Sick of January's Cancer? Part 1

Lately, Cancer has featured a lot in the news and press here in the UK.

The Ace of Spades

At the end of December, the sudden death of Rocker Legend Lemmy was announced.
His crowning glory 'The Ace of Spades', in the early 80s is still a classic anthem. But he also sang lead on Hawkwind's Silver Machine, prior to forming Motorhead. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lemmy 
He was such a character, a rocking icon, taken swiftly by Cancer.

In one week this month, cold hard January, we lost two more great Britons.

Genius popstar, style icon, artist, actor, writer, designer David Bowie died on January 10th, aged 69.

I can't pretend to be his greatest fan, but from the glam-rock mid 1970s, through the Punk of the late seventies and the New Romantics of the early eighties until the power dressing mid-nineties, he had a huge impact on my life. Then in 2013, David Bowie was back at the V&A in London, and I was in awe of him again. 

 

For most of my life, listening to his music, watching him on TV, taught me so many things ~ about life as art, about diversity, how to be cool, how to dress, how to dance, how to be a rebel and finally in 2016, how to die with grace and dignity.

I guess because of the time difference between New York and England, news arrived here of his death on January 11th. It was soon all over the internet, every radio channel played his songs, every TV station broadcast tributes. I woke that Monday morning to this mass grieving, and I too was devastated...not only had the world lost a magnificent artist, but I was reminded of my own predicament. If someone who seemed as eternal as David Bowie could be taken by Cancer, what chance did I, a failed lawyer, an unappreciated artist, an unestablished author, a weak 53 year-old housewife, have to survive it?

Beautiful Bowie  (his final photo session)

He died when I was going through the first week of my third cycle of chemotherapy. I was already low. 

The next morning, I was booked to have a port-a-cath fitted to my arm at the Oncology  Centre. A port-a-cath is a plastic bubble attached to a catheter and line which is inserted into a vein. It's designed to permit repeated access for the chemotherapy. The line is fed along the vein from the arm to the chest area, and the plastic bubble sits just below the skin on your arm, so the oncology nurses can access your venous system from there to take bloods or give chemo drugs, without having to damage veins any further. Unfortunately nothing is ever straight forward for me. The line wouldn't pass beyond my clavicle, so after five attempts in one vein and two attempts in the other, it was decided that it would be a good idea to scan the other arm to see if that side would be better. Of course, it wasn't, so the procedure was abandoned. I had two holes, three huge bruises, a very sore arm and nothing to show for it. There was a suggestion that I could have one in my chest. My initial thought at that was to get the hell out of there, but I very graciously said that I would think about it ~ how very British. My intention was to never let them near me again unless it was my only option!

Thankfully, I was looking forward to a visit later that day, from my two dearest friends. Their second visit since I had been diagnosed. They arrived in a flurry of fun and love, all the way from Kent, somewhere east of centre. Then whilst preparing our evening meal, we all sang along and laughed along to Bowie blaring out in the background, and those lovely girls reminded me why I had to survive ~ because I was a mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend who worked bloody hard at succeeding in those roles. In fact, even at the risk of sounding arrogant, I am pretty good. And do you know, they also reminded me that it's never too late to succeed at the other things ~ well, with the exception of law, which I never should have attempted in the first place!

 

I had such a lovely time whilst the girls were here. We went to the cinema to see 'The Danish Girl' ~ loved it and had a good cry too. We had to go to a midday showing, because I was having a CT scan in the afternoon. Going to the cinema at that time gave the whole experience a slightly surreal and decadent feel. We were cocooned in the darkness of the cinema, in the middle of the day, totally immersed in the fantasy of the film.

We then came home for a quick hat trying session to cover my balding head before we dashed off to the hospital for my appointment with reality. That evening, we went out for a fab Thai meal.

Then the next day, whilst we were still buzzing from the day before, Cancer struck again.

 http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-35313578

Alan Rickman, a wonderful actor and director, had died, aged 69. I loved him in 'Truly, Madly, Deeply', loved him in 'Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves' and just adored him, even more than I did Harry, Ron or even Hermione, in the Potter films. 

 http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-35313578

I was so sad but I couldn't allow the sadness to take hold of me because we were expecting my brother-in-law to arrive from Australia at lunchtime. We had a long leisurely lunch, talking about old times and future times. Then my dearest friends had to leave me to return to their own busy lives. As they drove off, I closed the door and had a spontaneous little cry, missing them already. Luckily, I had Hubby, First Born Darling Daughter and Hubby's Brother to keep me company so I couldn't get too sad...

