DOING THE CAN-CAN

COMPLAINT

2011-09-05T08:16:00.000-07:00

I want to lodge a complaint. A formal one. I have had enough of the strange woman who appears in my mirrors. She must now leave. Go away to where she came from. She is not welcome. In fact, she does not look like the woman in my brain at all. You know the one: she's smart and beautiful and chic and, above all, thin. The one in the mirror just looks, well, middle-aged. She has this extra tyre that she carries around her waist, and she has cellulite on her legs, plus a problem with leg hair. And talking about hair, you should see hers! I think she may be considering an Afro, as her hair just curls and curls and curls, like a permanent gone bad. I am sure if you try to bounce something off her head, it will bounce mightily - there is just so much spring there. At least she had something done to the colour. At one stage she looked a bit like my 80 year old aunt. Now the colour is more in keeping with the image of the woman in my head.

I really don't know what to do to get rid of this woman. She is like a bad rash: all over. I have taken her to Curves, and gone swimming and walking. I have put her on a diet and taken her for tests. She does not seem to get the message. She stays in my mirrors.

It is so annoying, that I have taken to comfort eating.

So now I would like to lodge a formal complaint: please take this woman and return the original!

HONESTY

2011-08-04T13:28:00.000-07:00

People will often tell me that they like my honesty. That I am straightforward and happy in my own skin. What they don't know, is that edit what I say a lot before it leaves my mouth. It is basically a case of "Don't mistake what I am saying for what I am thinking".
I am often amazed by other people, and I think my amazement has increased during the last year or so - because of being diagnosed with cancer and surviving chemo. So often I look at colleagues or other people and am completely astonished by what they think are important. They remind me of chickens scratching in the dust for food: peck, peck, peck, cackle, cackle, cackle. Then I have to work really hard on my editing skills. And if you as me for my opinion, I will give it to you. If you don't ask, I probably will still give it to you, but I will try to do it with as much compassion as possible.
So when I say, "Actually, I sent an e-mail on 23 June 2011 and you were one of those who did not read it, although it was delivered", I in fact want to say, "You sit on your lazy behind and attend meetings and talk a lot and earn a fat salary, but when it comes to doing the actual work - for which you are paid and I am not - you do nothing." Or I feel like saying, "Honey, that hair style is doing absolutely nothing for you - perms went out of fashion in the 80's", but I don't. Instead I say, "Do you like it?" If you ask me for my opinion and I say, "I do believe that matter is best discussed outside the meeting," I may actually be thinking, "You are being rude to your subordinates in front of your equals and that is a measure of your integrity. You should try to control yourself so that you don't make a fool of yourself."
People think you are being honest when you say things like, "I don't like my sister's boyfriend", or "I don't agree with you", but be really honest now: how many times would you have liked to say something really nasty to someone and you did not? Maybe you felt like slapping somebody, and then you said, "Please allow me to reprogram you neurologically."
In my opinion, the truly worthwhile moments in life, are the ones where people are completely honest with each other on an equal and compassionate level.
Today I had one of those moments. I simply said to someone, "I can't believe how that man is talking to you." He answered, "If you are the gardener, you must be quiet", meaning that if you are at the bottom of the ladder, you don't have much of a choice in how people treat you. I then said, "This is just my observation and take it for what it is worth, but you should not be a secretary. You don't like detail." He looked at me and told me about his passion in life. And I said, "If you are not following your passion, you are hurting your heart. You need to be a manager." Then he said, "I would have paid lots of money to hear those words. Today I got it for free. I will remember it my whole life."
Just one moment of honesty.
And that simply means: a moment of truth, without pretence, without pecking and cackling.

NORMAL

2011-05-14T09:12:00.001-07:00

So apparently I am back to normal. Well, that's what everybody says when they see me. "Oh, you look so good!" is what I hear constantly.(Wonder what they expected? Really don't want to know what's going on in other people's minds!) Or: "I loooooove your hair style!" As if I had gone to the hairdresser and said: shave off! I want to see how it grows back...

Can't blame them, though. I look normal. If you see me, you won't know that somebody had cut off my left breast and that it was stuffed with silicone. You also won't know that my right breast was lifted to go with the foob, and you won't know that I am minus one nipple (areola, as my plastic surgeon so sweetly called it. It's a bit like the day the oncologists asked me, "Do you still have a womb?" And I had said, "A what?" Never thought of myself as having a womb, never mind an areola. Sounds like a place in Italy.)

But what people don't know, is that life has changed irrevocably. I may look normal on the outside, but things are different. I see it on a daily basis. So far I have noticed the following:

I prefer to shower. I used to love a bath, but now I stand in the shower and let the water wash over me. I also play with the water like a child, and love the life-affirming splash it makes on the tiles of the shower. It might, of course, have something to do with the rather large shower we started using shortly after the mastectomy, or it may be that it reminds me of the little things that were so important after the first op: just being able to feel water all over my body, instead of having bird baths.

I used to be like the princess-and-the-pea, the one who could not sleep, because she felt a pea under the seven mattresses all through the night. Just a speck of something in the bed would have me going for hours trying to sort out the sheets. Now I get into bed and I ignore whatever is bothering me (or would have bothered me) and get on with business. Sleeping, of course. What did you think?

I have turned into an extrovert. I don't quite know how this one works, because even though I am exhausted over weekends, I still want to spend time with my friends. Being with other people and talking to them and listening to them, has become one of the most important activities of my days. Last night we celebrated my husband's birthday. We were eight people all together at a local farmer's market, and we were the life and soul of the party! I know in my heart that the introverted me will always be there, but I don't quite know where she is.

I am fairly fearless. This is actually quite scary, because I don't care what I say, as long as I don't hurt other people in the process. I don't know if this has to do with the chemo, or whether it is simply old age. I heard recently that researchers have discovered that one loses the ability to feel embarrassment as you get older. I don't know how true this is, because I am younger than some of my friends, but I definitely don't get as embarrassed as they do... It may, of course, simply be my personality.

I am hot all the time. Now there is a simple explanation for this, of course: Zoladex and Tamoxifen. Hot flushes have become part of my life, and some days are worse than others. And then, when I say something about it, I will get advice about how to enhance my hormones. Sometimes I want to shake people. For goodness sake, how old do they think I am? And do they really think that it is normal for a 46 year old woman to be in menopause already? Honey, I want to say, the medication BLOCKS my hormones. If I want them back and not have hot flushes, I simply need to stop taking the medication. But then I am at risk of the cancer cells starting to grow again; so, even though I complain sometimes, I'd rather live with hot flushes than cancer. So there is no way that I am going to take extra medication (and it does not matter how natural it is) to bring back my hormones!

I can't remember much. I used to forget gossip; now I forget everything. It's a usefull excuse, though!

Somebody said to me today, "Just don't rock the boat and don't be stressed." I laughed. Stress is a chemo needle. Stress is definitely not somebody being obnoxious or involved in a power struggle.

So yes, I am back to normal. I go to work, I laugh, I play.

But somewhere inside of me, I know that nothing will ever be normal again.

SLEEPLESS IN EAST LONDON

2011-02-10T14:27:00.000-08:00

It is the middle of the night (ok, 12:28, if you must know) and I can't sleep. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be able to sleep again without the aid of medication. Because tonight I had thought, I am exhausted and just want to go to sleep. And I had forgotten to take a sleeping tablet and did not think that I need to take one, as I was so tired. So of course I have been lying in bed since 11:30 and am unable to relax enough so that I can sleep.

How does one explain sleeplessness to a person who is asleep before his/her head reaches the pillow? I am constantly amazed at my husband's ability to fall asleep. He will fall asleep in front of the television. He will fall asleep in the middle of a conversation. He simply gets into bed and falls asleep. The moment his head hits the pillow - or even before - he is gone. Then he gets very annoyed, because I can't do the same.

I have always been a bad sleeper, in the sense that I don't sleep when other people sleep. A night person, one could say. Night time is the time when I could be creative, when I could think, when I wrote my PhD and did all my studies. And then I would catch up over weekends, or holidays.

Now, of course, those habits are catching up with me. I am too old to work all night and then during the day too! Currently I feel as if my head is spinning independently from my body. My cat is looking at me as if I am the one keeping her awake, when she can choose to go and sleep somewhere else, instead of in the study. I have made myself a cup of buchu rooibos tea. I hope this will help.

Reconstruction? Yes, the operation has been done and I have the permanent prosthesis and two perky f/boobs. My husband's colleague called me an "intombi" (young girl) recently. I have not been an intombi in a very long time. These days it's mama more often than not.

I am having the grey hairs coloured tomorrow, I mean, later today.

In the meantime I wonder if I should go and do the dishes. No, am too sleepy.

RECONSTRUCTION DAY

2011-01-30T22:58:00.000-08:00

So, today is D-day. Today I say farewell to the fake foob and hallo to the new foob. Need I say more? Farewell to this uncomfortable blob on the left side of my body. Farewell to the port that cuts into me when I turn onto my left side at night. And, hopefully, hallo to a much more comfortable version of fake. Something softer, that does not push and pull and remind me of reality all the time.

I should have gone in on Thursday already - exactly one year after I had first seen a doctor about the spider in my breast. But there was no theater available. Then they had wanted to move it to last week Tuesday, but I still had to have my annual mammogram and that was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. So today it is. I am not looking forward to tubes protruding from my body again, but I survived the last time and I will again. I am not looking forward to that hot-brick-planted-in-my-chest feeling again, but I have survived before and I will again.

Today they are removing the tissue expander (with port) and inserting a 400ml silicone prosthesis. They will also be lifting the right boob (yeah!) and moving the right areola (I don't have a left one!) into position. More scars. But I am going to have perky breasts for the nest 40 years, hopefully. I am not sure if I will mind the right one going south (again) after 40 years, but one never knows. The left one will stay perky for ever and ever.

All of this sounds scary when I write about it, or think about it, but luckily one can control your mind. I don't think about it. First the Pink Chicks are going to hand out KinderJoy chocolates and sparkling grape juice at GVI oncology here in East London. We are going in support of Irene, who is having chemo today at 10:00. You go, girl!

I have to be at Beacon Bay Life Hospital at 12:00. Not allowed anything to eat or drink, and I am really thirsty! Oh well, what one won't do for new boobies...

Lots of love. I am off on this new adventure.

A

MAMMOGRAM

2011-01-26T08:21:00.000-08:00

REFLECTION

2010-12-13T06:01:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I look back at this year and I can't believe that it actually has happened. And to me, of all people. Malignant tumour, mastectomy, eight chemos, reconstruction (in progress), all the blood tests, all the drama. But then I check my diary, and I look at the evidence around me (and the tissue expander still where my left boob used to be) and I know: it happened. And I have survived.

At one stage I sat down and thought: I did absolutely nothing this year. My life came to a standstill in 2010. Then I looked through my diary, and this is what had happened to me this year:

23 January: discover lump in my left breast
27 January: visit the GP. She is not concerned, because I had a clear mammogram and ultrasound in August 2009. Prescribes antibiotics. Asks me to wait three weeks and then return if it does not improve.
16 February: go to make an appointment for an ultrasound, and they do the scan immediately. The radiologist says: it does not look good, and I burst into tears.
19 February: appointment with dr Comley, a surgeon, who does a fine needle biopsy. !"£!"% sore - my boob eventually gets removed with the bruise still there.
24 February: I hear the words: I am sorry, but we found cancerous cells.
26 February to 28 February: we go for a visit to Cape Town. See my parents and sister.
29 February: bone scan, ultrasound, x-rays. Good news: the cancer has not spread to my bones or other organs.
29 February: I meet my plastic surgeon, dr Andre Keppler, for the first time. He explains the procedures to me.
9 March: left breast mastectomy.
13 March: discharged from hospital
15 March: visit dr Keppler for follow-up
17 March: drainage tubes removed
19 March: see dr Comley to discuss the pathology report.
25 March: stitches removed
29 March: my first meeting with my first oncologist, dr Colleen Cox.
1 April: my first foob fill with dr Keppler
16 April: chemo one and Zoladex number 1. My twin sister comes to visit from Germany.
23 to 25 April: we go to Cape Town for my parents' 50th anniversary.
7-9 May: we go to Cape Town for my husband's birthday. My hair is falling out.
10 May: blood test and chemo 2
28 May: blood test and chemo 3
17 June: blood test. The oncologist informs me that I will be unable to go to Europe for the conference, as my white blood count is too low. Chemo 4 gets postponed. I receive my first Neupogen injections and have to inject myself.
21 June: blood test. Everything now fine. Go figure. We go to the Grahamstown festival for a couple of days.
24 June: Chemo 4. I celebrate the end of Adriamicyn and Cyclophosphomide by wearing a blue wig and taking alcohol-free sparkling wine and biscuits to the chemo room. Friends come to visit and celebrate with me. We leave for Cape Town the next day.
13 July: blood test
15 July: Chemo 5. I wear a platinum blonde wig to the chemo room. Zoladex injection number 2.
22 July: follow-up blood test ordered by Dr Malan, the locum oncologist. Back to Neupogen. Dr Sidhlu puts me on sick leave for two months.
26 July: blood test. Everything fine.
4 August: blood test. Getting everything in order to go on sick leave.
6 August: Chemo 6. I wear a rasta wig to the chemo room
13 August: Blood test. I fail, again. Neupogen injections.
14 August: I am a speaker on the panel at Survivor's Day.
15 August: I witness in church.
18 August: foob fill
25 August: blood test. They can't fine veins, and when they do, no blood comes out.
27 August: chemo 7. I dress up as Minnie Mouse.
3 September: blood test, again. The nurses are now drawing blood from my left arm, as they can't do it in my right arm anymore. The left arm, of course, should not be used, as it may cause lymph oedema. I fail the test, again. Neupogen injections. Only three this time.
6 September: Follow-up blood test. My veins start closing up when I think about the blood test. Everything fine.
15 September: pre-chemo blood test. All clear.
17 September: CHEMO 8! I dress up in pink and we party in the chemo room.
23 September: blood test. Another fail and more Neupogen. At R4000 for 5 injections (of which I use 3 to 4 at a time), this is getting really expensive...
24 September: I start crossing the country with a 1400 bakkie and a trailer loaded with boxes for my mother-in-law in Cape Town. My godson goes with to keep me company.
27 September: I have a follow-up blood test in my home town. Everything clear.
2 October: return home.
4 October: start work again.
15 October: follow-up visit with oncologist number three, dr Heunis. Receive Zoladex injection number three, and start using Tamoxifen.
30 October: Make a speech about the gratitude alphabet at the cancer tea. I wear a pink wig.
5 November: I have a birhtday gratitude tea to thank all my friends for their support. We collect money for the Pink Chicks Cancer Support Foundation.
3 December: I put mascara on for the first time since July. Yip, my eye-lashes are coming back!

