What a boob....

After my third operation in 18 months, I now have no real breast tissue to speak of. I'm just like Angelina Jolie. Though without the beauty, fame, money and gorgeous husband. Obviously.

I'm not a BRCA mutation carrier like Ange, however based on my age and the fact I have already had breast cancer, the geneticist I saw in 2014 put my lifetime risk of a new breast cancer at 25%. This is twice that of the average women in the general population. Based on this, psychological (the constant at worry of finding new lumps and bumps) and aesthetic reasons, I argued my case for a preventative mastectomy. To be honest, my team are pretty good and I didn't have to argue too much - I think they know me too well now  - dog with a bone springs to mind. Or woman with a boob.

My risk of a new breast cancer has now been decreased to about 2% - lower than the average woman in the general population. However, it doesn't have any bearing on the one that I have already had. In other words, I still have as much chance of dying from that one than I did before this operation. Whatever that chance is I don't know - for once I'm preferring to live in ignorance (for however long that is) and have chosen not to discuss my prognosis with my team. I know some people find this a strange way of thinking, but prognoses are based on often outdated statistics and can have little relevance to individual situations. I'd rather not scare myself any more than is entirely necessary! 

The operation was delayed until this year, rather than being done at the same time as my first mastectomy because the priority then was to deal with the cancer that was there. My team understandably wanted to avoid risking extra surgery which could cause delays to my treatment.

I managed to enjoy an amazing six weeks travelling in Vietnam and Cambodia at the beginning of this year - which I'm going to write about on a separate blog - during which there were no hospital appointments or prodding and poking (well only in a good sense!). It was an incredible feeling to just be 'normal' for a while. To spend time on beaches and sightseeing rather than sat in hospital waiting rooms. The only time I had to get my boobs out was in a bikini. Bliss.

However, my return home was met with another hospital stamped letter informing me that my surgery had been booked for the end of February (leap day to be precise) and that my pre-op assessment was due the next day. Therefore, I dragged my jet lagged arse down to the hospital the day after I got back from my travels to spend over two hours having blood taken from my poor shriveled veins. Yes, I had to spend over two hours at the hospital whilst attempts were made to take blood from my arm, the back of my hand and finally from the inside of my wrist. Needless to say I would have much rather have been sleeping off my jet lag than being repeatedly jabbed with needles. 

As well as the quest to get blood from my wizened, chemo-ruined veins, the pre-op also consists of the taking of swabs to check for MRSA, which unfortunately in my case came back positive and led to my surgery being delayed. Here commenced five days of scrubbing with a corrosive pink shower gel and sticking stuff up my nose to try and rid my body of the little bugger. And also days of my head being up my arse and not knowing which way is up, waiting for yet more results. Luckily the re-swabs came back negative and my surgery was confirmed for the 14th of March. It seems so backwards to actually be excited and happy to have it confirmed you're going to be having another bit of your body cut off, but as I've learned, the strangest things are a cause for celebration in the breast cancer world. 

Apart from the usual 'what if i don't wake up?' panic and messaging my friends about what I want my funeral to be like, the morning of the operation was pretty uneventful. After the operation was pretty uneventful too, to be honest. Not a great deal of pain and sadly therefore no morphine drip. Dammit.

I even managed to take a selfie form my hospital bed.

 Ah, the calm before the storm. What followed was an entire night deprived of sleep (ironically hospitals are not the most conducive to restful sleep) - followed by a complete and utter meltdown the next morning, culminating in a very sympathetic Breast Care Nurse finding me in total and utter hysterics - I'm talking gulping-not-able-to-speak-or-breathe-properly crying - and hugging me until I managed to calm down. I think the complete lack of sleep played a huge factor, but it was almost as if the complete reality of what I had chosen to do to my body had sunk in all at once. However, a talk with the BCN, a move to a private room and good ol' temazepam helped the rest of the my hospital stay pass a little more uneventfully.

Because I only (!) had a mastectomy this time and not a node clearance as well this time, I only had two drains instead of three, one of which was removed before I left the hospital.

This photo was taken just before the nurse removed one of the drains - the important things first obviously! 