Part 2 to follow shortly

Remember, Remember the Fifth of November, 2020

Make a note of Thursday 5th November, 2020...

I'm planning a huge celebration on that day.

Another date to remember is yesterday, Wednesday 4th November...that was the day I was diagnosed with Fallopian Tube Cancer.

A strange one, I hear you say, actually it is ovarian cancer, they are just able to pinpoint where it started nowadays.

Last Tuesday, I had my ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus, cervix, appendix and left para-aortic lymph nodes removed in what can only be described as a brutal operation. Then began the week long wait to find out if the mass discovered on a CT scan the previous Saturday was malignant or not.

In dreams and Hollywood, the mass on my left ovary would be benign but hey, this isn't a fairytale. It was malignant, grade 3, which means that the aggressive cancerous cells are easily differentiated from normal cells and grow quickly. Which is a good thing, apparently, because they can be treated effectively with chemotheraphy - no promises though, not in this game.

And that leads me on to the next waiting game. My chemotherapy should start in three weeks time, providing my blood results are okay.

The day before treatment, I may be given steroids - no-one has told me whether I will or not yet. On the day I will be given anti-sickness and anti-allergy drugs. For four hours I will be tethered to a drip administering two drugs, paclitaxel and carboplatin, to combat any residual cancerous cells and to prevent any new cells forming. And so begins my battle against Cancer.

Such a funny phrase, 'battle against...' or 'fight against...' because at this moment in time, I don't feel very much like fighting or that I am in a battle. I feel like I have been on a rollercoaster since the initial GP visit. I have been swept along by a tide of treatment with the ultimate aim of 'kicking Cancer'! Another slogan to lift the spirit. And that is the key, isn't it? It is all about spirit and hope.

The spirit to get up and face another uncertain day of aches, pains and emotions; the spirit to wear your wig or brandish your bald head with pride; the spirit to stay strong and focussed. And hope - hope the cancer doesn't return; hope the chemo doesn't make me lose all my hair; hope I survive.

All these things to take in, whilst trying to recover from the surgery that has meant normal bodily functions such as passing wind become tortuous milestones. And of course, the tiredness. I am so tired.

Thankfully, it isn't all doom and womb. I have lots of love and support. My husband is in the business, (an anaesthetist), so fills me in on the bits that go over my head in consultations. My family are incredibly strong and loving and have all rallied round. My friends have been unanimous in their support. Now I just have to make sure I don't let them down, that I believe all the propaganda - the fight; the battle; the pride and the cancer kicking. Am I scared? What do you think?

I know I have been away for quite sometime but today is National Black Dog Day in the UK...

This blog has and always will be in tribute to my beautiful, kind Misha. She passed away five and half years ago. So in honour of Misha, I have come back to blogging today, because she opened my eyes to the warm and love-filled life that is only possible when you have a four-legged soulmate.

I am now able to share my time with two gorgeous dogs. They keep me busy - hence the lack of posts, but I wouldn't be without them.

My gorgeous Rosie... 

And introducing Archie...

My dogs keep me sane.

For the Love of Cats - Goodbye Pippin

It has been a long time since I have published anything on this blog.

The world has changed, moved on.

In November, last year, the 4th to be exact, beautiful, graceful Casper disappeared. It was an awful cold, wet night and there had been local early firework celebrations for Guy Fawkes night. I think he had been startled and shot off into the night. He never stayed out overnight and had never been missing before. I stayed up until the early hours, walking around outside, calling his name, listening for a response. It was two years earlier, around this time of year, that Mowgli, our stunning, black bengal cat had been killed by a motorist, just outside our house.