Inbetween all of this I wrote a conference paper, marked student assignments, finalised my work, had a paper published (Yeah!), cooked food and played with my goddaughter(s). Oh, and three of my children's poems are being published in an anthology of children's poetry, and I organised an overseas trip, cancelled an overseas trip and reorganised the trip for December. We are leaving on Wednesday!

No too shabby, huh? In fact, I think this is all very impressive!

A FEW RANDOM COMMENTS

2010-11-19T00:56:00.000-08:00

I love this time of the year. I know that everybody else is stressed out, but this is my time for thinking, because all the student assignments have been marked, most of our meetings have been held, and I can simply concentrate on my research. That includes a lot of reading, of course, and surfing the internet for information. Which does lead to reading totally irrelevant articles about totally irrelevant information. I was recently reminded that I am a scientist, as I am unable to remember people's names, but I can remember statistics. Like the fact that only 6% of breast cancers is painful, or that my survivol chances are 84%. Or that 1 in four alcoholics who go and look for help, actually become sober. Or that every alcoholic's life has an influence on at least four other people. Or that your chances of becoming an alcoholic is 60% if one of your parents was/is an alcoholic. What else? Anything else you would like?

Whilst hunting on the internet, I chanced on a blog where the man described in detail how his wife reacted after her mastectomy. How she cried and asked, can you still love this? He poignantly described his own reactions and actions, and her fears and tears. And how he could never reassure her, and how they eventually divorced - not because of the cancer and the mastectomy, but because of the existing problems in the marriage.

Forgive me, but the whole time I read his account of their truth I thought: can this be true? It sounds like a scene from some melodramatic romance novel. Because he kept on saying (according to him) all the right things: You are still beautiful. It does not matter. But, according to him, her femininity was lodged in her breast, and therefore the removal of the breast also signified the removal of her femininity. This, in turn, resulted in her feeling undesirable and ugly. And what he wrote sounded untrue, to me, as it sounded as if he took his description out of some movie that he saw.

Now there may be women who feel like that. I don't know. Obviously the scar where my original left boob used to be, is not pretty. It never will be. But it is also not monstrously ugly. In fact, I am quite proud of it (yes, it took me nine months to get to this point!), because it is a physical sign of the emotional trauma. And the emotional trauma is not because I am not a woman anymore (how does that work? I still am one!), but because of the reality of this disease that I and others like me have to live with. My breasts do not make me a woman. I am a woman, because it is in my DNA. That has not changed. You can remove my hair, my breasts, my uterus, and I will still be a woman. Remodelled, but still a woman!

I am also feeling stronger than I have in a long time. I am not afraid to speak my mind - and yes, I do take other people's feelings into account when I say what I want to say! - and I am standing proud.

Because I am a survivor.

IN HONOUR OF BRAVERY

2010-11-15T08:27:00.001-08:00

So often people will tell me how brave I am, or how strong. I don't feel brave or strong, personally. They will also tell me what a terrific example I am. I really, really don't want to be an example. I just want to be me without cancer, without this invasion of my body - and I don't mean just by cancer, but also by people wielding knives and needles. I often feel that I don't have much of a choice, but I can choose to live this life that was given to me in negativity, or to live it positively. And I would like to get on with the business of living a meaningful life, instead of wallowing in self-pity. There are worse things in life than getting diagnosed with cancer.

And then there are days like today, where I am accidentally reminded that, actually, no, this is quite bad. You may die. You are fighting the fight of your life for your life. Because I went for a quick visit to the chemo room, and there Val was, diagnosed for the third time in her life and on chemo number 26. And Irene, who was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and was there for her second chemo, and they were struggling to get a needle into her veins. I held her hand and talked to her, because I know what that feels like - that fiddling with your veins as if they are as wide as a national road. Irene is 58, and has a loving husband and four children, as well as three grandchildren. I also talked to Jean, who had a double mastectomy years ago, and who was now diagnosed with lung cancer. She has survived her three sons, breast cancer and TB. She is still fighting.

And when I left the building, I was met by Mike's wife. Mike passed away on 7 November 2010, after a brave struggle. This was his second time that he was diagnosed. He was 48 years old.

Mike, I did not know you well, but your smile and positive spirit will stay with me. I also carry with me the love you had for your beloved "boys".

So, in honour of all these brave men and women, I would like to start an honour roll. If you have a story of any person, living or deceased, that you would like to honour, send me a private message, and I will put it on the blog. Tell us what you remember, or what you like about this person. Let us honour them while they are with us, or let us remember them.

GRATITUDE ALPHABET

2010-11-08T13:16:00.000-08:00

About two weeks ago I had to make a speech at the annual Friendship Tea for Cancer. When I was asked to talk, my brief was to "keep it light" and stick to fifteen minutes only. This is quite a feat for me, as I am used to lectures of at least an hour... I also struggled with the "light" idea, because I am currently going through a phase where not much feels humourous to me. It's not that there is nothing to laugh at, it is just that nothing is happening. I have to put down my head, focus on today and forget about tomorrow. Ostrich syndrome. De Nile.

I had put a lot of thought into my speech, and eventually decided not to make a speech at all, but to try and get the women in the audience to write the speech. To this end I used the gratitude alphabet as a techniques. The idea was that I would talk about coping with cancer in my everyday life, and originally the idea was to talk about my wigs. But then I thought, let's take the focus off me. Let's talk about each other and about God. So I introduced the concept of the Gratitude Alphabet to my audience and handed out pink papers on which the letters of the alphabet were printed. The idea is to name something for each letter of the alphabet that you are grateful for. It is, of course, not my idea, but I learned it at Al-Anon.

So let's go:

A stands for Attitude. If your attitude is lousy, your day will be awful. And when your body lets you down and your attitude lets you down, it makes for major chaos. I am therefore grateful when my attitude kicks in
B stands for breast. I am grateful that I have one breast left; I am grateful for the years I had with both my breasts. I am also grateful that they never became an extension of who I am, but that they stayed appendixes that were part of my body and not my soul.
C stands for chemo. Thank God that we have different types of chemo these days, so that there is at least a positive prognosis when cancer is detected early.
D stands for denial - a good coping mechanism when things get too tough. Sometimes - often - you have to put your head in the sand like an ostrich and simply pretend that everything is fine.
E stands for my friend Elana, who has been in my life for 26 years.
F stands for friends and family, without whom this journey would have been beyond lonely.
G stands for gratitude.
H stands for my husband. He has been my friend and my lover and my confidante. Without him my life does not make sense.
I stands for intravenous drip through which the chemo could reach my veins and my body. Obviously it did not always feel like a blessing, but without it, the chemo would not have been possible.
J stands for Jesus, my Lord and Saviour
K stands for dr Keppler, my plastic surgeon, and a total sweetie and blessing in my life.
L stands for Life. I am grateful for this life that I have, for all the things I can still do and dream.
M stands for medication that one can take to make your life better while you are on chemo; and for a medical aid that paid most of my costs, and for money that I had in my pocket to pay for the extras.
N stands for nausea, which I did not get
O stands for opera music, which can transport me to a different place if needs be. I would also like to mention the Oprah Winfrey show here, as it became a haven of escapism during my days.
P stands for moments of peace and calm in my life.
Q I'll leave this one for other people!
R stands for rain, for which I am grateful because we need the water.
S stands for the sea. I can go to the beach and relax whilst looking at the water.
T stands for tea. I love my cup of tea!
U stands for understanding. I am so grateful to all those friends who have listened to me regardless of what I was telling them.
V stands for vegetables that I can eat to keep me healthy.
X stands for Xercise (yes, I know!) that I can still do despite everything.
Y stands for being able to say yes despite your fears.
And Z stands for the gazillion things I still want to do with my life.

You get the idea? It's always a good thing to go and sit down and start from the beginning and work to the end to figure out what is actually good in your life.

And the speech? So far I have only heard positive comments about it. One woman actually said that she thought it was risky, but that the women who were sitting at her table were all really into it and they just wanted to complete the alphabet before leaving.

GRATITUDE ALPHABET

2010-10-30T03:55:00.000-07:00

AGAIN WITH THE SLEEPING

2010-10-28T03:50:00.000-07:00

EXTRAORDINARY

2010-10-13T02:49:00.000-07:00

Whenever I have to talk to people, I always want to say: "I am just an ordinary person. Nothing special about me". Because, if I say that, I feel that people will understand that I am just like they are. Just a normal person. And then it hits me: it is not true! I am a special person! I am extraordinary! I am me! I am just as special and extraordinary as every other person on this planet, because I have been chosen by God. No, not chosen by God to get cancer, because God does not give cancer. But I have been chosen by God to be His child. And that means that I have a special purpose here on earth.

So often I hear people talk, and it's about the worries of their lives. The fears. Fear of old age, fear of not having enough money, fear of "something" happening. Or we hide how we really feel and what we really are. We pretend. My students often say to me that English people are "pretenders", because they will smile at you and be friendly, and then turn away and not smile at all any more. But we have been taught to pretend. You can't show anybody how you really feel. You can't tell people what you really feel. If you are sad and somebody asks you how you are, you put on a smile and say fine, thank you.

And in this way we hide from people. We hide ourselves, because it is scary.

Somebody said to me the other day, I would never be able to be so open, because I am a very private person.

You think I was not? You know what cancer does to you? What any disease does to you? You lose your dignity. You have strangers looking at your breasts, touching them, feeling them. You have strangers looking at awkward places on your body. One of the low-points of this year was when I had to go for my bone scan and I had to do this pose where I had to straddle the ironing board like a porn star on a horse. Then I had to bend backwards and KEEP THE POSE FOR FIVE MINUTES! Worse, I had to redo it. I am sure the doctor who was giving the instructions (from Bloemfontein via the internet) was having a good laugh on the other side.

So talking about your private self is actually quite easy after all that prodding and poking and peering. Plus you have lost most of your hair, including eyebrows and eyelashes, so all those things you used to do in order to save your dignity and your vanity, become fairly useless. It should be quite obvious to most people that there is something wrong with you. Even if they think that you overplucked your eyebrows and are now trying to compensate for it with eyebrow pencil.

When I started wearing a wig, it was an aid to help me hide the disease. I just wanted to be normal. But when you wear a funny wig, like a pink one, or a blonde one, or the blue one, or the rasta one, you actually become more noticeable. You also have to spend quite a lot of time on make-up in order to look good. Otherwise you just look like an experiment gone wrong. But it also gives people a talking point and helps them to open up to you. After all, if you are prepared to make a fool of yourself in public, you can't be too bad, can you?

And then I go home. And I take the wig off. And it is just me and my God. It's then that I have to ask myself: have I fulfilled my special purpose for today? Did God's light shine through me? Or was I just ordinary?

Every day I stand naked in front of God. No hair. No make-up. No eyelashes. No eyebrows. Just me. Every day I can choose to share me with other people. Every day I can open myself up to other people.

And, trust me, it's worth it.

WHAT A DAY!

2010-10-08T07:19:00.000-07:00

TIRED TODAY

2010-09-23T07:12:00.000-07:00

Forgive me, but I am tired today. Had my blood test and my white cell count is on 1. Low. Had to get my Neupogen injections to help my marrow make more cells. Only two injections, so hopefully I will be less tired by tomorrow. The idea that this is the last time, keeps me going. I took Norman with to the oncology room today, and he was surprised to see what it looks like. Afterwards he said: "You go through all this and we are outside looking in, but you are still going through this and you are so strong and we don't know". That's probably a good description. Because you can't know until you know. But I explained it like this: every time something bad happens, regardless of what it is, you have a choice of how you are going to go through it. And if you are negative, what's the point? You may die, but then, anybody may die at any moment. So I can choose to carry on with my life, or I can choose to die now, and what then is the point of my life? And bad means different things to different people. I lost a boob. You may lose your job or a loved one, and, somehow, you must get through it. Otherwise, what will be the point? Or people may be horrible to you, or you may break a favourite ornament, or anything that may eventually look simple in the big scheme of things, but at that moment it is still bad to you. Whatever it is. And you must cope and get through it.