I've had the same kind of reconstruction as last time. A tissue expander which will be filled gradually over a period of weeks. The aim will be the replace both tissue expanders with permanent implants a few months down the line.You might just be able to see that the implant hasn't yet been filled. It currently resembles a party balloon that's still hanging on the wall two weeks later because no one can be bothered to take it down. It means I'm currently very lopsided and hibernating a lot of the time because most of my clothes look terrible and I can't currently wear my Spanx because the drain site hasn't healed. If I do go anywhere (usually to the hospital) I'm dressed like an aging Goth in baggy black clothes that hide my boobs (or lack of) and my menopause belly.

Because the veins in one arm have been annihilated by chemo, and the other arm is a no go because of my node clearance and risk of lymphoedema, I also had to have a cannula in my foot. This was thankfully was put in when I was under anesthetic and completely none the wiser:

They even cut a little hole in my sexy anti-embolism stockings to accommodate it.

The many attempts at cannulising me - both failed and successful - left me with some cracking bruises which haven't yet faded entirely three weeks later. Here they are in their glory when I returned home from hospital:

 I think the foot bruise definitely wins the prize.

Like last year, I came home from hospital with one drain, but unlike last year had a number of problems with it. The first came when I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and noticed that the pipe had become detached from the drain. Hence a 2 o'clock on a Sunday morning trip to A&E clutching a plastic bag full of drain bottle and drain bottle juice. I have to say that the staff at Birmingham City A&E were brilliant and I was in and out with a brand new drain bottle within an hour. The same can't be said for Rotherham A&E where I ended up on Good Friday evening after I noticed the vacuum had gone on the drain bottle whilst staying at my mum's. Basically, the drain bottle has to have a working vacuum on it to ensure that the fluid is drained from the operation site and in to the bottle.

After waiting for almost two hours without even being triaged, with a broken drain and fluid leaking out of the drain site and through my clothes, we were told there was nothing they could do at that hospital to help me and basically we should just sod off elsewhere. By this point I was crying very frustrated tears, so when a bystander chipped in with 'she needs t'calm 'er sen down' - he felt the force of my post-surgery-fed-up-with-cancer-and- hospitals-and-everything-else wrath. 

Over six hours later and a trip to Northern General Hospital in Sheffield, I was sorted out by a very thorough surgeon who basically glued the drain tube to my body and taped it up to create a seal to stop the vacuum on the bottle from failing again. 

Needless to say, I was not sorry to see the drain go when it removed (after much picking off of glue and tape) by my surgeon on Wednesday. Unfortunately, ever since then I've had quite a lot of fluid coming out of my drain site, meaning I'm constantly having to patch it up with dressings to stop it soaking through my clothes. Yeauch. Warning - gross photo of a dressing coming up:

Despite this, the rest of it seems to be healing OK (touch wood). Physically, I'm sleeping A LOT and still manage to feel completely knackered. My chemo brain seems to have inexplicably got worse since my op - the most recent example being me leaving my credit card in the chip and pin machine in the supermarket the other day.  And just to say - if you message me and I don't message back it's nothing personal (well depends who you are..;-)) - likelihood is I've just forgotten to reply - so please don't hold it against me! I really do appreciate people checking in and asking how I am.

Mentally, things perhaps aren't healing so well. I guess the assumption might be that because this time around it's something I've chosen to do, rather than the choice being forced upon me, it's easier. It really isn't. When there is cancer there, it's an easy choice to make - you just want the breast gone. When you've made a choice to remove what is at present healthy tissue with nothing wrong with it, the sense of loss is greater and more acute. I've spent a long time shedding tears and doubting myself and my decision. These feelings are even more pronounced when I look in the mirror and see what is left of my body. I can't tell you how much I wish that I had not had to go through this. But believe me, if I felt there was any other option that I could live comfortably with I would not have undergone this surgery. No one would put themselves through more pain, scarring, lack of sensation, risk of infection and countless hospital visits if they felt that there was another feasible option.

It's knocked my already fragile self confidence back down into the minus numbers. It's another loss of something that makes me female. Along with the fact I have to take medication that suppresses the production of the very hormone that makes us women, just to try and stay alive. I very regularly envy women with 'normal' reproductive systems - i.e. ones that aren't trying to kill them! 

