Another quiet week

How dull this blog has become! Life is much that way at the moment - not much exciting to report.
Actually, life has just been strangely normal. The chemo had the usual effects as reported in the last entry... all food tasted of cotton wool for quite a while, and my mouth was really sore. The fingernails are lifting off, but it's not getting much worse and if I am careful it's not too debilitating... hopefully they will settle down soon. However most of the nasty stuff wore off quite quickly and by the weekend I was able to survive without any painkillers, which was nice, as I hope I won't be back in that state again.
There is a definite halo of fluff forming on the shiny bonce - it is actually starting to look a little like hair now, which is a bit strange. I have worn the NHS Alternative Hair Solution a couple of times this week... not something I have done very much. My little bruv came to visit with his two youngest, on the basis that sis-in-law is writing up the final draft of her dissertation and welcomed the idea of the rest of the family disappearing for half-term. We toddled off to the pub for supper on Monday night, and I didn't bother with any head disguise, but on Tuesday we went to the new fish restaurant in town, so I thought it would be nice to look slightly less like the skinhead thug for once. When I came down stairs with the thing on there were wide-eyed grins from the small people, who said that it looked like me from two years ago... I think that was a compliment, I am interpreting it as meaning that I look younger with hair... if that is wrong please nobody correct me!!! The fish restaurant was rather good, and thankfully the tastebuds are working again, so I actually got to enjoy the food.
I also bunged the syrup on for an interview yesterday, on the basis that I have no hope of an offer if I turn up bald... If I get an offer then I will broach the subject of the necessity for a fortnight off when the tall man with the scalpel needs to do his stuff... The role is home-based so I should be able to function through the radiotherapy phase without too much disruption, but of course I have to wait and see whether I sold myself well enough yesterday. It seemed to go ok... but one can never tell. I then stopped off on the way home to go out with a bunch of the lads (and one of the lasses) from my previous employers - we were celebrating a 30th birthday, plus the last of the lads has actually now left that company - only the solitary lass was actually still there! It was good to catch up, it has been a long time since I have seen most of them. I think they were a bit surprised to see so much hair - not half as surprised as the folks in the restaurant were when I pulled the NHS rug off the top to reveal the new fluff which is all that I have to show for my efforts.

I trekked off to the hospital for an MRI scan this morning - they need to get a clear image of what the tumour looks like after eighteen weeks of heavy-duty chemicals have been fed into it. It is less than it was, but I can still feel it and it's bigger than I want it to be, so I will be very glad when that tall bloke with the scalpel does his stuff. The scan results will be ready by next week when they have the MDT (multi-disciplinary team) meeting to discuss the next steps, and I expect to see the surgeon (if not his scalpel!) on Friday next week. Hopefully I will come away with a better picture of the plan for the next few weeks at least, as well as a date for the surgery. I really do need to stay away from anyone with bugs right now, as any sign of infection will likely mean a delay before the op, and I so want to get it over and done with now.


Having an MRI scan on the breast is a strange thing, although it wasn't quite as horrid this time. I had one before we started as part of the baselining process and it wasn't a good experience. The CT scan is fine - you lay on your back on a couch which slides backwards through the scanner which is a torus about two feet thick - so it's not claustrophobic at all. The only oddity is the dye they injected makes one feel as though one has just wet the panties... which is somewhat disconcerting, and I am glad that the nice lady warned me about it! The bone scan was easy enough too - it's a bit more closed in, as the scanner is a big flat plate about two feet wide and I have no idea how long - this is wound down so that it ends up about two inches above the body. The couch then slides underneath it but it doesn't touch so the simple trick of closing the eyes and keeping them closed prevented any scary feelings... But the first MRI was horrid. I mean really horrid. Not painful - but very very noisy, like being inside a pneumatic hammer. While the machine is at rest, it makes a rather loud, deep, constant noise which you almost feel rather than hear - rather akin to the sound of the stereo which is turned up far too loud in the car behind you at the traffic lights, if you know what I mean. Before the scan, all metal objects have to be removed, as this involves a very strong magnetic field, which sets up a resonance in any metal objects which happen to be in that field. Last time, they said it would be fine to leave my rings on - I really wished I hadn't, as they vibrated when the scan was happening - not dangerous, not painful, but disconcerting...
Swap the clothes for the fashion disaster which is a hospital gown, it's time to lie on the couch. It starts off with lots of lovely soft cushions - this is merely a ploy to lull the patient into a false sense of security... You lie down while they insert a cannula which they use to inject something or another which improves the image. Once that's done, all the fluffy cushions are snatched away and the real stuff starts.
Since the scan in this case is of the breast, it's necessary to get the breasts clear of the rest of the body - this is done by lying face down on the couch, resting the forehead on a cushioned bar, which isn't too comfy, with the boobs dangled down into a sort of plastic box. It all takes about half an hour, so there is a great deal of effort made to get one as comfortable as possible, but it's never going to be restful. Once everything is settled, they connect the cannula to the driver which administers the drugs at the appropriate time, put headphones on the patient and ask what kind of music you like... something classical and restful, please, not Wagner or worse Mahler though... nice bit of Vaughn Williams would be good. Last step is to place a squeezy bulb in the hand, which is the alarm which stops it all if panic really sets in.
In the background there is the noise that the scanner makes all the time, whatever is happening. Overlaid on that is the music, with occasional announcements from the radiography technicians, who give a commentary on what's going on, so at least you know how far through you have got. The couch gently slides into the scanner, so closed eyes are essential by this point.
Then it starts.
Initially it's as though someone has taken a small hammer and is tapping it on the side of the scanner. Then they dump the small hammer and take a sledgehammer and beat seven bells out of the thing all over the place, the whole couch seems to jump about. The first time I wasn't convinced I wouldn't end up on the floor... It goes on for a moment then stops... but only briefly before restarting. There is a brief pause halfway through where the stuff is injected and then the calm voice says... "this scan will take seven minutes, please keep as still as you possibly can"... SEVEN MINUTES!!! that feels like a lifetime, believe me! But actually it isn't that long at all...
I have to say that the whole thing was so much easier this time. Partly, I knew what to expect, having been through it before, but I think the best thing I did this time was to march into the scanner room while they were setting up and start asking questions. Finding out that it made that awful noise all the time, even when it was at rest, meant that I could ignore that part of it all. I wanted to look at the scanner and the couch itself - I am sure that some people would not want to see that the couch moves up and down and slides into what appears to be a tunnel, but seeing that the tunnel was open at the end, and was much bigger that it seemed when you were inside it, was very reassuring for me and helped me relax and get through it all.
After all the stress and fuss, the whole thing was over in less than an hour, I had my clothes and rings back on and was out of the door, knowing that the report will be with the consultants soon and they will be able to make informed decisions about how much of my boob I lose...
My next port of call was the Chemo unit. While I have the PICC line fitted I am taking a drug to reduce blood clotting - to reduce the danger of thromboses forming around the line. I have only a couple of these left, and so I have dropped the prescription request in - but the standard prescription is for a month's supply, and I wasn't sure I needed that much. So I dropped around the chemo unit to ask how long I should keep stabbing myself with the stuff after the line is removed - hopefully next week. They contacted the oncologist, who said that he wanted it to continue for two weeks after the line comes out, so I need about three week's supply... It seemed silly to get 30 injection kits if I only needed seven, but now I know I will need it for the extra fortnight I can get the pharmacy to dispense exactly what I need and save wasting any.