Tomorrow we are travelling to Vredendal with a 1400 bakkie and a trailer. You don't want to know what it looks like... I am a bit concerned that the bakkie is going to start lifting with the load on the trailer, but in for a penny, in for a pound. And I am the only driver. Luckily we are going to stay over in Victoria West on the way, and by the time we get to Cape Town, we should have left most of the load in Vredendal. Oh well.

HAVING A PITY PARTY

2010-09-20T07:27:00.000-07:00

Today is not a good day. I am just feeling miserable in general. Obviously I am relieved that the chemos are over, but this whole fight is not over, and it does not feel as if I can do much more than take my tablets and go to the appointments with the oncologist and all the other scans that have to take place every three months. I really so do not want this as part of my life. I am uncomfortable with the foob on my chest. It feels like somebody has planted a rock in my chest and my skin is pulling tight around it. Will it ever feel normal again? Will I ever feel normal again? Will I ever be able to go through life without being aware of the foob?

Taxotere is over, and I am grateful. The side-effects, however, have just started, with those funny twitches in my legs and my back. Apparently the Taxotere attacks the deep tissues, or something like that, and that is why I get these cramps and twitches. It can be funny, because I will be walking and suddenly my leg will start twitching, so it must look weird to an onlooker. But it is also painful, and I have to take pain medication, which makes me feel like I am on something. And of course I am on something, but why does it have to feel as if my head is in the clouds and my bum is painfully on this earth?

I am still waiting for the oral thrush, but at least I can control that with more medication now. It's not as bad as it was.

Just feeling sorry for myself. The big drama is over, and now the waiting has begun. I don't want this. I want my life back. I have thought that I am slowly moving into acceptance, but today it does not feel like it at all. I don't want cancer in my life. I DON'T!!!

HOW TIME FLIES WHEN YOU ARE HAVING FUN

2010-09-16T07:26:00.000-07:00

When the oncologist booked me off until the end of this term, I was quite reluctant to go on sick leave. And I missed my students and the routine of going to this campus or that campus. Except that lecturing for an hour and a half at a time was really exhausting - so much so that at one stage I would walk from my car to the lecture room and had to sit down to rest. Or I would simply go back to my car without even going to my office, and then I would just sit in my car and wait before turning the key in the ignition.

But I have become used to having time for myself and the things I want to do. Or not to do. I don't get up until I feel like it, and then I sit and mark student assessments. Or not. Depending on how I feel. Whilst marking, I also surf the internet and chat to my sister in Cape Town on Facebook. I have even been able to go to tea with a friend or two - something which is not normally possible. I also attended a birthday party. On a Monday morning, I kid you not!

Of course I had planned to do all sorts of things with my time: do a painting or ten, sort out the photographs that have not found their own way to an album since 2007, sort out my documentation and medical bills, finish the mosaic I have not started yet, clean the dining room table, which is covered in beads and bead paraphernalia, write a paper for publication, and so on and so forth. So far I have managed to organise my documentation and medical bills, I have applied for the renewal of my driver's license, and I have applied for a new passport. I have also written poems for a children's poetry book. Whether they will get accepted, is another question, but one can only hope. One has been accepted, but I don't know about the others. That does not cover much on my list, but it is wonderful to stay at home and just do my own thing. (Most of the time, of course. There are weeks like this one where I leave the house at 10 in the morning and only get home at 2 or 3. That is in order to run all the errands that need doing. Like buying gifts for birthdays and doing food shopping. How does one normally do it?)

I have also managed to fit in a number of blood tests and two chemos. Luckily the medication I am getting at the moment helps that I don't feel as bad as I did with the first five chemos. I just get really tired still during the first two weeks after chemo.

Plus I tried to play hopscotch with a seven year old this week. Suffice to say that I allowed her to cheat, or else it would have been my turn to "hop" again! Just picture a 45 year old (almost 46) overweight woman bouncing around the garden on one leg, and you will get the idea. I was completely exhausted. Of course I blame the chemo. I won't be able to use that excuse for much longer!

Can't believe the sick leave is almost over. I still have sooooo much to do! And my cat really loves having me at home at her beck and call...

PREPARING FOR CHEMO EIGHT

2010-09-16T07:07:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is chemo number EIGHT. That means it's the LAST one (and you may have it, but I don't think it quite works that way)! And I have been busy preparing the celebration. So far I have bought a pink wig, cake for all the patients (and hopefully) the staff, and enough pink pens (for the girls) and blue pens (for the boys) for all the patients. I have decorated said pens with pink and blue feathers, and I have made a pair of pink earrings. Add to that my usual stash of chocolate wafer biscuits (for my visitors), Salticrax, Appletiser and juice. Normally a woman named Pumeza also gets chemo when I get chemo and we share the Salticrax. For one or other reason I never feel like sweet things on chemo day. Oh, and I've bought another pair of fake eyelashes.

And on that topic: I went to see a beautician about having professional eyelashes put on. Apparently they last at least a month. Unfortunately one has to have eyelashes for them to be added to, because the use your existing eyelashes to glue them onto. Plus I have blue eyes, which implies sensitive eyes, so that the beautician advised me not to have them done at all. Go figure. You need eyelashes to have fake eyelashes!

TIME FLIES WHEN YOU ARE HAVING FUN

2010-09-16T04:35:00.000-07:00

Wow! Tomorrow is chemo number EIGHT! That means it's the LAST one (and you may have it, but I don't think it works that way).

THAT WARM AND FUZZY FEELING

2010-09-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

WARNING: if you are looking for that warm and fuzzy feeling, don't read this!

When I recently declined an invitation to tea due to the fact that I am not feeling well, a friend stated that it is weird that I feel bad so late after chemo. Like her, everybody - including me- expected me to feel bad straight after chemo. We have all seen the movies with the pale woman hanging over the toilet vomiting her guts out. We have all seen the hair loss or heard about it. It is, however, not that simple. Chemo attacks all the fast growing cells in your body. These include the cells in the hair follicles, the digestive track and - this is the pertinent one - your bone marrow. The bone marrow is responsible for manufacturing blood cells. When your marrow gets attacked on a regular basis, it can't function properly and does not manufacture enough blood cells. This can lead to a low white cell count or a low red cell count (aneamia).

In my case, I start getting that warm and fuzzy feeling on my tongue about three to four days into week one after chemo. It actually starts with a tinkly feeling on the tongue and when I wake up and my breakfast tastes like tobacco/metal/ink, I know the thrush is back. Lovely. I need to start treating this immediately, or I will be unable to eat. Coupled with the thrush are the mouth sores. These can get quite painful, and they are normally in the vicinity of my absent wisdom teeth, so that it also affects my hearing. Remember those tubes of Eustachias you learned about in Biology? Way back? School? Well, those are affected by the mouth sores and the thrush, so that I go quite deaf at times. I am currently sitting with ear ache in my left ear. Any eating activity increases the pain, so that I use pain tablets to alleviate some of the pain.

All of the above relates to a low white cell count. If your white cell count is low, your body can't fight infections. A simple problem, like a single mouth ulcer, becomes a huge problem, because your body simply can't cope with it. You have to stay away from people who may possibly infect you. This means that going to do the weekly shopping becomes hazardous, as you don't know who or what you may encounter on your shopping trip.

I know my white cell count is low when I start getting mouth sores, thrush, I feel dizzy and tired, and, the cherry on top, I get diarrhea. At this stage I have a blood test on day 8 (one week after chemo) and then very expensive injections to help my body to manufacture white blood cells. I failed another test on Friday and had to inject myself again this weekend.

Some people don't want to contact me straight after chemo. Actually, I am fine for at least two days after chemo. I get very tired quite easily, but as long as I can sit down, I am fine. It's from day four that things start to go wrong.

And, I may just add, life continues despite the side-effects. Currently I get up in the mornings, start the computer, sit and mark student assignments, and, when I feel tired, I go for an afternoon snooze. Sometimes I just lie down for an hour. That also helps.

There is also lots of medication that one can take to manage side-effects. I am currently taking pills for hand-and-foot syndrome (the chemo may leak out of your capillaries and cause burns on the hands and the feet), pills to bring my seratonin levels up to normal and pills to make me sleep (insomnia is another side-effect). In the words of my new oncologist: you don't have to suffer so much!

And that is why I feel bad so long after chemo. That warm and fuzzy feeling is with me again.

MERRY-GO-ROUND

2010-08-24T11:52:00.001-07:00

I am going to Home Affairs tomorrow to apply for a new passport (if they are not striking), but this fact is less disturbing than the fact that I also have to go for a blood test tomorrow. That should tell you something about my current state of mind. Because that means that the merry-go-round of blood test - chemo - blood test - injections - blood test - side-effects has started again. They have now resorted to taking blood from my left arm, as the veins on my right hand side are all clogged up from the chemo. Two weeks ago they tried to get blood out of a vein on my right hand and - nothing. The needle was in, but nothing came out. Absolutely nothing. So they decided to use the left hand. There is, of course, the threat of oedema, but I keep doing my exercises and so far I have been very lucky.

So please pray for all the staff who will be helping me. Thank you.

"PROFESSIONAL PHOTOGRAPH"

2010-08-24T08:05:00.000-07:00

I had a professional photograph done this afternoon. With me wearing my rasta wig. The photographer eventually asked me to sit on the floor and look up at him. So that my double chin does not show up! Veeeeery funny.

And the picture is for the Women's Health. I may or may not appear in the October issue of the magazine. Finally, my fifteen minutes of fame!

EYE-BROWS AND WHISKERS

2010-08-24T05:21:00.000-07:00

How do I start this one? It's not that it's a sensitive issue. It's just that it is so difficult to describe.

As everybody probably knows, my hair started disappearing early on in the treatment, and right on cue. Your normal hair - the ones that you normally try to grow - began to fall out two weeks after the first chemo, and this continued until I was as bald as a newborn eagle. There are still soft, downy hairs all over the scalp, but they are not going anywhere. That is, they are not growing and they are not falling out. The other hair - to the south - gradually departed, until I started looking like a badly plucked chicken. A badly plucked and very mature chicken. Underarm hair left straight after the first chemo, but I have recently imagined that they are beginning to grow again. Status to be confirmed. Leg hairs are still growing, but I only need to shave once every two or three weeks.

Now more to the point: eye-brows and eye-lashes may take their leave after the fith chemo. And that's exactly what had happened to me. In preparation for this event, I went to a local Clicks to buy false eye-lashes (there is not much on me that is not false these days!). The young girl who tried to help me, helpfully said, but why don't you just use more mascara? Honey, there will soon be nothing left to put the mascara on! The false eye-lashes travelled to Cape Town with me and back, but I was too chicken (okay! okay!) to put them on, especially because the instructions clearly said that one needs to remove them with the special eye-lash remover and not pull them off. Which, of course, was not available in the shop at all, and the shop assistant had never even heard of it. So I wondered what will happen if I put them on and then I can't get them off again... Or they start getting all lopsided, with half coming off and the other half staying on. What would I do then?

No fear. I finally decided to try them out before my sixth chemo. Luckily I had time, as the chemo appointment was only for 11 that morning. I started attaching the lashes at 09:00 by following the instructions closely. The first instruction was to make sure your face is clean. Done. No "oily" residues on your face. Done. Then you had to make sure that you had the eye-lashes in the correct order, and start applying them. According to the text, if you are right-handed, you have to start with the left eye, and if you are left-handed, you have to start with the right eye. There is, of course, an obvious reason for this: it is easier to apply the lash to the left eye if you are right-handed, and vice versa. Sort of like a practice round. The other less obvious reason is that, once you have applied the easier lash, you will have to persevere with the difficult lash. You also have to "look down into a mirror and hold lash as closely as possible to the natural lash line". Now this is obviously easier said than done, especially when there is not much left of your "natural lash line". Besides, is that not the reason why I bought false eye-lashes? The fact that I don't have any?

Right, so there I went: black glue (goo?) to the side that needs to be attached, wait 30 seconds and ..... oh, my gosh, where did it go to? Luckily it is black glue, so it leaves quite a trail on it's way down to the basin. Let's try again: start on the outside corner, hold it down firmly, gently stretch it across to the inner eye-lid, hold it down while you wait for the glue to dry and ... oh, my gosh, I look like a panda bear! Plus now my inner eye-lid is stuck to my upper eye-lid. Right, gently does it. Use your fingers to slowly pry open your eye-lids, apply wet wipes to all the black glue to remove it, new glue on the eye-lash, wait 30 seconds, and let's try again. Oh, great, it's on, but now the end is skew, so that it looks as if there is this white gap between my "natural" lashes and the false ones. Retry. Clean lashes. Glue on. 30 seconds. Let's go! And so on and so forth.

And that was just the left eye. The right eye was a whole new ballgame, because by then, I sort of had the whole thing figured out. Except that the left eye is smaller than the right eye, and then you have to cut the lashes to size. I had also decided that the lashes were too long - even though they were supposed to be "natural" - and I trimmed them slightly. Which meant, of course, that I had to remove the right lashes to trim them as well. And start the whole process again. By then I had figured out that I can simply pull them off without any visible damage to my eyes. (Who knows, by the time I am 65 I may have really saggy eyes, simply because I pulled off the lashes, instead of using the "special" remover...)