Guilt is a very prevalent emotion right now too. I feel guilty for moaning about when lot when there are women who didn't even make it this far. I know I'm luckier than many of the women I've met over the last 18 months. I hate that I just can't be happy and thankful right now. Maybe those feelings will take over the negative ones the more time goes on.

I feel guilty for continuing to be a burden to my family. I feel guilty for still not having much to give to my friends, for not having 'got over this' yet - for still being the cancer bore. 

I feel guilty for slobbing around and sleeping a lot and basically not contributing anything useful to society. 

All this emotional turmoil and complete lack of confidence has lead to me being some what of a hermit at the moment. I'm more or less hibernating right now - like a tortoise. I definitely possess the energy and get up and go of one right now that's for sure! Someone wake me up when it's all over will you?

Radio 1

I've been for the first session of radiation to the Monster Boob today. My second hospital appointment of the day - the first being this morning to see the physio for another armpit massage.

The radiotherapy is being carried out at a different hospital to the rest of my treatment as there are only four or five radiotherapy suites in the West Midlands (I can't remember exactly - chemo brain again!).

This means instead of it being a 25 minute walk from my flat, I have to walk to a train station in the city centre and get the train through to the hospital. Every day for three weeks. Bit of a ball ache (or boob ache I guess you could say).

They give you a very fetching gown to wear which makes you feel a little bit like you belong in a downmarket massage parlour.... Here I am sporting said gown:

But first let me take a selfie.....

I look totally shattered due to being sleep deprived by menopause inducing drugs so apologies for that!

Anyway, they take you in to a room and you are faced with a machine that looks a bit like this:

I didn't have to chance to take a photo of the actual radiotherapy machine today, however I will try my best to get a portrait of the beast before my treatment is over.

The 'bed' in front of the machine looks like some sort of space age torture contraption, with 'stirrups' for your arms and head. If you've ever had a smear test - think that. Just for the other end of your body.

The whole process only took about 10 minutes but once again was wholly undignified -  having to lie there half naked with your arms above your head whilst two (very sweet) radiographers measure you up and talk numbers over you. However, my dignity upped and left a long time again - I think the final shreds of it slivered out of the room whilst in was i hospital after my surgery so that's by the by.

So far, the only side effect I've had is a warm boob but I've been told it will probably be next week after a few sessions when I start to experience tiredness and sore skin. 

As cancer treatment goes, this definitely beats having a boob cut off or poison injected in to my veins. However, I don't want to count my chickens just yet. Plenty of time for side effects! 

One down, fourteen to go ........

Radio GaGa

Last week I had an appointment with an oncologist to discuss radiotherapy. It was one of three hospital appointments in one day - I'll go in to those in more detail a bit later....

All the way through my treatment I was told that I would need radiotherapy. However, when the results from my surgery came back I was told that it may not be necessary and that a discussion was needed as to whether it would be beneficial. To cut a long story short, the oncologist said there was definite benefit and that we should go ahead. He also assured me that the pain in my bum cheek was more than likely due to degenerative damage from chemotherapy and hormone treatment, rather than cancer and wouldn't send me for a bone scan dammit. Anyway....

After the decision to go ahead with radiotherapy was made last week, I found myself at a different hospital yesterday for a CT scan and marking up for the start of the treatment. It was my first time having a CT scan and I can only describe it as being inside a washing machine. Half naked. With your arms above your head. The scan is to find out where your heart and lungs are so that when they direct the radiotherapy waves at you they don't fry your insides. You kind of need those bits.

After that I received three 'tattoos' which were remarkably reminiscent of the kind of self marking that some of the kids did at school e.g. dipping their compass in ink and scratching their current amour's name in to their skin. These tattoos are only very tiny dots placed under the skin, but they were done in much the same manner - with a thick needle dipped in ink.

Radiotherapy is due to start on the 28th of April for three weeks. I'm hoping its going to give me super powers but as it is it will probably be more like fatigue, sore skin and a shriveled implant. 