The next morning, I quickly made posters and leaflets and walked around the local area, spreading the word that my boy was missing. It was so out of character, I was convinced he was dead. Pippin, Casper's brother, seemed aware of his absence but didn't seem too perplexed, but Rosie, our dog, pined for him. She stayed outside for long periods, seemingly searching for Casper. She didn't give up hope. She sensed that I was worried and she wanted to help me. Again, on November 5th, Bonfire Night, I stayed awake until almost dawn, calling for Casper, praying for his return. It was so cold, and there had been many loud fireworks shooting into the night sky for most of the evening. I reasoned with myself that if Casper had just been scared, he would hide somewhere and return when all was quiet. I told myself that if he was injured, he would not survive the almost freezing temperatures. I made a deal with my God. I pleaded for Casper's return and in exchange I would be a good person, a better person...

I had only one response from the many leaflets I posted through letter boxes - a lovely man telephoned and said:'Don't give up hope. Check everywhere in the garden and house.' His cat had been shut in a wardrobe in his house for 36 hours before they realised. It was a quiet, graceful cat, just like Casper, and so hadn't made a fuss. Thankfully they found it by retracing their actions of just before it disappeared. On the evening of November 6th, I was desperately tired and had given up hope. Just before midnight, I sat on the sofa and broke down. I cried so hard - he was dead, I was sure. I called Rosie in from outside. She was camping out again listening for Casper. She wouldn't come in. I went outside and gently told her that he was gone, he wasn't coming back and I tried to coax her into the warm house. She came to the door, then went back out again. I sat down for a while, sobbing to myself. Then Rosie came to the door and barked, as she always did, for me to open the door. So even Rosie had given up, lost hope. I opened the door. She just stood there, barking at me and looking over to the hedge. I told her to come in, it was late. She barked more excitedly and again kept looking to the hedge. She was trying to tell me something. I went outside and there under the hedge was Casper. He was in a pitiful state, and his leg seemed broken. He tried to lift himself up to walk but he couldn't. I scooped him up, I was ecstatic, he was home. He was clearly poorly but he was home. I thanked God, and thanked Rosie.

After a long operation and several days in the veterinary hospital, Casper came home, complete with metal pins in his leg, and a metal bar bracing the break on the outside. The vets said that he had almost definitely been hit by a car, and that he was lucky to survive. He had to stay in a crate for four months, but he made a full recovery. My beautiful Casper came home.

In March of this year, Casper was able to wander freely around the house for the first time since he had broken his leg.

Later that month, gorgeous, playful Pippin disappeared. He went out one sunny Spring Saturday morning and never returned. That evening, we had a house full of guests, so I thought that perhaps he had been spooked by all the voices. After my guests had left for their own homes, I wandered around outside until the early hours of the morning, calling for Pip. I thought I heard a cat cry, so I went to investigate, but there was nothing where the sound had come from. During the following days, despite lots of leaflets distributed in the local area, posters and posts in national and local lost pets registers, we never found him. I just could not believe that this was happening again, so soon after Casper's near miss.

Rosie stayed out every evening, waiting for Pip to return. Pippin was really Rosie's favourite. She still likes to sit out on the lawn until late at night, waiting, listening, just in case...

A couple of weeks after Pippin went missing, a lady knocked on my door and bravely admitted that she had ran over a cat fitting Pippin's description on that same Saturday morning, just a few yards up the road from our home. She said he ran off in our direction, that she stopped with her daughter to try to find him, knocked on several doors, but all to no avail - he had vanished. She said she thought he may have limped home. How I wish that were true. It seemed the deal I had made to get back one cat, was to lose another equally precious boy.

Pippin was just a few weeks away from his second birthday, we never found him. We checked local gardens, outhouses, sheds, parks. We had several calls about possible sightings. It all came to nothing. He has been missing for over six months now. It is that time of year again. Dark nights, cold evenings. Halloween and Bonfire night, spooks and loud noises. Almost a year since Casper disappeared.

If Pippin is still alive, he is still out there somewhere. Hopefully, not homeless, hopefully someone took him in, cared for him and loves him as I did. If he died, I hope that he died quickly without pain. I pray he didn't suffer. Goodbye Pippin.

Please be aware of cats, at this time of year. Cats do not honour residential boundaries, they roam where they please. Cats don't know that suddenly the day will end an hour earlier and we will expect them to come home before it gets dark. Cats have no concept of Halloween or Bonfire Night. Cats don't understand trick or treat, or why we insist on letting off small explosives in our gardens, not just on one night but for days and nights on end it seems and why we rush in our cars because it will be dark soon...it just frightens cats, sometimes it kills them.