I must say: the result was really spectacular. I have always wanted to try false eye-lashes, purely because my God-given ones were always on the meagre side. The only problem was that I had to warn my friends to warn me if they start falling off.

At the end of my first day with my false eye-lashes, I pulled them off while sitting in front of the computer. There they were, my two eye-lashes, looking like bits that fell off a giant spider.

Which is probably why my cat started playing with them. And why I could only find one lash the next day. And why I finally found the other lash in the bathroom about a week later.

I have since then purchased two more pairs. I am currently on the "sensual" look, according to the box they came in. Natural just does not do it for me anymore!

EXERCISE

2010-08-16T10:56:00.000-07:00

I hate exercise. With a passion that surpasses my passion for chocolates. Apparently people have this tiny gland that secretes endomorphines, or some such, during exercise. I don't have that gland, or maybe it's just not functioning. Often you hear people after exercise say things such as, "Oh, I feal so GREAT!!!!!" or "I have SOOO much ENERGY!!!" (there are always a number of exclamation marks and capital letters involved in these utterings, guaranteed). Not me. After exercise I simply want to collapse. Collapse. I am tired. I am exhausted.

Then there is also my firm believe that exercise is dangerous for your body. Ten years ago I was the epitome of health. Then I started to exercise. Regular outings to the gym. The whole works. Now I have pains in places that I did not know existed. And I only have to look at my exercise crazy friends to have my believe confirmed: shot knee caps, injured backs, pinched sciatica; you name it and they have it. The fact that I am sitting with a cancer diagnosis, despite my many years at the Active Virgins, does not help, either.

At first everything started relatively innocently: a spinning gym opened in our town. As I used to love cycling, I thought this would be a great way to get back into an exercise routine. So I joined. And I loved it. As soon as I had developed callouses in all the right places, the pain subsided and enjoyed every minute. Well, most minutes. What I enjoyed even more, was the fact that classes were only 45 minutes: you went in, you did the class and you left. I lost ten kilograms in no time, felt good and looked good, although I was still tired after exercise. I added yoga to the spinning, as the cycling apparently shortens the ham strings, and, despite my lack of flexibility, I also loved the yoga. Even though I received a couple of lectures about joining a new religion...

And then the spinning gym closed it's doors. I finally had to give in and joined the Active Virgins. It was cheaper than the yoga on it's own, it offered spinning and yoga, as well as all the other normal gym classes. Those ones where you can go and jump up and down in time to music, and where a tall person like me always look like an ostrich who is practicing to fly. For the spinning you only have to book your place on a bike, and everything is fine. Then you also have to be there at least five minutes before the class starts, so that you can claim your seat, and everything is fine. Otherwise you lose your bike. Which could be a bit problematic, seeing that the spinning classes started at weird times. Which were fine, if you work in town, but not, if you don't.

Then they had about thirty bikes in a room the size of an average South African kitchen. Most of the spinners were extremely enthusiastic and extremely loud, in the midsts of training for the Cape Argus or similar competitions and they had really weird habits, like making grunting noises, or they would shout unintelligible words. And sweat. Boy, could they sweat! You are innocently sitting on your bike, when suddenly, splosh! a big fat drop of sweat splashes on you, or near you. There was one guy who would stop in the middle of his cycling, take off his t-shirt, proceed to wring it out and put it back on. With all of that sweat - normally about five liters - splashing over the floor and over you. Apparently the presence of their sweat on somebody else does not bother these fanatics at all. It definitely bothered them so little, that they also did not bother to wipe their bikes after the class. Some days you had to order a boat and oars simply to get to your bike.

On top of their sweat love, these fanatics also love loud music. At the end of a class I would stagger out of there with a ringing noise in my ears and a total inability to hear anybody. Eventually you try and schedule all your classes so that you miss the fanatics, in order to avoid their sweat and their loud music. All you want to do, is your exercise, without becoming the target of their sweat missiles of becoming deaf.

Eventually you start migrating to other classes with exotic names like "Pure Pump", or "Versa Training", or "Body Conditioning". You try all the machines in the gym. You do "the circuit". And you have a problem: you are a gym bunny. You have to dress up for classes, you train, you have to shower, you have to get dressed... By the time you have finally finished, it's 8 o'clock in the evening, your research paper still has to be written and there is no supper on the table. You feel like a stranger in your own home and the cat calls you "Madam".

At the end of 2009 I decided to end my gym membership when my contract expires at the end of January 2010. I was going to join Curves and possibly the yoga center around the corner from our house. They are both closer to home and it will involve less travelling and also less showering, etc.

Then 2010 happened. Now, it sounds very gentle to say they "remove" your breast and lymph nodes. What people don't say, is that they actually cut through the nerves and tendons under your arm, and you will be extremely lucky if you are ever able to feel the back of your arm or your arm pit. Ever. The tendons also shorten after the operation. This means that you will be unable to lift your arm/s after the operation. In order for you to get full movement back in your arm, you will have to do the following exercise as many times as you can in one day:

1. Facing a wall, start in the standard position, with your toes 13-30cm from the wall ("standard position" simply refers to standing up straight - or "mountain pose" in yoga. See? All that yoga training is now very useful!)
2. Walk both hands up the wall, parallel to each other, until pulling or pain occurs on the side of the surgery. Mark the spot you have reached with a pencil so you can check your progress.
3. Work hands down to shoulder level. Move feet and body closer to the wall as comfort allows and reach requires.
4. Return to standard position. Relax with your forehead against the wall (this takes some effort, remember!) before repeating the exercise.

I am happy to report that I can stand against the wall and lift my arm straight up.

Please be careful when you try this at home, and remember: this is legitimate exercise!

CHEMO & CO

2010-08-12T07:33:00.000-07:00

I get the impression that people think the chemo itself is the problem, you know, the day on which the chemo is given to you. But chemo itself is not so bad. In the grand scheme of things it's just another day where you have to go and sit in a hospital room and wait for a transfusion, and that's it.

When you have to compare the whole experience to, say, having a train ride over your legs while you are still conscious, it's not so bad. Or if somebody tries to remove your head with a blunt chainsaw. It's not that bad. Or if some mad person is prancing around your conscious, prostrate body and chanting all sorts of incantations, with a knife held high. It's not that bad.

It's just sitting in a lay-z-boy and a couple of chemo nurses trying to put an IV in your vein. That's it.

It's just the sometimes it feels as if it is just an extra little annoying gift to test your patience, your attitude, your outlook on life.

I have had six chemos in total. That means I have two to go. And I do not blame my veins for closing up in advance, because sometimes I get the feeling that you are treated like a plastic doll. It's not that the chemo nurses are not sympathetic - mostly they are. It's just that hunting for veins in another person's body is not that much of a big deal to them. So we can't get the IV to function? Oh, let's fiddle a bit with the needle and see what happens!

Chemo 6 was on Friday, 6 August 2010. A good date. I was supposed to see the oncologist (number four so far) at eleven, but she was busy with a "second primary". Apparently that is what they call you when you are diagnosed with a different type of cancer for the second time. So of course I understood that she took some time with the patient. We finally saw her at quarter to 12 and I was in the chemo room at just past twelve. No problem.

The chemo nurse, Siziwe, found a vein fairly easily, but the problem was that the products did not want to run into my veins. They normally put a flush on for ten minutes to open the veins. After that you get anti-nausea medication (steroids, from what I understand) for another ten minutes. Then you get the chemo. The current product, Taxotere, runs for about an hour and a half. At the end, they give you another flush and you are in and out in two hours. This time round the flush and the steroids alone took more than an hour. I had a friend there, and she sat staring at the IV and would say: you have to move now; it's not going. Because, according to the chemo nurse, my position is simply the problem and not the vein. That after they had fiddled with the needle for about ten minutes. So I had to keep on moving my hand in order to keep everything going.

Eventually the flush and steroids were finished, but then they had to put saline solution on, because my chemo was not ready. The new oncologist had decided that I do not need quite as much as was previously prescribed, because I got burns on my hands and feet after the last chemo. According to her, I do not need to suffer "quite as much". Hallooooo! So I had to sit and wait while the alchemist (the chemist who mixes the mixtures) remixed the new quantity. In the meantime there is still a needle in my hand.

And then the chemo arrived. The previous time I had Taxotere, my arm started getting warm and feeling really funny. They had told me that this might happen and I must tell them, but they had made no note of this. So this time they simply put on the chemo and left. My whole upper body started feeling hot - like in burning - and I could not breath. Some people thought I was having a panic attack, but I know what that feels like, and this was not it. I tried to breath deeply, but it just made it worse. So it was back to a saline solution for fifteen minutes, before they could put the chemo on.

And? Nothing happened. The chemo was going nowhere, and the spot where they had put the needle in, was getting more and more sore. Eventually they had to take the needle out, I had to put my hand in hot water to puff up the veins, and the head sister finally put the needle in at about half past two. By this stage I was close to tears, because a two hour exercise had already turned into a three and a half hour ordeal. And at the rate the products were flowing into my veins, I could still see myself sitting there at five.

I finally left at ten past four.

And really, it was not that bad. But some days just one more thing is the final straw. This camel's back is not feeling too well.

ADVANTAGES

2010-06-09T07:40:00.000-07:00

OK, just to show everybody that not everything is doom and gloom, a couple of the advantages of my condition:
1. I do not sweat under my left arm. That means a huge saving on deodorant.
2. No hair currently grows under my arms. Another saving, this time on waxing and shaving.
3. Obviously a large saving on hair shampoo and salon visits. I only need to wash my wig about once a week, do not have to style it as it simply falls back into style (time saving!) and it's ready to go the next day.
4. The single, very black, very long, very scary hair on my chin has disappeared. For now, at least.
5. Waxing in the south also does not have to happen. Very sparse growth.
6. Oh, I don't need tampons and all those other monthly pariphernalia anymore. More money in my pocket.
7. People are so very nice to me. Although this irritates me at times - why can't they simply be nice all the time? - it has it's advantages. They don't ask me to do annoying little jobs that will add stress to my life.
8. I have lost weight without even trying. I know the oncologist said I should not, but I have been at least 20kg overweight for the last ten years, so it is a bonus. If you can't eat, you can't put on weight. I have offered to deep kiss people at a fee, so that they can get my mouth sores. So far no takers.
9. I can actually exercise while I brush my teeth, and it is totally acceptable for people "in my condition".
10. Oh, and if I want to, I can change my hair at will! Today short, tomorrow long, day-after-tomorrow blue... You know the kind of thing!

ADVANTAGES

2010-06-08T10:08:00.000-07:00

VENTING

2010-06-07T08:21:00.000-07:00

WARNING: DON'T READ THIS IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR A LAUGH-OUT-LOUD, FEEL-GOOD EXPERIENCE

When I started this blog, I basically had one goal in mind: to inform friends and family of my progress and feelings. I also wanted to talk about the realities of my situation. But sometimes I need to vent, and I have discovered that you can't vent towards just anybody. Not everybody - regardless of how they feel about you and how much they love you - really want to know.

I learned long ago the power of sharing with people who went through the same thing that you are going through, or who are still going through the same thing. So my first action was to contact our local branch of Reach for Recovery, a support group for people with breast cancer. The chairperson arrived at my house with literature, a leaflet with exercises to do after the operation, a cushion (for which I still have not found a use), a bag to put the drain in (very useful) and no empathy. She suggested that I get "something" from my GP to calm me down, and the basic message was, don't feel it, just smile, smile, smile with the help of some chemicals. Another woman visited me while I was in hospital, and though I had felt more of a connection with her, I have not heard from her since. Their support meetings also only take place every two months, and in the afternoon, which is quite useless to somebody who works full-time.

I also contacted BreastBuddies, and have found most of my support here. Even though I have never met these ladies, I have spoken to them on-line, on the phone and via sms and e-mail. Laurika, who was diagnosed at age 34, has made it her mission to support other women with breast cancer, and has been a total brick. She has this knack of just knowing exactly when to phone me and give me courage.

But sometimes it all gets too much. I have just gone through a week of depression after my third chemo, and guess what people have said to me? You are soooo strong! You are soooo fantastic! Wow, you look sooooo good! And guess what I am thinking? I am sooooo fake! I am such a good actress! Because, can't you look in my eyes and see how I really feel? How sometimes I just want to punch something and punch something until this stops? How I am ranting and raving inside? How cr@ppy I think this is?

I have gone through some of the stages of mourning. I believe that one must be in denial to a certain extent in order to get through this, because if you start thinking about the reality of it all - one of which is dying - you may go completely mad. I have not bargained, because I know it is not going to help. What will I say and to whom? Will I bargain with God and say if You take this away from me then I will - do what? It's not going to help. This has happened to me and I have to deal with it. I do go through depression. Quite a lot. At the moment it starts a day or two before chemo and sometimes it carries on for five days and sometimes it carries on for ten. I just feel bad about it all, and really sorry for myself. Because why do they have to hurt us during chemo? Is what we have to go through and live with every day of our lives for the rest of our lives not bad enough? Because this is the really bad part about this: accepting that I have been diagnosed with a chronic disease that will be a part of my life for the rest of my life. I have to learn to manage it. I have to learn to live with it. We all think when we are diagnosed, ok, let's get this done and over with. Fact is, it will never be over. For the rest of my life I will be subjected to doctor's visits and a prodding of my body to see whether there is cancer. Because, even after all the indignities I have been subjected to, nobody can tell me whether there is any cancer left in my body. The only way they will know, is if it starts again. Somewhere else, or in the other breast. The only thing I can do, is to try and manage it by doing what I am told and following a healthy diet. And hoping. And believing.