Back to my day of hospital appointments. Spending the entire morning at hospital is not the most riveting of experiences. There's only so much swiping left on Tinder a girl can do.... Anyway, after I saw the oncologist I went to see my plastic surgeon. She agreed that we didn't need to fill the monster boob any more and the expansion was now finished. I asked about when the expander would be replaced by an implant that looked more like a boob than a football and also when they were could take away the other potentially deadly breast. I was told that it would be six months after radiotherapy at the minimum, preferably twelve months. The only time she would operate any sooner would be if she was forced to e.g. if radiotherapy started to make my scar split and the implant to come out. Delightful.

After my appointment with the plastic surgeon I was sent to have more photos of my boobs taken. My before and after surgery boob photos will be coming to a medical student text book near you sometime in the near future. Without my face luckily. However, somewhere between taking my bra off and putting it back on again I managed to lose the cleavage enhancing whatsit I use in the 'normal' side of my bra to fill it out as the monster boob is bigger and a lot more pert that my natural one and makes me look decidedly lopsided. No idea how I managed to do that but some lucky member of hospital staff will probably have come across what looks like an overgrown garden slug at some point over the last few days.

After the photos came an appointment with the physio about my dud arm. The node clearance means that I have nerve damage, numbness and considerable cording under my arm. Cording is basically when the lymph vessels become dry, scarred and shriveled and feel rather like guitar strings. After showing me some exercises to try and revive the nerves in my arm, he gave me an armpit massage. Yes, you read right. He massaged the cording under my arm, something that I have to do myself at home as well. It's comes to something when you need your armpit massaging instead of your back right?

So, an appointment with an oncologist, examination of the monster boob, tit photos, an armpit massage, CT scan and dodgy prison-like ink tattoos. Just an average week in the life of a young breast cancer patient!

Stop please I want to get off

That's it. I've had enough. I'd like a refund on my ticket. Unbuckle my seat belt please. Stop the ride I want to get off. 

I've described being diagnosed with cancer and the subsequent treatment as being on a roller coaster. One hell of a scary, terrifying roller coaster. Constant ups and downs, highs and lows - feeling optimistic and positive one day and completely downtrodden and spent the next. 

But I think that it could also be described as one of these:

It picks you up and spins you round at such a rate that sometimes it's impossible to know where you end or begin. Your mind whirls with possible scenarios, your emotions are in a maelstrom and it leaves you feeling sick, dizzy and unsteady on your feet.

Or it could even be described as this:

A series of knocks and bumps that jar your bones and make your brain rattle in your head (metaphorically speaking).

I'm fed up of spending half my time in hospitals waiting to see medical professionals. I'm tired of treatment that's taken away so much of who I am and want to be. 

I don't want to be in a chemically induced menopause and all that comes with it at 33 years old. I hate the fact that I will more than likely never have children and that realistically I may also never have a partner either. 

I'm tired of the fear and anxiety. I'm sick of worrying about shoulder ache, back pain, a cough or a headache. I've had enough of the constant uncertainty and not knowing what my future may hold. I'm over having my mind constantly whirring and packed full of what ifs and maybes. 

I'm fed up of my internal contradictions and paradoxes. Wanting to make the most of my life but being scared to plan in case the worse happens. Feeling that I need to pack everything in that I want to do as soon as possible, but being unable to because of medical treatment. 

I hate feeling like a failure because I'm finding it so difficult to be positive right now.

I'm exhausted. I've had enough of being on this ride. I want to get off. I need steady solid ground where I feel safe, secure and protected.

But I can't have that. I'll never have that. I'm always going to be stuck in this eternal fairground navigating the rides, the bumps, the peaks and troughs. I can only hope against hope that one day it will be more carousels and candyfloss than big dippers and waltzers.  

Operation Boob Removal

As I'm now safely back in my own flat thank goodness, I'm going to try and write about my surgery and hospital experience. However, some of it is a little hazy due to the copious amount of morphine I had pumped in to my veins and later thrown down my neck. It's also taken a while to write as typing hurts! But anyway, here it is.

Thursday started with me arriving at the the hospital at 7.30, ready to be 'processed' for surgery. I'd had to wash myself that morning and the night before with a special anti bacterial shower gel - sadly it did not smell of coconut but was a lurid pink colour, rather like toilet cleaner. I'm guessing the effect it had on my skin was the same as well.

