The New News: Hair today and bald tomorrow

Thirteen days ago some highly skilled people injected me with a combination of drugs that made me unconscious and kept me like that while other highly skilled people cut me open in two places, put their hands inside the cuts, and took pieces out of my body.  Some of the bits they took out were located by earlier injecting me with radioactive material, and then using a small geiger counter, ticking away like an insane watch, to trace what they were looking for: the sentinel lymph gland in my armpit. 

Then, while the surgeon was rummaging in my breast for the original lump, some other highly skilled people with astonishingly advanced equipment studied the gland to see whether this cancer I’ve got had spread. It had, and so they concluded the operation by removing all thirteen lymph glands from my armpit. Then they sewed up both the cuts they had made,  and I was awake and back home by 8 that same evening.

“I am fearfully and wonderfully made” says the psalmist. Yes, the fearfulness quotient is increased when one has cancer, and knowing that it had spread as far as my lymph glands ratchets up the fearfulness considerably. The lymph appears to be a kind of distribution network for the body, with the lymph glands as the central sorting office from which unpleasant parcels of tumour cells can be dispatched to all locations. If it has reached there, where else has it got to?

So, two days ago, more radioactive material was pumped into my arm and a few hours later (I made a flying visit to the Norfolk Community History Club in the meantime) I lay fully clothed but with empty pockets on a gurney while a flat screen in a box hanging from a gantry clanked and crunkled its way very very slowly from my head to my toes. It started off about a centimetre above my nose, so close that the cross-hairs on the black screen blurred out of focus, and made adjustments (clunk) and shifts (crunkle) as it edged along to keep the same distance throughout. The point of this was to scan my bones, which the radioactive material would show up, in order to find out whether any cancer cells had set up shop there.

Now, bone cancer is easily the most frightening possibility I’ve had to contemplate so far, in this little vortex of “how bad can it get?” that we have been living in since December. Bone cancer is pretty fucking bad. So it’s extremely pleasing to report that the scan shows I don’t have it. (It shows I’ve got arthritic knees, but that I knew already).  Hurrah.  (Amazing how one’s perspective changes: in October 2013 I’d have been horrified to be told I had cancer: by February 2014 I’m delighted not to have a worse one).

This pleasing news was delivered to me yesterday by Mr Pain, the wonderfully-named surgeon who did the lymph and breast cancer removal. He’s wrongly named, too, because not only are the scars extremely neat and unobtrusive, I’ve had surprisingly little pain and my arm is fine (there’s sometimes loss of movement after lymph removal, but not for me).

Since then he’s been looking at the bits he cut out, or talking to the people who have, and the news is not so bad. 3 out of 13 lymph glands had cancer cells, and I still have to have a CT scan to check that those busy little distribution centres haven’t distributed them anywhere else. The cancer itself was about the size of the top joint of my thumb: it was medium aggressive, and responsive to oestrogen, which means, as I’d already been told, I’ll have to take an oestrogen blocker - but that it should help.

First though I’m going to have to have chemotherapy, starting quite soon. It’s going to make me feel like crap, I’m probably going to lose my hair, and we can’t go to New York in March as we planned, dammit. But it has a good chance of killing off the remaining cancer cells lurking about the place. After that I’ll have radiation on my breasts, and an oestrogen blocker to take for the rest of my days. 
But - and this is important - we’re still in the territory signposted “curable”.

So quite soon, probably before the end of this month, I’m going to cut all my hair off and shave my head. 
My hair is, at this present moment, waist length, last cut by someone other than myself in September 1985, when Sarah Peters trimmed my fringe for me before a job interview, and it will be strange to be without it. I was last bald in 1960, when I was a few months old, and I suspect my nut on my shoulders will look like a pea balanced on a drum, but there it is. It may regrow some day, though it will quite likely come through white this time.

Oddly enough, shaving my head has been a fantasy of mine for some years. I intend to keep my hair, plait it, and sew it into hats and things. 

I may also get a tattoo on my scalp, just for kicks. 
Gotta do something.

My news in 2013

So, the news with which I ended 2013 is that I have breast cancer. It is operable, and both the consultant and the support worker made great stress of the word curable.

In a couple of weeks the surgeon will remove a small chunk of me - a cancer and some surrounding tissue - and also a bit of lymph gland from my armpit. I imagine they grab the lymph first, as this gets whisked away to the laboratory while I'm still unconscious. If they find anything dodgy there they can then take all the lymph glands away in the same operation, which is convenient all round. They may later come back and take the lymph away in a later operation, after they've had time to have a really good look.

The next thing is to give me some radiation - locally applied - to make sure any spare cancer cells that may be lurking get knocked out.

If that doesn't work, there is chemotherapy, which will make me feel considerably crappier, but still a good deal better than cancer would, in the long run.

As the cancer is what is described as 'oestrogen fed', I then have to take an oestrogen blocker for probably the rest of my life. This will be a novelty, as I've taken very little medicine in my 53 years, and nothing day after day since my 20s when I was briefly on the pill. I daresay I can get used to it, and (having spent since November when I first noticed the lump wondering about different possible futures) am relieved that I may have time to.

Before Christmas, I went in for some samples of tissue to be taken from the lump which I had become aware of, and from the other lump I hadn't known about which the screening had identified, and the slightly suspicious lymph glands showing up, like knots in wood grain, on the ultrasound.

The sampling is done with a small spring-loaded gun type device which shoots into you, snatches a little core of flesh, and withdraws it through a shaft not much larger than a needle. It's like being punched hard by an incredibly dense and tiny fist, but means all you're left with is a small puncture wound and a bit of bruising. The consultant clicked it a few times first to get me used to the sound so I wouldn't flinch when it was actually being used - obviously, if you flinch, you're going to have worse bruising. I didn't and had only very tiny bruises.

This is all a part with the extraordinary amount of inventiveness and ingenuity that has gone into trying to stop people dying of cancer. About 250 years of treating breast cancer and finding out what works and what doesn't, from Fanny Burney walking alone to her mastectomy with no anaesthetic and hearing the surgeon's saw grate on her own ribs, to this.

In amongst the ingenuity, the language used is interesting. The support worker, Valerie, talking about possible effects, referred throughout to "ladies" - "some ladies find that this or that". Not being a lady myself, makes me wonder what I'm doing there. Conscious efforts are made to include one's partner, and B had the pleasure of hearing himself referred to as "hubby".

Certain phrases recur I suppose as formulae for getting us all through the social transactions involved. The surgeon read me a form in which he explains what he's going to do, and what he might have to do (for instance, if he needs to take all the lymph instead of a bit), and what effects it might have, and then hands it to me to take away, read and sign, with the words "My gift to you". About 15 minutes later, the support worker, piling information into a big file in case I fancy a bit of light reading, said the same thing.

 Both concluded by saying "Well done" to us both several times. Buoyed on this wave of congratulation we made our way to our bus before I wondered what exactly it was we'd done well - possibly, well done for not breaking down? Or refusing to countenance treatment? Or refrained from punching the surgeon?

Or perhaps it was just a signal that the interviews were over and we had leave to depart, without using words such as 'goodbye' or 'that's your lot', which might, under the circumstances, make people nervous.

So 2013 ends as it began, with a visit to hospital. Last January it was B who had a scare, which turned out to be nothing. Come to think, the last few Januaries have involved visits to hospitals, though always for other people.

This time it's for me, and I'm glad and grateful we have such good hospitals, and the NHS in general - there for us when we need it... still.