The indignity of the whole body thing is something else. I have strangers peeking and prodding at various body parts. Every time I see a doctor, I have to tell the whole story and describe all sorts of symptoms. The chemo gives me very strange side-effects. I am really grateful that I have not been nauseaus at all, but it does attack the mucous linings of my body. And when I say mucous linings, I mean ALL mucous linings. Including those to the southeast of my body. So that I literally have a pain in my butt. And have to tend to it on a daily basis. I have mouth ulcers and ulcers coming out of my nose, so that I constantly look as if I need a tissue. I have a weird body odour - something I have not smelled outside of a gim. I have a strange mark under my right arm, something like a burn mark, which I have been treating with a skin ointment. I am getting stomach cramps, and, of course, hair is falling out all over the place. I am sure that at this stage the south is balder than the north. I have a permanent sore throat. And every time I see the oncologist, I have to describe all symptoms in detail. I get weighed (yeah, there's a secret nobody tells you about!) every three weeks and anybody at the oncology department knows exactly how much I weigh. Every morning I take a range of tablets to keep me "healthy": multivitamin, spirulina, iron, vitamin c. I inject the southeast with an ointment specially formulated for matters southeast of the body. I rinse my mouth with a mouth wash. I use a nasal spray. I take an antihistamine.

Every three weeks or so, the plastic surgeon stares at my foob, injects more saline solution, and tells me how great it looks, while I look at this strange object on my chest. Will there ever be a time that I will not feel as if there is an invader on my chest? When I will not be able to feel my foob? I don't know if it is worth the trouble. Presumably I will feel differently next year this time.

I still have to "exercise" my left arm at least twice a day. This entails standing parallel to a wall and putting both your arms on the wall. Then you slowly "walk" your arms up against the wall as high as you can go. This helps to stretch the tendons, which have shortened during the operation. My left arm still goes numb at the back at times, so that, if you touch it, I feel nothing. I have no feeling under the arm. My right arm also needs stretching after chemo three.

Does it sound like I am complaining? It's because I am, a bit. I sometimes just loathe all of this. I was at such a good place in my life. For the first time in years I felt at peace with myself and who I am and what I am doing. I was still searching for the meaning to it all, but then, I am still searching now. I finally found the love of my life, and we've only been married seven years this year. I was looking forward to growing old with him; to doing so many things together. I still am, but there has been this added poignancy to our lives.

Some people say to me, oh, but any one of us can die tomorrow. And then I say, but you have not HEARD it yet. I have. I know I can't live my life in fear. And I have become quite fearless, to a certain extend. But I have to face the reality of my situation. This is for life. It's like being diagnosed with diabetes or HIV. It's never going to be over. And that is very difficult to accept.

FOR LANETTE. WITH LOVE

2010-05-27T14:18:00.000-07:00

Dear Lanette

I have not met you in person, but have spoken to you on the phone. I do not really know who you are as a human being, as a woman, but I do know that you are going in for your mastectomy tomorrow. I assume that you have many of the same fears that I had, or at least similar ones. There is no denying that this is a scary journey, and it begins with a gigantic and frightening step. Let nobody tell you that it is not scary, because it is.

What I want to tell you, however, is that it is not nearly as frightening as it seems in our heads. There should be no pain. Probably loads of discomfort, but then I've always been a baby about discomfort - everything needs to be just right for me to be ok. But trust me, they will give you enough medication for pain, and sleeping tablets.

I thought I'd share with you my thoughts the night before my mastectomy. And yes, I was up until past one in the morning, even though I had to be at the hospital at 06:00. It did not matter, I thought. I was going to find enough time in the hospital to sleep.

This was what I wrote that night:

"In five hours I am going to be at the hospital. I am not scared - just very sad. Please hold my hand, Lord! Please let this pass me by! Please let everything be clean. My breast was very sore today, as well as the lymph nodes under my arm. It's as if my body is trying to fight the invasion and not succeeding.
I am not scared. I just don't want this to happen. But I want to live and do many things.
Lord, I don't know the road. I ask that you walk it with me and that you will send your angels to carry me. Amen"

By then I had actually felt like running to the hospital so that they could get the tumour out of me. The ugly spider who had had the audacity to build it's web inside me.

When I look back, I can't yet tell you whether it was worth it. I am still travelling this road, still trying to complete this journey. Others tell me it is worth it.

What I do know, is that the person who is writing here today does not have the same fears she had when she wrote that piece during the night of 8/9 March 2010. My fears have changed - what is the worse that can happen? It's already happened.

So I wish you strength, and I wish you the peace of the Lord. Know that others have travelled this road before you, and that they have been successful. You can too.

THE HAIR AFFAIR

2010-05-18T13:51:00.000-07:00

My hair has never been my biggest asset; rather, it has been the bane of my existence. Ever since those first scary hair washes given to us by our mother with our heads bend backwords over a basin, soapy water running into your eyes, and the screams in the morning when she tried to tame our very thin hair into pigtails with a heavy brush and a heavy hand, I've been more scared of going to the hairdresser than I have been of going to the dentist. And, you should know, there was only one dentist in Vredendal, and he just looooooved drilling.

So when I realised that I was going to lose my hair after the first chemo, and it is not optional, I thought, ok, that's not the worst thing that can happen. I have been through much worse in terms of my hair, as it's always been out of fashion. When it needed to be straight, it was curly. When it needed to be curly, it was straight. Everyone had the Purdy cut, and my hair was sticking out in different directions. When it was time for Farrah Fawcett, my hair hung limply next to my face like wet voile curtains.

My twin sister and I had long hair in primary school. Fine, thin hair. In high school, our hair was short. Cut in the same style by the same hairdresser who never tried anything different. I think the believe was that your hair could only be cut into one style because of the way it fell around your face, or something. Add to that my two cowlicks. I was constantly told that my hair was "too fine" and "too straight". My mother eventually allowed us to have perms. Oh, the perm, the perm, the perm. The result always was a spectacular Affrolike look. And I spent hours with the blowdrier to try and get my hair even. Straight. Tamed.

At university I avoided haircuts. Could not afford it, did not care. I remember I once had it cut with the leftover money after my bursary had paid out R30. That's the only haircut I can remember from my five years spent at university. I am sure there were others, but I can't remember them. In my final year my hair was long and .... curly! Suddenly my body had decided that curls were in, and my hair was this unruly mess on top of my head. I basically washed it, shook it, and that was it.

And then.... I started my first job. I found the hairdresser from heaven. Can't remember her name, but she loved working with my hair (or so she said). Because I would go in for my appointment and ask her what she wanted to do. And she would tell me, and I would say, go on, if it does not work, it will grow back. Then we do something different. She even wanted to use me as a model for her styles. And she said, you have great hair! It's fine, but you have lots of it. No complaints about it being too thin, or too many cowlicks, or too curly, or too anything. I drove 68 kilometers to get to her salon. Then she got divorced and moved back to Johannesburg. 997 kilometers for a haircut was a bit over the top. So the hunt was on for someone else.

I had a hairdresser who used to come to my house to do my hair. She moved to Cape Town. Then I had a hairdresser who complained all the time. She resigned. Finally I stumbled upon a place called Blue Zoo (I don't want to ask why they chose this name, so don't ask me!) and I found another hairdresser I liked. Plus a salon where I could get a nice cup of tea, a head massage and a good gossip about people I don't even know. I started realising that a good haircut is like a good facial, and I have since spent more money on my hair than I care to think about. Ah, to lie back in that chair while Margaret or Theodora massages your head, to sit back while you are being served a cup of tea or a cappucino, to just spend and hour or two on yourself and for yourself.

So I was not too phased when I realised my hair will fall out. It will grow back. No problem. I will simply get a selection of scarves and tie those around my head, maybe get a wig so as not to scare too many people, and Bob's your uncle. I started off by selecting a brownish wig at Cancercare. Then I had my hair cut short, so that when the falling out starts, there is not much to clean up. I am prepared. I am ready.

Exactly two weeks after the chemo and exactly as the oncologist had predicted, I started getting a funny feeling on my scalp, like a slight burning sensation. By the Sunday it was so bad that, had anybody dared to touch my head, I would have attacked them with knitting needles. It was even difficult to put my head on the pillow, because once the pillow touched the hair, it felt as if someone was pushing tiny needles into my scalp. At first the hair loss was gradual, but by the third week after chemo, I started looking like a scary old lady, you know, one of those you sometimes see shopping with their hair all done up, but there is more scalp than hair.

That's when reality kicked in. None of the scarves I had bought, seemed to work, because you actually need a good, chiselled chin and fine features for a bald head to work with a scarf. Normal, average people with three chins - like me - need some hair with it. Plus the hats were too warm and the beanies were too hot and everything else just looked better with at least the pretence of hair. You also need loads of make-up and earrings and accessories to make the look work, and if it has to take me more than half an hour to do my face and my hair and my "look" in the mornings, I have to get a different look. Not me at all. The wigs I had borrowed and bought also did not look quite right. Something about the mouse brown or the length really got to me.

That's when I remembered that hair is not just for decoration. It becomes part of our identities. We can also use it to hide behind, and suddenly the whole thing was just too public for me. Previously I could pretend that everything is fine and I am healthy, thank you very much. But now everybody could see what is going on - even strangers - and I hated the looks I got when going out. Normally I don't mind people looking when I do silly things or am loud or obnoxious, but that's because it's something I choose to do. People, however, go all funny when they think you are sick. They either avoid you, or they pity you.

So on Monday I went downtown, to a place that calls itself a "professional salon supplier", and I found a treasure trove of wigs and hair extensions and hair accessories. I even found a pink wig and a blue one (the blue one looks better...) The beautiful, young Xhosa girls with their lovely long hair extensions did not blink an eye when I whipped off my wig and asked to try on wigs. They handed over a selection and kept on smiling, agreed on a final choice, offered some shampoo (R14, 95!) to help with the washing of the wig, sold me a comb and I was off. ( And no, mom, I have no idea who had tried on those wigs before me).

I wear the wig all the time. Much easier than trying to tie a scarf. I have this sleek look with coppery highlights, and will put in the pink extension if I go out. I don't frighten myself when I walk past mirrors or catch a sudden reflection in a window. Best of all, the people who know me don't even realise that I am wearing a wig.

And I finally look like Purdy!

CHEMO NUMBER ONE

2010-04-20T12:29:00.000-07:00

So chemo number one has come and gone. On Friday, 16 April 2010 at 10:00, to be precise. I arrived only to be told that no, your husband must go to the chemist to go and fetch medication, because it has been prescribed for nauseau, and you have to take it before the chemo starts. So more waiting. And Laurika had phoned that morning (see www.breastbuddies.co.za) and told me that I must drink plenty of water, so I had about a liter in me. Not a good idea, as you will discover later...

Then it finally started: first, they flushed the veins, then an anti-nausea thingy, and thereafter the dreaded Adriamycin. Which was, of course, exactly when I needed the loo. And I was not allowed to move, because the red devil is like a flesh-eating bug: if it leaves your veins, and come into direct contact with your flesh, it will kill it. Literally. So there I was, pinching all my muscles together and waitig for the Adriamycin to take its course. Luckily I had good company: someone I had not seen for 15 years had arrived with her mother-in-law who was also getting chemo. (And, may I add, I am still lucky: she has to sit there for 5 to 6 hours!) We started catching up. Then the minister arrived, and Leona from church. Only allowed one visitor at a time, so that you don't have too much of a party and disturb other people who want to meditate, but at least I had visitors.

In the meantime, my sister, brother-in-law and goddaughter were all supposed to arrive at the East London airport. Well, they arrived, but could not land. Eventually they were redirected to Port Elizabeth and from there they were put on a bus to East London (the other option was to go back on the plane, get flown to East London, and then either land or go back to Cape Town. Duh!)

Finally the Adriamycin was done and the second flush was on. I could go to the loo - took the shortest route to the closest one and did not care about who could hear me or not! (And thank you to Hubert Meier, the chemist, who chatted to me whilst the Adriamycin was flowing and before anything else could flow). Then it was time for the Cyclophosphomade, and a final flush. As long as you don't think about what they are putting into your body, or you just think: it's good for you! it's good for you! these people know what they are doing, you should be ok.

But still it was not the end of it: I was taken to a curtained-off partition, where I received first an injection to numb the tummy area, and was then expected to wait for ten to fifteen minute before they implanted the Zoladex with an injection needle. It was at this stage that I called for something to distract me, preferably naked pictures of Brad Pitt. Now, normally I would have called for at least some butt pictures of Bruce Willis (sorry girls, I go for the baldies), but these were not normal circumstances - you should have seen the needle! And what did she bring me? More info on cancer! As if THAT would take my mind off things! No, I tell thee, and I kid thee not: Cancer info when you've asked for Brad Pitt!

And then it was time to go home. With loads of chemicals in me, and loads of chemicals to take with me to help fight nauseau.