Once again, I had to stand almost naked in a cubicle whilst I was examined and drawn on ready for the surgeons knife. When I was taken down to theatre, they very kindly let me keep my little hat on so my fluffy chicken head would not be displayed to the world and its wife. I now have very little dignity left so it's nice to be able to cling on to the final shreds of it once in a while! I had concerns about the anaesthetist being able to cannulate me, basically because the veins in my left hand and arm are quite wisely hiding themselves somewhere beneath the surface, however he was very reassuring that he could cannulate my right hand to administer the anaesthetic and then once I was asleep he would find a vein in the other hand. I definitely need to be unconscious for that one, due to the fact that the chemotherapy has ensured that having a needle anywhere near that arm is very, very painful. I'm now not able to have needles anywhere near my right arm due to the risk of lymphoedema after lymph node removal. There goes that tattoo I was planning! 

After having the inside of my breast scooped out and replaced with an empty implant (well - half filled implant) and having all my lymph nodes removed, I came round in a haze of morphine. Cue the talking of absolute bollocks. I had one hand connected to the morphine pump and IV drip - he had managed to cannualte me in my left hand - after a bit of trying judging by the state of it - and three drains attached to my right side. In case you have never seen one of these, this is what they look like:

I had to carry these around with me in a fetching green plastic bag like a spare body part everywhere I went whilst in hospital.I still have one of them in which has been christened Billy or 'this fucking thing'. I don't think I'll miss him when he's removed next week. The stuff in the bottle looks rather like beetroot juice and I would imagine just as unappetising.

Being unable to move very far at all due to pain and being incredibly woozy from the morphine and general anaesthetic, having a pee was not a simple as it once was. Even though I was in a side room with a bathroom, there was no way I could make it to the loo. So I was given a bed pan. If you've ever had to try and use a bed pan you'll know that lying flat with a cardboard bowl under your bum is not the easiest position to have a tinkle in. So in came the commode. Again, if you've never seen one of these, its basically a wheelchair with a hole cut out of the middle with a bed pan stuck in it. Having a pee sat in a chair is a very bizarre experience. Almost as weird as having to try and have pee lying in bed.

Apparently morphine can make it difficult to wee (who knew?) so the second time I sat on the commode my bladder appeared to have gone to sleep. The nurse then inserted a catheter which just made me feel like I was constantly bursting for a wee until I begged her to take it out later, hoping that my bladder had now been given the equivalent of a slap round the face and had been shocked back in to action.

This time I seem to have had quite a bad reaction to the general anaesthetic, meaning I spent a lot of the time in the 24 hours after my operation in fits of hysterical tears. Indeed, my surgeon found me stood in the bathroom the morning after my operation bald and with my arse hanging out my gown crying my eyes out, desperate for someone to come and help me have a wash. Not my finest hour.

At this point I also had a cannula on the inside of my wrist due it falling out of the back of my hand in the middle of the night and the nurse being unable to find another vein. If you can imagine how thin and sensitive the skin on the inside of your wrist is..... ouch.

The morning after my operation two nurses sheepishly came in to my room and told me that unfortunately they had to move me on to the ward as they needed the side room for another patient. Cue more fits of hysterical crying. As I said before, holding on to the final shreds of my dignity is important to me and being displayed on a ward with my Phil Mitchell haircut and broken body like some shit circus attraction was really not what I wanted! My bed was also positioned directly opposite the nurses station meaning that I was party to the comings and goings of the entire ward whether I wanted to be or not. To add insult to injury, the woman in the bed next to me was insisting on telling everyone who would listen to her that she hadn't had a poo for a week and nothing would work 'not even prune juice'. Poogate continued for the rest of the time she was in hospital (luckily she went home the next morning).

My wrist cannula also had to be taken out due to it being incredibly sore and swollen. Because I had been having injections to thin my blood to try and avoid blood clots due to lying in bed all day, the removal of the cannula created a scene akin to something from a Shaun of the Dead - i.e. blood squirting everywhere:

No more IV morphine bah!

