recurrent stabbing pain in what is left of my boob does nothing to lighten my mood, either.
Sunday, 25th January
I actually managed to sleep for once.
The area around the injection site is still swollen and tender.
The faint pain in my breast - and in my armpit now, too - comes and goes.
I was going to ask if we could wait to start with the anti-hormone therapy after the 20th of February so I only have to deal with the side-effects of one therapy at a time, but now I'm anxious to throw everything available at the effing cancer cells and nuke and deprive them once and for all.
Just when I thought I had my diet nailed, I find - due to research on my part, not because anyone has taken the time to advise me - that it would be contra productive to consume food that contains the oh so popular anti-oxidants: they would actually trap the thingies radiotherapy intends to hit the bad cells over the head with.
So instead of fatty fish, it will be white fish, and chicken - yes, I will temporarily lift the ban, I'm sorry to betray the cause, but this is a reversed life and death matter now.
Nuts, yes - but no walnuts, almonds and Brazil nuts - dairy products only if I can stomach them, seeds - but no sunflower seeds - avocados, courgettes, peas, potatoes, parsnips - if I can find any - lentils, and maybe yellow bell peppers, and bananas, kiwi, and citrus fruit - if I don't develop a dry and/or ulcerous mouth and difficulties swallowing. No berries, no red grapes. I can't even have kombucha - for two reasons: it is fermented from green tea and it is carbonated.
Doesn't really leave me much options.
Monday, 26th of January
My boss pulls the 'last minute stunt' again: she has just sent me a WhatsApp message saying that she has appointments with both her accountant - whom, according to her, she pays good money to do the payroll processing correctly - and with Social Security on Wednesday to clear up my 'accusations'. She also denies having tried to cajole me into agreeing to a dismissal, and can't understand why I have turned against her, when she has done nothing but support me in this terrible cancer issue.
That takes the biscuit.
I reply in a civilised manner, of course.
I do.
I have to venture out even though the weather has been relentless lately: we are out of water, kitchen roll and bin liners, and Lily wants me to pick up a Vinted parcel at a nearby newsagent's.
Incoming phone call, long number.
It is the radiation rehab department wanting to give me a third appointment for Friday, which I have to politely decline.
She says the talk is only offered on the last Friday of the month, so she will put me on the list for the 27th of February - that is a week after the radiotherapy finished.
Tuesday, 27th of January
Starting the day with yet another doctor's appointment. Yippee.
I arrive just in time but it seems there are three ahead of me still.
I haven't a clue where room number 32 is - I will just take the same route the patient ahead of me takes.
I have just waited three quarters of an hour only to find myself face to face with yet another total stranger, and a trainee doctor.
So I resign myself to just ask for the renewal of both my sick leave and my e-prescription, and go home.
See, I have to be my own doctor these days, and it is just as well that I endeavour to interpret the results of all sorts of medical tests and analyses.
Wednesday, 28th January
The bus to the University Hospital is always packed, and most get out at the stop situated just outside the main entrance.
The first thing I do is to shove my card into the machine that spews forth the turn tickets.
It tells me that I have no appointment.
I check my appointments on the app, and indeed I do.
I go back to the info counter, and she tells me to go up to the fourth floor, cut across to the Day Hospital, and try to obtain my turn there.
The same crowd is still waiting for the `open sesame´ of the elevator doors when I arrive back, so I opt to climb the stairs.
Once on the 4th floor, you have to leave the building - which was built on a hill, obviously - through smoked glass doors, and enter the Day Hospital through their own set of doors.
The machine cooperates for once, and spits out my chit.
I find this hospital - and especially the oncology ward - somewhat stressful: it is like a warren, the corridors are very narrow, and there are too many people.
A nurse takes my vitals - my blood pressure is a little on the high side again: 135, and I have lost some weight.
Back in the waiting area, the display tells me that it is my turn next for room 47.
I hear a faint voice say my name.
I gather up my bag and jacket, and walk towards the voice.
I spot her - she carries a list - she spots me: I look Germanic.
She leads me to another waiting area, and says she will call me by name.
When she does, she proposes to sign me up for an international clinical study which aims to “assess if this next generation oral selective oestrogen receptor degrader improves outcomes compared to standard adjuvant endocrine therapy for patients with ER+/HER2- early breast cancer with intermediate to high or high risk for disease recurrence.”
Bam!
There it is.
Intermediate to high risk.
I interrupt her pitch to ask.
Yes.
The twenty-five percent that had me by the short and curlies anyway, turn out to actually weigh in at thirty.
Three cases out of ten.
I’m not amused.
In order to take part in the study, with a fifty percent chance of actually ending up in the right group, I will have to undergo a few tests to determine whether I’m eligible or not.
Blood, heart, eyes, bilateral mammogram, and what have you.
And, yes, another contrast CT scan.
I go home with my own personal black cloud hanging over me.
A cheerful ophthalmologist called Gretel calls me in the afternoon and asks if I can see her at the Abente y Lago Hospital tomorrow at two o’clock.
Sure, I'm glad someone shows enthusiasm.
No news from the boss.
Thursday, 29th of January
I spend the morning drafting the official reclamation letter that will go out tomorrow.
I manage to arrive at the hospital on time, to an empty office.
I sit down on a chair in the narrow corridor and contemplate the cubicle doors next to each office - they remind me of the toilet doors on the train I went home on after school when I was a child.
The cheerful ophthalmologist arrives a little after two and conducts her tests, putting all kinds of drops into my eyes.
She declares me fit to be included in the study, although she found cataracts in the making in both my eyes.
I can't wait for the next bit of good news for a change, please.
I send Lily a note that she won't have to come to the hospital to accompany me home - I can go back on the bus on my own - my vision is blurred and my eyes are filled with tears, but I feel that I can see well enough.
Friday, 30th of January
Another last second message from my boss: her accountant can't see her until next week and therefore she had to postpone the visit to the Social Security office until Thursday the fifth at eleven o’clock.
Yeah, right.
That means I won't be getting my sick pay on time, I suppose.
I have other things to worry about.
The gynaecologist has her trainee assistant do the biopsy, and she is absolutely useless.
She blindly fumbles around and clips me in the wrong places four times until she finally manages to take a valid sample from my uterus.
It bloody hurts, so every time she misses, I tense up a little more, which in turn makes it even more painful for me.
I don't cry easily, but this is torture.
It takes me a while to recover from this ordeal, I still have tears in my eyes on the bus back.
I have to take a call on the bus, from the Hospital de Oza, - number six, so far - where they want me to go on the afternoon of the 4th of February for rehab.
Okay. Puzzling.
Manu and Lily take me to the Oncology Centre for my first session in the bunker.
I'm given a yellow patient's card, and I’m told that my sessions will take place at 9 o’clock pm as of Monday, when, upon arrival, I will have to post my card through a slot much like the slots of British letterboxes to let them know that I'm in the corridor.
I’m asked to get changed in one of the cubicles, where I put on my borrowed towelling robe and then step out in my yoga slippers.
They place me on the patient table of the Halcyon Hypersight with my right arm stretched fully overhead and my head facing to the left, to the beat of Chaka Khan's ‘I’m every woman’.
Indeed, I am.
Total annihilation of the cancer cells is what we are aiming for.
...to be continued