And, praise God! Not a single moment of nausea. Only feelings of anxiety, drowsiness, restlessnes, headaches AND I could not see! No focus whatsoever! Suffice to say that as from this pm, I can focus again. Will blog about it later. Must go and pay attention to the beloved...

Love to all of you who pray for me and cheer me on, especially those who are sisters of the order of the breast.

A

TO SLEEP, PERCHANCE TO DREAM

2010-04-11T11:33:00.000-07:00

I have always been a fussy sleeper (ask the beloved). That means that I find it difficult to fall asleep. The circumstances must be just right: no noise, the pillow must be the right hight (!) and the top ear may not be covered by hair or anything like that. I can't even leave my wrist watch on the bedside table, as I can hear it ticking away the seconds, and I have learned to sleep with ear plugs, as any little noise will wake me.

I also had the habit of first lying on my right side, then on my left, and turing back to my right side before I would fall asleep. A bit like a dog who can't decide to sit down and has to turn three times to the left and three times to the right before sitting down. And I absolutely HAD to go the loo once I had switched the light off, even if I had gone 5 seconds before that.

My beloved, on the other hand, falls asleep easily. His head is still on its way to the pillow, and he is already asleep. He finds my habit of reading a bedtime story, or two, or three, quite annoying, as the light keeps him awake. Well, fair, but I am just not a morning person, and sleeping only comes easily when I am sure everything is well in my world, which includes the cat being home and safe.

So the latest events in my life have been a shock to the system. Let me explain: whereas I usely find it difficult to sleep with lots of pillows and things around me (they irritate me), I now have to have a total of at least FIVE pillows and cushions to keep me going through the night. I have a large cushion propped agains the bed post, two normal pillows laid perpendicularly agains this cushion, and then a thinner, normal pillow horizontally on top of this. This specific formation works for sleeping on my back, which needs to be semi-upright in order for me to sleep. I have never been a back sleeper, and had to do this in hospital and for the first two weeks at home, as I could not sleep on my left or my right side due to the tubing and the aches and pains. After two weeks, it became possible to sleep on my right side, but only with the said five pillows slightly lower down (to get the correct hight, you know) and whilst hugging another large cushion. The latter helps to support the foob and the left arm. I absolutely hate sleeping like this, but it is the only way I can comfortably sleep.

Lately I have also attempted sleeping on the left side. As this involves sleeping on the foob and the port, it also involves another rearranging of the pillows and cushions: I have to have a larger normal pillow horizontally, a flatter one on top, a gap, and then a larger pillow under my left side, so that my left arm can slip into the opening thus created. This means that I do not sleep directly on the port, but it is in the hollow bit where my arm is.

Sounds complicated? Try rearranging your pillows every time you change position! It basically means that I wake up every time I have to change my position, and that I am exhausted in the mornings! I literally dream of the day that I will be able to sleep on both left and right side without having to wake up every time I roll over. Ah, to sleep again, perchance to dream...

WAITING - UPDATE

2010-04-07T12:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder about God and His plans for me. At the moment I am waiting to hear when the chemo will start. I want it to start NOW, because the sooner it starts, the sooner it will be over. However, I have come to the conclusion that it is in my best interest to wait for God's plan, and not to make my own plans. It's very difficult to wait like this, especially when you are waiting for something that is going to be really unpleasant. My oncologist has warned me that my hair will start falling out within two weeks of my first treatment. My plastic surgeon has said that the first treatment will be fairly ok, but that the second one is going to really make my sick. And here I am: a person who can't normally wait to be healthy again, so that I can just go on with my life. And normally I am the person who wants to put the breaks on waiting for something to happen, e.g. if I am waiting to go on holiday, I can wait for ever, because I am waiting for something nice to happen. Delayed pleasure, you know. (Why could I never do this with a chocolate?!?) Now I just want it to happen.

Talking about chocolates: I have no desire for chocolates whatsoever. Apparently this is quite normal for people who were diagnosed with malignency. Don't ask me why.

News on the foob front: I had my first fill on Thursday, 1 April 2010 (maybe the date is relevant?) Dr Kepler injected 50ml of saline solution into the foob. I did not feel anything, except for a slight pull. Of course, then I had to get up and live with the extra 5oml. Talk about pulling! Try implanting a tennis ball into your chest, stretch the existing skin tightly over the ball and walk around. Currently it feels as if the foob is under my left arm. Never having had big breasts, I find this really uncomfortable and feel as if I should walk with my arm at an angle. So if you see a woman with her left arm permanently on her hip, that's me!

And to people who wonder: I look perfectly normal. If you did not know what is happening, you would not know from looking at me. I am still vertical, I act the same. I just have a very uncomfortable foob. And it's just, you know, I don't have much to talk about. Nothing else seems terribly important at the moment, especially not what Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are up to.

I am also trying to eat an alcaline diet. Am using a supplement that will help with this, and am taking spirulina, iron tablets, vitamine C and Centrum. All to help with my immune system. One thing I am not allowed to get, is sick. So, if you come to visit, make sure that you do not have a cold, a cough, flu, or any type of disease. Wash your hands and wear a mask if you have to! If I get a cold or fever during chemo, I must immediately notify my oncologist, go for tests and possibly be hospitalised. So I am to avoid germs, which means avoiding crowds. My big question is, however, how to do this when I am a lecturer at a university, and I constantly have to work with students with snotty noses (I beg your pardon), and we don't have air-conditioning in the classrooms, and flu season is upon us.

Oh well, what will be, will be. I can try my best, and that is it. In the meantime I will be taking my supplements, doing my arm exercises and waiting.

CHEMO NEWS

2010-04-07T11:59:00.000-07:00

I find it very difficult to write this piece. Not because it is a difficult topic, but because, right now, it is all very academic. I know I have to go through this, I know it's going to happen to me, but it has not happened as yet. When, is still a mistery. I saw the oncologist on 29 March 2010 and this is her proposed treatment:

Four doses of Adriamycin in conjunction with Cyclophosphamide once every three weeks. Will take 3-5 hours to administer. Four doses of Taxotere once every three weeks. Total of 24 weeks... Simultaneously I will be getting a hormone inhibitor called Zoladex in the form of an injection. The Adriamycin, Cyclophosphamide and Taxotere are all given intraveneously. Once the chemo is finished, I will start the Tamoxifen, a daily pill, which will be taken for five years.

Adriamycin is apparently one of the oldest chemo drugs available (see www.chemocare.com for more information on all drugs). There is no tablet form available of this drug, and it is such a severe drug that you are only allowed four doses in your lifetime. As you can see, I am getting the maximum. It can lead to heart failure later in life, and therefor they do an ultrasound of your heart before you start treatment, and then again after the third dose. My heart muscle is apparently very normal - a count of 63, and it needs to be somewhere between 54 and 72, or something like that. I have no idea what this means! It is also referred to as the "Red Devil" by patients in the USA (http://lauramellis.livejournal.com/2007/05/11 ). Side effects are pain, nausea or vomitting, with later side effects of low blood counts, mouth sores, hair loss and heart prblems. They will do blood tests after the third treatment, to see that everything is still fine.

Cyclophosphamide can be taken in IV or tablet form, and may lead to low blood counts, hair loss, nausea, vomiting, poor appetite, loss of fertility, discoloration of nails and you are at risk - albeit lower - of diarrhea, bladder infections and mouth sores. The Cyclophosphamide and the Adriamycin will be given on the same day, and it will take three to five hours to administer.

The Taxotere is only available in IV format, and it may result in a low white blood cell count (they check your blood and your heart muscle after three treatments), anemia, fluid retention, numbness in your fingers and toes, nausea, diarrhea, hair loss, fatigue and weakness, infection and nail changes.

Zoladex will be given as an injection once every three months. It is a hormone therapy and also used to treat endometriosis. It will lead to hot flashes, loss of libido and impotence. It stops the production of testosterone in men and the production of estrogen in women. It works because specific hormones needed for cell growth are on the surface of some tumour cells. The drug blocks the hormone receptors, thus preventing cell growth. Tamoxifen is effective in fighting cancers with positive estrogen and progesterone receptors, as mine is. It reduces the risk of getting breast cancer in the opposite breast and can lead to hot flashes, vaginal discharge and swelling. It is an anti-estrogen and apparently binds to the estrogen receptor site on cancer cells and thus blocks estrogen from entering the cells. It interferes with cell growth and leads to cell death. Basically these drugs will "medically induce" (my oncologist's words) menopause.

Chemotherapy basically means that my whole body gets zapped with drugs in order to stop rapidly deviding cells from deviding, because that is what cancer cells do: they devide and grow out of control. There is currently no way of actually knowing whether there are any stray cancer cells that have escaped from the primary source (the tumour) into a person's body. That is why your whole system gets poisened: in case there is a cell or two or ten floating around that can cause more damage. Chemo attacks rapidly deviding cells first, which is why you lose your hair, and why you get nausea, because hair and stomach cells are the cells that devide the fastest in your body.

Sounds like loads of fun, exactly the type that I can cope with. Not.

OF HOPITALS AND NURSES

2010-03-24T04:58:00.000-07:00

It's been eleven days since my discharge (I almost said "release") from hospital - private, not state. Maybe I will be able to write about the experience with some degree of objectivity. Let me just say that I am a complete novice when it comes to hospitals. I avoid anything that looks painful and can't watch programmes like Nip/Tuck, or anything with blood and guts. The last time I was in hospital, was in 2002 to have my deviated septum fixed and hopefully get some relieve from my sinus problems. I stayed overnight in a clinic and went home the next day. The nurses on duty basically ignored me, and that was that.

This time around it was a different story. The day staff was great when they welcomed me. I sat on the edge of the bed (must say: definite improvement there from the ironing boards they used to have) and was presented with a designer backless gown and blue panties that looked like a cross between a waterproof and something you'd wear on your head when you work with food. We joked around a bit, I was taken to the theater, and woke up about 5 hours later to a cacophony of sounds, with me gasping: I can't breath! I can't breath! That, and the fact that someone gave me oxygen, is all I can remember. When I finally woke up again, I was treated to SA's top nursing care: a tiny nurse who could not wait to go off duty at 19:00, as she was to have two days' off before coming back to work. Now do understand: these people work long shifts. They clock in at 07:00 and out at 19:00, or in at 19:00 and out at 07:00. Night staff apparently work for seven days and then they have seven days off. Day staff work two days on and two days off. Weird life. Then they get paid a miserly salary, just like teachers. It is understandable, therefore, that they sometimes do their work grudgingly, or that it is difficult to smile whilst doing it. But then, GET ANOTHER JOB! I don't always enjoy having to work with students and having to stand in a classroom full of cheeky teenagers, or having to perform in order to get their attention, despite the fact that you have the flu or something else unmentionable. But I do it. And I smile. And I am polite. And I am friendly. Despite sometimes feeling I should tell the student that she/he should rather look for a rich husband/wife, because they are definitely not going to get a decent job with their attitude.

Anyway, back to the tiny nurse. She fed me my supper. Took a fork, loaded it with food, and shovelled it into my mouth. Back to the plate. Back to my mouth. I had no time to breath, and no time to chew. Eventually I told her that I am not hungry. She was relieved and left for her smoke break.

Then there was the bedpan. I believe that I have previously mentioned that I am not a lightweight. Or tiny. Not a little bird. More like a lump of lead in the shape of a human. Now, my left shoulder was out of action, due to the fact that I could not feel it at all. My left hand moved, but my left arm did not. From underneath my left arm came a tube or two that ended in what is called a drain, but looked more like a flat shock absorber in plastic. My right arm was attached to the IV. I had just come out of surgery. And they expected me to use a bedpan. On my own. With no help whatsoever. Did I mentioned that I had no previous experience of being in hospital? Which implies that I also did not know how to use a bedpan. Still don't. Why could they not show me an animated video of what to do? So I had to hoist my buttocks onto this thing and try to do the toilet thing on this thing, without hurting myself and without wetting myself in the process. Easier said than done. Then you also have an audience. You've called for the pan, so perform! Eventually I asked the nurse to leave, so that I could at least try to relax. She opened the tap on the hand basin, thinking that that would get me going. And of course, then I stressed about that, because they are wasting water! I won't go into detail, but I eventually had this kind of ritual going, just so that I could stop stressing about going to the loo. It involved timing myself to about half an hour before visiting time, then asking for the pan, loads of loo paper, shooing all the nurses away and then calling them again when all was done. Talk about stress! What got me was that they expected me to do all of this with no assitance when they should have known that I do not have any strength in my left shoulder to help with the hoisting, or the getting down. My best move was to get rid of the lovely designer panty and to not put anything else on, as that meant balancing on the right shoulder, trying to pull off panty with right arm and IV, going down for a rest, going up again to get onto the bedpan, going down again for a rest, doing another shoulder stand to pull up again, etc. Much easier to do without, and nobody knew what was going on under all that bedding in any case.