The nurses on the ward were lovely albeit overworked and not enough of them. However, i did have to fight the daily curtain battle - I wanted my curtains drawn around my bed to retain a modicum of privacy, whilst they wanted them open. Also being woken up at 6.30am every morning really did not make for a even tempered Rebecca. And the food was terrible. The last evening meal I had there was roast chicken with creamed potatoes and vegetables. Ah that sounds nice, I hear you say? Well, it consisted of a lump of dried up chicken you could have used to polish your boots with and lumpy jaundiced looking mashed potatoes which tasted like they'd been mixed with gone off yoghurt. They were also ironically fashioned in to two mounds which bore a fleeting resemblance to a pair of tits. Talk about rubbing it it.

However, it wasn't all bad as I was treated to lots of visits and pressies from my lovely friends and family including a suprise visit from these two beauties, my friends Sarah and Aimee from the Younger Breast Cancer Network:

Hospital selfie! And a distinct lack of real boobs between us!

There was also a nice array of very attractive doctors. Ladies, if you're wondering where all the fit blokes are in Birmingham, they are hanging out at City Hospital.

As I said at the beginning, I'm now back at home and it's now a week since my operation. The pain level has subsided a bit and has been kept in control with copious amounts of codeine and a sneaky bit of oramorph that I had left over from when I was having chemotherapy. One of the nicest things about being at home is not being woken at 6.30am by glaring fluorescent ceiling lights and being able to eat food that doesn't resemble something that the dog has just chucked up. Anyway, I've rambled on enough now so just to finish with the fact that Operation Boob Removal is hopefully complete -  now just to wait for the results eeek!

Hotel Hospital

N.B. This post was written on the 1st of September.


So I spent last night in hospital. Started with a raging sore throat that got worse over the space of an hour so ended up calling the ‘helpline’ who told me to go to A and E. Oh joy. When your white blood cell levels dip too low during your chemotherapy cycle, it’s called being neutropenic and apparently a sore throat can be a sign of that.


So, off we trot to the hospital. I flashed my ‘chemo card’ - the VIP membership for a club no one wants to be in in – and got whisked through away from all the infectious people. It still means you have to wait for ages unfortunately, just not where people are coughing and spluttering. So, after a protracted wait in a cubicle listening to the melodious sounds of A and E, I’m told they want to keep me in for observation.


Turns out when you’re having chemo you get your own room yey! Like a really shit Travelodge. And I’ve stayed in a few of those!! But no tea making facilities sadly. Luckily I had my ‘hospital bag’ all packed and ready to go but had forgotten the most important thing –ear plugs! So what with that and the intermittent visits by doctors and nurses sleep was not forthcoming. But in the morning, after more poking and prodding and a chest x-ray (and some very cold, chewy toast) I was set free. Who’d have thought a sore throat would be a reason for a hospital stay? Welcome to the world of chemo!

 

FEC-ing hell! - Number 1

So my chemotherapy regimen is what is affectionately called FEC-T and will consist of three session of FEC and three session of Taxotere in 3 week cycles, providing all goes to plan. The plan is to shrink the tumour so that only part and not my entire breast need to be removed.

I had my first session of FEC on the 26^th of August and I can safely say I was terrified. I had a session with a chemotherapy nurse the week before, where I was read the chemo riot act – i.e. when to call the hotline, what is classed an emergency, what side effects to expect etc. However, she was really lovely and it sounds as though I was quite lucky. My friend’s chemo info session has consisted of a PowerPoint session in front of a group of people, smattered with the words ‘emergency’ ‘fatal’ and ‘life threatening’. Nice.

The nurse basically told me to carry on as normal. When I asked if I could still have a glass of wine (the important things!) she said ‘of course – you can even go for a night out down Broad Street if you want to’. Not sure what’s more terrifying – chemotherapy or a night on Broad Street!

The oncology waiting room was full due to the bank holiday the day before – those who would have had their session the previous day were all shoved to the Tuesday. Yes folks, whilst most people were enjoying their bank holiday, perhaps having a trip to the seaside or on all dayer down the pub I was crapping myself about having a toxic cocktail of chemicals pumped in to my veins.

As usual, my presence in the oncology waiting room brought down the mean age somewhat. We sat and waited. And waited. And waited. I had an appointment to see the oncologist before starting chemotherapy, mainly to ask about the results of my sentinel node biopsy. By the time we finally went in to the oncologist’s room I was once again doing my Peter Barlow impression. Cue very sweaty palms.