On the Wednesday I decided that I will become mobile before the end of the day. So I planned it to happen before the evening visiting hours and after supper, which basically gave me two hours to achieve this. Two tiny nurses arrived to take me to the bathroom. I told them that they are going to need more hoisting power if I fainted, but they assured me that they will be able to handle me. So off we went to the bathroom, with me clutching my lovely Queen Elizabeth bag in which I stored the drain in my left hand, and the IV bag in my left hand. The nurses left me sitting on the loo, and of course there is nowhere to put the IV bag. On my lap? The nurse were going to make my bed, and they came back with the IV stand (on wheels) and informed me that they are going to wash me down in the shower. Easier than trying to do it in the clean bed. So I sat down on the very low shower chair with the lovely hole in the middle. I grabbed on to the IV stand and realised that things are going wrong, as I could only see lovely black and white twirls in front of me. I can't see you! I can't see you! I kept saying over and over like a broken record. The next thing I remember is sitting between my students, and one of them is shouting, Balila! Balila! And I thought, I don't know any Balila! And that does not make sense - it's not grammatically.... Then I came to properly, with the two nurses holding on to me for dear life and shouting for their supervisor: Belinda! Belinda! Except, of course, that they were shouting, BALEENDA! It took four sisters to get me back into my lovely made hospital bed. And I was banned from going to the bathroom for the rest of that night.

The next day, of course, I started venturing out again with the help of a (larger) nurse or two. In fact, my confidence went up in leaps and bounds, and by the end of that day I could get myself in and out of bed without the help of any nurse. Also without their knowledge... I must have been quite a picture, as by then I had my lovely tight white stockings on to prevent an embulism from forming. Never mind that they cut off all blood flow to and from your toes, and I still have the scar to proof this!

They also had to take my blood pressure every hour on the hour during my first night in the hospital. So they had to leave the night light on (can you hear my ward partner complaining? She was screaming: I need more morphine! Close the curtain! Bring me some tea! and then she kept on diving into her night stand and scratched around like a rat before eating something) to see what they were doing. What they did was to wheel the BP machine in, fight about whose machine it is, and take my blood pressure. No problem. However, on Friday night, while I was getting a blood transfusion due to my severe anaemia that was not solved with two chocolaty drips into my IV, they brought in a home care worker as a replacement for a night nurse who could not make it. Reasons unknown. She promptly decided that she needed to take my BP every half an hour or so, and she would do it manually. Now, bear in mind that the highest that my BP went up in the whole time that I was there was 105 over 68 or so, and that it is normally low, and that at one time it was as low as 68 over 47. Also bear in mind that my hemoglobine levels were on 7,6 and went down to 7, when ideal apparently is between 12 and 15. Also remember that at that stage I had a thick transfusion needle stuck in my right arm, said tubing protruding from under my left arm and a foob, which felt like a hot brick, planted where my left breast used to be. So this tiny nurse busied herself with my left arm, running her little manual machine up to over 200, cutting off all blood to anywhere in my arm and then bumping against my foob (thanks go to Laura Ellis, see www.lauramellis/livejournal.com ) and tubes. When I complained she said, sweetly, Don't worry, this too will pass. She may be very happy that I did not have the use of any of my arms, that there was no knife in the vicinity and that she left there with her breasts attached to her body. Because if that had not been the case, she would have personally experienced what it feels like to lie helpless on you back whilst your caretakes are abusing you and you are waiting for it to pass! Somebody must have explained to her that I am not there for one or other beautification job, as the next time she decided to take the BP on my right arm, all while running her machine up to over 200, cutting of the blood flow to and from my arm and switching on lights left right and center, because she could not switch on the night light. It's a dimmer switch, darling, and if you don't know how it works, FIND OUT! Then at least you won't look incompetent in front of your patients. Scary, a nurse who is working with your health, and she does not know where the light switch is or how it operates.

What really baffles me, is why some people become nurses if they don't like the job. The hours are bad, the pay is bad, and your customers are mostly sick and/or grumpy. I have it on good authority, though, that some of them are honestly there because of the money.

Love

Alicia

WHAT I DON'T WANT

2010-03-20T13:04:00.000-07:00

Every day I have to tell myself: you don't have cancer. They have removed every single bit of cancer. You are going to be clean. You are clean. You just have to move through these next months and years - yes, I am going to be on treatment for approximately 5 years - and go on with your life.

I DON'T WANT CANCER!

WHAT I HAVE LEARNED

2010-03-19T14:13:00.000-07:00

So I have learned a lot about myself and cancer over the past weeks or so. Not so much about cancer - more about myself. For instance, I have always seen myself as a rather quiet sort of person, you know, the type who would rather read a book than do something. But I have learned since coming out of hospital that it is absolute AGONY having to sit around when you do not want to sit around. I have discovered that I live on nervous tension, and when I have to be still, it is difficult when I absolutely do not want to be still. My AADD (Adult Onset Attention Deficit Disorder) seriously kicked in over the weekend, and I am sure that I did not just drive myself mad, but also those around me.

I have also learned that it is extremely difficult to be independent when you can basically use just one arm. My hand movement has improved tremendously, but it still hurts to close a car door, for example. Putting on clothes is also difficult, especially tops, or anything where you have to put your arm through a hole. I am like a toddler discovering new things every day, and quite proud of myself when I do manage to dress myself without help! (and just think: a week ago I could barely put my velcro-fastening shoes on!)

I have also learned all sorts of weird vocabulary: auxilla, hormone receptive, tissue expander... I received my pathology report on Wednesday and pored over it for ages without understanding much. What I do understand is this: my cancer has spread to at least two lymph nodes. They took out at least twenty, and two were "mildly positive" for carcinoma (see? another fancy word!). I don't really care whether it was "mildly positive". I still don't like it. Furthermore, tests have proven that my cancer is highly receptive to progesterone and oestrogen, which, according to both my surgeons, is a "positive", because this means that they have more options available to treat me besides chemo. This means that I will receive chemo, and also hormone treatment which will suppress these hormones in my body. I will basically go into a chemically induced menopause, and I will possibly receive this treatment for the next five years. Scary, but I try not to think of it.

And that's another thing: I have learned that I can play very well at the denial game. As long as I don't think about it, I don't worry about it. But let me just start thinking, and it is total meltdown. Which is sort of also a new thing for me: the totally public meltdowns I have from time to time, in full view of my beloved and my friends.

I have also learned that some people find me scary, and I have learned that there are people out there who will support me no matter what. I have received support from unexpected sources. Must say: I don't blame those people who avoid me, especially friends who are dear and near to me, because I know that they find it difficult to handle this disease. Because I have learned that I do not handle this alone, but that my friends and family also have to cope with it. It is possibly more difficult for them, because they have to watch me going through this, and they can do absolutely nothing about this.

I have learned that there are people out there who should not be nurses. They are the ones who bump against my sore body and then say words like: don't worry, this too shall pass. They are the ones who took my blood pressure with a blood transfusion needle stuck into the arm they are taking the blood pressure on. They are the ones who expected me to get in and out of bed without help straight after I had my mastectomy. But I have also learned that there are wonderful nurses and doctors out there, nurses who stood next to my bed and cried because they knew that I was in pain, and they could do nothing about it.

And I have learned that I really, really, really don't want this thing in my life, but that I will cope with the help of my God and my friends.

Love you all.

Alicia

MY FIRST BATH

2010-03-16T09:18:00.000-07:00

For those of you with sensitive souls: this may not be a good read! My baby sister (already in her fourties, but still my baby sister) decided to fly out from Cape Town to the backwaters of South Africa in order to come and check up on me and report to the family. Her mission: to get the hospital dirt off of me. And wash my hair. She has a lot of faith in the healing powers of clean water, so she needed to get some on me. So imagine the following: one middle-aged woman (me), 1,80 meters tall, approximately 30kgs overweight (give or take a hundred) and with only one functioning hand (right) getting into a bath with a huge waterproof plaster over what used to be her left breast, but is now just a bump. And then picture same woman trying to get OUT of the bath!

Sister says I must climb in with my back to the taps, because then she can use the hand spray to clean my hair. Good idea, of couse. So in I go. No problem: fold your right leg underneath you, proceed with the next one, down go the bum and stretch legs out in front of you. The bath has handles to hold on to, so everything is fine. Sister leaves me to start the bath, and I realise it's difficult to wring out a face cloth with only one functioning hand whilst trying to protect the plasters from getting wet. Sit and cry for a couple of minutes, because I can't wash my right auxilla with my left hand, and I'm looking really broken down from my point of view (that's from above, of course). Oh, and for those of you who don't know: my armpit is now called an auxilla! Sister washes my hair the way she used to wash her children's hair. She washes my back, and my, that feels great! So far so good. I am clean. I am refreshed. I am exhausted from taking a bath.

Then the moment arrives: I must get out of the bath. No problem, it was easy to get in. Just tuck the feet back under you... and uh uh. Not working. Right, let's lift you... uh uh. Law of gravity. What goes up, will go down, especially if the thing trying to go up is rather heavy and the forklift is human. Ok, call for reinforcements. Husband arrives. He is going to pull and sister is going to push. Uh uh. Right. Husband gets into bath and starts pulling. Huge bum resists. Right, let's wait for the water to run out and then we try again. Uh uh. Problem is that the huge behind is blocking the flow of the water. Move left. Move right. Try again. Right. Time to pray: Dear Jesus, please let me get out of the bath. Next move: swing feet over the edge of the bath. Right. Done. Now what? My feet are not touching the floor! Please bring a towel so that I can dry off, bring my clothes, bring a pillow. I'll stay in the bath. Another prayer: Dear God, please don't let me be stuck in this bath for the rest of my life! OK. Swing the legs towards the taps, so that you have extra leverage. Towel in the bath to create a non-slip surface. Bend forward, grab the taps (dear God, please don't let me pull the taps out of the wall!), hands under the bum, more hands grabbing the healthy arm and ...... there we go!

Next time I'm taking a shower.

SOME GOOD NEWS

2010-03-16T07:26:00.000-07:00

OK, it's not all doom and gloom. Of course I am uncomfortable and of course I am fine. Weirdly enough I feel physically fine, except for the wet brick. Emotionally it's up and down. Today it is definitely up. So let's count the good things:

I am able to type with both hands, and all ten fingers, whilst resting my left hand on the desk.
It's my left hand that is affected and not my right hand. Which at least gives me some freedom!
I can wring out a facecloth to wipe my face and body. On Sunday this was still an imppossiblity. Try to wring out a face cloth with one hand only!
I don't have to go to work.... (teeheehee)
The weather is cool, so it makes being in bed most of the time bearable.
I don't have to wear those tight designer stockings anymore, because my surgeon said I am "mobile" enough.
My surgeon said I am "quite normal". Which, giving the fact that a lot of people find me "weird", was indeed good news. I can therefor on good authority say that I am (not yet) mad...
My surgeon also said that I may have some wine if I have trouble sleeping. Hurrah! (It does mean that I was a bit spaced out today, but that was ok, too. At least I was not at work!)
I slept for 6 hours straight last night.
I am able to brush my teeth and wash my face.
My left arm is not numb all the time anymore.
THE TUBES ARE COMING OUT ON WEDNESDAY!!!!!!
I don't have to cook - I have friends bringing food and a beloved who cooks... [I don't mind cooking most of the time, but everyday cooking gets boring].
We have internet, and I can stay in touch with friends and family.
My sense of humour is returning.
I laugh at really silly things a lot of the time, such as my baboon tail bouncing behind me when I forget that I am still attached to it.
I have a great husband.
I have great friends.
God has promised that I will be healthy.

What else? Sure you can think of other things!

POST OP PROGRESS REPORT

2010-03-15T13:41:00.000-07:00

Right. If you are reading this and you are expecting stories of pink bows and good news, don't bother reading any further. I am going to be honest, and you may not like what I am saying.

When the word "patient" developed in the English language, it was developed without me in mind. There is not much that is "patient" about my nature. The only thing I might be patient about, is children, but that is only because I assume they don't know any better. Therefor, to call me a patient in referring to me as a "person receiving or registered to receive medical treatment" is a total misnomer. And, unfortunately, that part of my nature has reared it's ugly head over the past 48 hours.

It has been a week since my last post. Seven days. NOTHING and NOBODY can prepare you for the emotional turmoil that goes through your mind because of the state of your body. I had read numerous web sites and information brochures of what to expect, I had looked at picture of mastectomies and reconstructions, and I had spoken to people who went through this. Trust me, the stories you read in the magazines every October during breast cancer awareness month, are all sugarcoated. Nobody will give you the brutal truth.

Let me tell you how I feel currently, one week after surgery: it feels as if someone has cut open my chest with a chainsaw, dumped a couple of bricks a-la Little Red Riding Hood's wolf in the hole where my breast used to be, slapped a wet nappy on top and fastened it tight with clingwrap. The skin and nerves and muscle are all trying to claw their way back to life, and, as the feeling starts to return, my chest feels heavy and hard. I can only sleep on my back, with the bricks weighing me down. I have wet fluid draining from my wound, with tubes going down into a suction pump protruding from under my left arm. Sounds gory? Try to live with it! I, who might be the most squeemish person on earth, and who had to suffer through a PhD in order to get anybody to call me "doctor", have to change the dressing on the wound, have to empty the plastic suction pump twice a day AND measure the amount of fluids drained from my body. Talk about irony!

On Tuesday, as I sat on my hospital bed waiting for the theatre staff to fetch me, the nursing staff started singing a hymn: Oh Lord I need Thee, and that's when I collapsed against my beloved's chest and started to sob. How poignant, I thought, how fitting. At that stage my faith was all that kept me going. My anaesthetist was fantastic, my surgeon great, and the plastic surgean brilliant. I can't remember a thing beyond the anaesthetist promising that he will put the drip in my arm and not in my hand. That was it. The next thing I remember was saying, I can't breath, and somebody putting an oxygen mask on my face, and coming to and feeling foggy, and I heard my husband's voice, but he was far away, and finally being sort of coherent. With the dreaded tubes in my side and the drip in my right arm. And it was ok. Not bad. Sort of a presence on my chest that I was aware of, but that was not too bad.