The waiting part, as most women in the same position as me, will attest is extremely difficult. At the moment, time just seems to be filled with endless hospital appointments, tests and waiting for results. It turns out there was a tiny bit of cancer in the first node they removed and none in the other three. Not exactly the news I wanted to hear – no node involvement would have been preferable. But the oncologist was unconcerned and told me it would just slightly alter the surgery they planned to do after the chemotherapy.

After giving me the go ahead to take some diazepam whilst I sat and did some more waiting, I downed two and sat in the waiting room eventually feeling a little calmer as they kicked in (yey for diazepam). Finally, after about four hours since arriving at the hospital, I was called through to the chemo unit to get the ball rolling (or the drugs flowing).

The chemo nurses are remarkably cheerful considering they spend the day injecting toxic drugs in to poorly sick people. I was given a lovely seat next to the window looking out on to the garden. After putting the cannula in one of the veins on my hand which had to be coaxed out using a heat pad, we set about drenching my hair in water and conditioner ready for the cold cap. I had my hair cut off in to a bob to reduce the weight on my follicles and tried slightly unsuccessfully to get it closer to its natural colour as in the event of my keeping my hair, you can't dye it whilst having chemotherapy and I wasn't looking forward to having dreadful roots on show. When you are using the cold cap, you have to sit for half an hour before they start injecting the epirubicin (the E out of FEC) which is the one that makes you lose your hair, during the time it's being administrated and for two hours after. So it extends the time you have to be at the chemo unit for but it's worth a shot. They strap on this very fetching pink cap that looks like you are about to jump on a horse for a gallop and then switch the machine on. I have heard it described as a prolonged brain freeze and the first 20 minutes are the hardest but to persevere.

Without wanting to put anyone off who is thinking of using the cold cap, the first half an hour was excruciating. I desperately tried to distract myself by playing a game on my I pad but all I could think about was shouting to the nurses to take the damn thing off my head! It took all my strength and the thought of a bald head not to. After about half an hour I began to get used the sensation although the rest of me became incredibly cold! I did take my slanket though. First time I’ve actually found a use for it! Next time I'm kitting myself out with scarf, gloves, socks the works!!

After the epirubicin comes the next two drugs – the fluorouracil and the cyclophosphamide. The remarkably cheerful chemo nurse explained to me every time the next toxic drug was about to be injected in to my veins. Due to our late admittance to the unit and the fact that I had at least an hour still to go with the cold cap once the drugs had finished being injected, we were the last ones there with the cleaner mopping up around us. It felt a bit like being a pub at closing time only without the massive meathead bouncer stomping round shouting 'finish your drinks folks'. Once the cold cap was done I had to sit for ten minutes to wait for my head to defrost (I'm not joking) then I ran for a pee. Although I had been warned that the epirubicin turns your wee pink for a little while it was still a bit of a shock to turn round and see rose wine coloured pee in the loo. It seems to be a regular occurrence at the minute to have pee looking like sickly alcoholic drinks. I'm gradually forming a list of booze I can never quite look at in huge same way again. Sigh.

So, I was sent home with a huge goody bag. Unfortunately it wasn’t filled with birthday cake and party hats, but various different anti-sickness medications, steroids and bottles of Difflam mouthwash (awesome stuff). In the same way I would to try and stave off a hangover, glugged a large amount of water over the next couple of hours as I'd heard this would help flush the drugs out and minimise any side effects. Apart from feeling quite nauseous over the evening I was ok - not vomiting yey! I cleaned the toilet though in advance just in case I would end up having my head down it.

Since then I’ve mostly just had this weird floaty feeling occasionally, a bit of a sore mouth, which was sorted by the Difflam, and feeling a bit tired. I’ve still been running but its felt a little more difficult. Oh, and I did get a stinker of a cold which led to me being in hospital for a night whilst they checked me out. The Canxiety has hit now and again but I’m trying to learn to control it with the help of my friend citalopram. Round about now is the time I’d expect my hair to start falling out if the cold cap hasn’t worked. But it’s still there so far although it feels like there are more hairs in my brush than normal. But FEC it! Bring on the next one!!