I only looked at my chest the next day. It did not look too bad. In fact, it looked a bit like my 17-year old chest that I can vaguely remember. Small. A bit of a bump.

Hospital itself was not bad. You just lie there and let other people take care of you as they see fit. Or not. They gave me my medication on time, I received food at weird times and baths at weirder times. I watched television throughout the night when I could not sleep. I had designer clothes on: weird blue panties and a gown and even tight stockings. I allowed it to wash over me, my thinking being that they are trying to make me better. By Wednesday I was off the morphine and by Thursday off the drip. But my haemoglobin levels apparently were worrying: at first 7,6 and then, after two apparently very expensive drips that looked like chocolate, it fell to 7. My surgeon said it should be between 12 and 15, but he'll be happy with ten. My blood pressure varied between 100 over 60 and 76 over 46. My heart rate stayed a fairly constant 76-88, and my temperature was an unfailing 36,7. But the haemoglobin levels did not budge and I had to get a blood transfusion. So, instead of going home on Friday, there I was again: attached to the dreaded drip with someone else's blood slowly trickling into my veins.

I came home on Saturday morning, with designer stockings and all. I am fine. I have a lot of energy, I move around, I walk around the house. My sister even gave me a bath - a story for another time. Suffice to say at this stage that being stuck in a bath at my age (and weight) is not pleasant. Funny, but not pleasant. I even visited the emergency room, where two lovely nurses helped me to change my dressing. I have friends who visit, and friends who help out with visits to the doctor - to fetch and take when my husband is unable to. I have friends who make tea and friends who make food. All I have to do is to take my medication and to sleep when I feel like it.

And here's the problem: I can't sleep. I can't sit. I can't lie down. My body is sore from lying down. My mind is impatient with doing nothing. I am irritable with the drains - I look like Queen Elizabeth with a bad handbag slung over my left arm - and I am irritable with the bricks in my chest. I know this is temporary. It does not make it better.

So there you have the ugly truth: "patient" is not a word that applies to me. I want my health back, and I want it NOW. I want to know that I can get up from a chair without the baboon's tail that is my drain bouncing behind me. Because, after seven days of living with it, I still forget that it is actually attached to my body. I want to be able to sleep on my side. I don't want a wet nappy clinging to my chest.

Get the picture?

THANK YOU

2010-03-08T14:24:00.001-08:00

Before I go - and I do not know when I will feel up to blogging again - I would like to thank ALL my friends and my family for their prayers and words of encouragement. You do not know how much it has meant to me to know that people are there for me and that they carry me in their prayers. I know that there is a sense of disbelief that this is happening to me - I feel it myself - because I've always been the strong one. I am going to need your support even more in the coming weeks and months. I am going to need to know that you are there, even if it is just to hold my hands for 10 minutes. I will be up again, I know, because God has promised me health. I have to walk this road, and I would like to do it with your help.

Thank you to all of you have kept me sane with a sense of normality. Going for coffee and breakfast and movies, and gossiping, and chatting about your lifes.

And thank you to my beloved, who has stayed patient with me throughout these days, who kept me busy when I wanted to go bananas. I love you more every day.

THANK YOU

2010-03-08T14:24:00.000-08:00

THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

2010-03-08T14:09:00.000-08:00

No, it's not the end. It is the beginning. But at last something is happening. Tomorrow (actually, today, in less than six hours), I have to be at the hospital. And then everything is out of my hands. It will be surgeons and nurses and anaesthetists and what have you. I don't know. I have read up and looked at videos, but I guess it is different when you are actually going through it. At the moment it all is still very surreal, with people praying for me and coming to my house and everybody in general just being nice. I am not scared. Nervous, but not scared. This thing has to happen now. The sooner it starts, the sooner it can end. Whenever that is. But as long as it has not started with even the first little step there is no sign in sight that it will ever end. I find myself running towards this, even though every fibre in me does not want to do this. I have no choice. The spider is in me, and I want it out. It has made its presence known today. My breasts are sore. I can actually feel the lymph node. I know my body is fighting it, but without help, we won't win.

I am sad for the life that I've known that is ending. And I'm sad because the fight is beginning.

But thank God for God. His angels are watching.

FEAR

2010-03-07T14:40:00.000-08:00

I am not afraid of the dark. I am not afraid of being alone. I am, even, not afraid of spiders. Most spiders. But this is different. I need to know that you are there for me. I need to know that you will pray for me. I need to be able to reach out to my husband and touch him, and hold on to him. I have become needy and dependent. So do not tell me that there is light at the end of the tunnel. I have to go through it alone. And do not tell me that every cloud has a silver lining. I need more than just a lining. And you can't give me that. Rather assure me that you are there for me. That you don't judge me for what I feel. That you don't know what I am going through, but that you will support me. And don't say it if you don't mean it. Remember that I, too, don't know what cancer is. I have never walked this road before. I do not know what normal is supposed to be. Whatever is normal under these circumstances, is not normal to me. So listen when I say I am scared. And hold my hand.

FEELINGS

2010-03-07T14:27:00.000-08:00

Someone wrote in an e-mail that she knows this woman who has breast cancer and who is absolutely wonderful. She is so strong. She never complains. She never cries. And I thought, honey, you absolutely do not know when she cries. Because if she does not cry, there is something wrong with her. Every day I have to get up and tell myself: today you don't have cancer. Today you still have two (small) breasts. You cannot live your life in fear. But in the small hours of the dark, dark night, I cannot help but cry. I mourn for my life and I mourn for my body. Regardless of what everybody thinks and says, my life will never be the same. The spider has seen to that. I will forever be linked to doctor's visits and vocabulary that did not exist before this. I will pore over internet web sites with information. I will change my diet, and things I do. And, whatever some people may think, I do not deserve this. It is not fair. Why can't my life just continue the way it was? I do not know the answer. I am not in control of anything. I try to be in control of my feelings, but sometimes I just let them out. Some days are bad days. And some days are good. Yesterday was good. Thursday was bad. Don't try to fix it. Just let it be. There is nothing anybody can do. I have to go through this alone. And there is no fastforward. Trust me, if there was, I would have found it!

THE SPIDER SAYS HALLO

2010-03-07T13:20:00.000-08:00

I live in a surrealist painting. I am standing on an altar, with my breasts exposed. All around me are scalpels and tubes, and there are people watching me, saying: you are so strong. Some are kneeling down. They are praying. And on my left breast sits a spider. It has daddy-long-legs and a wide grin, which shows long, sharp teeth.

The spider made its presence known on a Saturday in January. 23 January 2010. I can't remember how. I felt some pain, some discomfort, and then went through my usual bathtime routine: soap on the breast, lift the arm and go round and round and round. Then, suddenly, a hard flat lump. And I thought, this can't be a lump. This must be something else. Lumps must be, you know, lumpy. Maybe rounded. Not flat. And I did have a mammogram and an ultrasound in August - there was nothing. So I said to my husband, there's a lump in my breast, but he did not hear me.

The GP said, probably nothing to be worried about. A cyst. Your mammogram was clear. Your ultrasound showed nothing. And it's sore. Cancer is not normally sore. So I will be treating you with anti-inflammatories and come back after your next period if it is still there. It may be hormonal. And I think, I want the spider out. It should not be there.

Then, going back: it's still there, and it is getting even more uncomfortable. So I get a letter to go for an ultrasound, late on a Monday afternoon. On Tuesday I went to make an appointment, and the lady behind the counter says: we will take you today. Just wait. It won't take long. The waiting room is full of people with real problems: there is a man with spikes coming out of his leg. There is blood. People in wheel chairs. A little boy, who talks to everybody. I have to stand.

The ultrasound: I get taken into the same room where I was last year. No gown this time. Just have to take my top off and wait there with a "dignity sheet" on my breasts. And then the doctor says: this is not looking good. He pinpoints a lump of 19mm X 18mm, as well as a lymph node in the "axilla" (up to that moment I called it my armpit) and says they are "suspicious". I have to wait for the report and go straight back to my doctor. I am crying. This is the first time in three weeks that somebody thinks there is something wrong.

My appointment with the surgeon is on the Friday. I can't think. I am praying: pleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod. The surgeon says: the ultrasound does not look good. He does a Fine Needle Aspiration. It's really sore. Hy says: maybe it's good news. Only about 6% of breast cancers hurts.

I can only get an appointment with the surgeon on Wednesday afternoon. 24 February 2010 at 16:30. So that he won't get interrupted and we can talk a long time to discuss options. It's weekend. They can't guarantee when the test results will be back.

5 days. Do you know how long 5 days are when all you can think of is Wednesday afternoon? And I must go back to work and pretend everything is normal when I feel like I am falling apart. I don't sleep. I grab some old Fimo clay and start making clay beads. My beloved takes me to the book sale. We go three times in one weekend. I need to keep my head busy, and I think: how can people in this day and age still do this to a woman?

On Sunday evening I decide that I don't have cancer. Nothing has changed. I am the same person I was last year this time. On Monday evening God promises me in scripture: He will heal me (Psalm 103:3). I am praying and praying. The wait is agony. Tuesday I function. Wednesday I function until about midday, but when a colleague asks: how are you? I burst out in tears.

And that's it, then. Wednesday afternoon the surgeon says: we found cancerous cells. I want to know: what next. He explains the options. Lumpectomy with radiation and then the wait to hear if you are clean from cancer. Mastectomy with or without reconstruction. Chemotherapy. The words all get added to my vocabulary. I opt for a mastectomy of the left breast with reconstruction. I won't be able to do the wait. The five day wait was already excruciating. I won't be able to do six months. And I don't like wearing a bra. Plus my breasts are small, so that a lumpectomy is not the best option. The doctor says my husband and I must discuss the options, but I say no, this has got to happen. The spider must come out.

We go to Cape Town for the weekend. The family does not talk about the spider, but it is there in their eyes. Eventually I show my mother pictures of a mastectomy and reconstruction. They cry when we leave on the Sunday.

And on Monday it's back to reality: going for the scans, and the administrative officer calls me aside to tell me that the medical aid has not yet given permission for the scans. I have to pay out of my own pocket, or wait until permission is granted. I can't wait. Every day that I wait, is a day longer until the spider can be removed. So I go for a radio-active shot in preparation for my bone scan. It will take two hours to do what it is supposed to do. In the meantime I go for an ultrasound of the stomach and pelvic area. It is clear, although the doctor finds fibroids on my uterus: it might make it difficult for you to have children, he says. OK, that explains a lot, but that ship has sailed, methinks. Then I go for the X-rays. There is a bit of a communication gap between me and the technician, but we manage. I have to be back at half past 11, and it is now half past 10. We may go home and eat. I go home and phone the surgeon's office. Permission for the procedures has not yet been granted. There was a mix-up with the letter from the surgeon to the medical aid and to the X-ray people. So we go back to the hospital's nuclear medicine devition for my bone scan. I have not eaten since supper the previous day. The bone scan takes an hour and a half. It's freezing cold in the room, despite a light blanket thrown over me by a girl who was born the year my husband and I met. (And I take that as a good sign). I get dizzy during the final scan., but may not move, or they will have to redo the scan. It's an awkward position: I have to straddle the table like a horse, with my arms holding the table behind me and my head back.

The scan images are sent to Bloemfontein, 600kms away from here, via e-mail. At the end of the session the girl whispers in my ear: I am not allowed to tell you, but the scans are clear. She know how agonising the wait can be. I am grateful for this bit of good news.

Then it's off to eat and then to the plastic surgeon. He reminds us of a friend of ours, except that he is not gay. He explains clearly what is going to happen and why they do what they do: you see, normally, with a breast augmentation, you do on the left side what you do on the right. With you, we cannot recreate on the left what God gave you on the left. So we are going to fix the left side and then, in a second operation, we are going to change the right side to look like your left side. A boob job. I am going to have perfect breasts until the end of my life. Whenever that may be. His eyes light up when he sees my boobs: they are perfect! We are going to get a great result!

Huh? I have small breasts, A cup, if I am lucky, although I am tall and about 20kgs overweight. Minimum. Lately a B cup may fit, but only if it is a shallow cup. Nobody has ever looked at my breasts like that! In fact, I have always been grateful that my beloved is a drumstick kind of guy and not a breast guy! But at least I feel that I am in good hands. On the plus-side is that he is also a Christian, so he does not look at me weirdly when I say God has promised that He will heal me.

So we make a date, the breast guy, the surgeon and I: 9 March 2010. I have to be at the new hospital at 06:00.

I have 30 hours to go.

SO THIS IS LIFE

2010-03-05T12:56:00.000-08:00

This was not how I had planned 2010. In fact, I had planned a different life. I was going to really focus on my work, write three journal articles for publication, go to a conference in Athens, Greece, and have loads of fun. Plus I was going to make jewellery and paint and do mosaics and spend time with my beloved. All things that I enjoy. A long list of to-do's and to-enjoy's.

Instead, on 24 February 2010, at approximately 17:00, I heard a surgeon say to me: We found cancerous cells in the lump in your breast.

The spider in my breast had reared its head and grinned. I am 45 years old.