Schrodinger's Cancer

 Before I start all this, I want to say I'm fine. I didn't want to write anything until I knew for absolutely sure I was fine, so I've been stalled in my blog.

But way back at the end of September I scared myself by thinking I had something a bit lumpy in my breast. I phoned the GPs right away but they couldn't talk to me for 3 days. In 3 days they talked to me but I'd talked myself out of it. They said I better come in, so that was another 3 days. I went in and they said I'd need to go for a biopsy.  I knew it would unfold like this and I was kicking myself really. The thing is you can get benign breast lumps called fibroadenoma and disturbingly they can get bigger and smaller with hormone surges - so I figured it was this - but once you've started the investigation train there is no getting off - and it made me have to consider that maybe something actually was wrong.

I said to the GP who was a young woman in her 30s that I thought it was probably fine and she said not to be complacent.

Everything happened pretty quickly - it would normally only be 2 weeks to go for a biopsy but cossa Covid it was more like 4, then they said I'd hear in 2 weeks but after 3 weeks I had heard nothing so I phoned up. I got the medical secretary who said that there was a letter waiting to be signed before it was sent to me, but she couldn't read it out because she was non-medical and it hadn't been signed. So more waiting. Then the next thing I heard was from an appointments officer saying that she'd been told to make an appointment for a biopsy for me and could I come in in 2 days time? She couldn't tell me why. 

Jesus Christ. That was the worst bit really, waiting to go for that appointment until I could see why I'd been called in again.

I went in again and they said it had just been an insufficient sample with the last one so they were making damn sure this time. I think I told them to take what they needed - they could have the whole lot. I like medical people, generally they're a good laugh and this time was no different. The person I'd seen the first time for the first biopsy had looked deep into my eyes and said I really don't think you've got anything to worry about, and I believed him. But the waiting and then the new mystery appointment had eroded that belief and I drank it in when the lady doctor this time said "I really don't think you've got anything to worry about." I believed her again, and I felt better. They said I'd hear in about 2 weeks so I just added a few weeks onto that this time. It was Friday 13th November and I can't believe I never made much of that because usually I'm a superstitious Nelly. But I actually didn't. And I finally got a letter today to say it's fine.

So I've had about 10 weeks of maybe cancer. Not a pleasant experience I'm telling you. At first I didn't want to make any plans at all - I didn't see how I could. I felt sick and woke up sweating in the night. Oddly, my chief concern was Peter. He  was really sad earlier in the year for Moira and Robb Flett. Moira found out she had pancreatic cancer and then had a typically short amount of time until she died. Peter was decorating some rooms in their house and he would come home and say that he'd been chatting to Moira but she was feeling sick a lot. I could see he felt really really bad for them both and of course for the kids. I didn't WANT to have to do that, and be sad, and have to try to be brave. One thing I was absolutely sure of is I didn't want a cancer journey. Nope. Not for me. Much better people than me have died this year though, so there was no reason for it to be not me. I'm sure Moira was probably nicer than me. James Harrison was a better person than me. I know he didn't die of cancer, I'm just saying why not me? Survivor guilt. I do have it I think. I've been kind of riding the crest of getting off Scot-free with the whole Covid thing. I'm just not worried about it. I think I maybe had it back in February. I'm antisocial anyway so the restrictions have barely touched me. The worst thing has been not being able to go out of the city in the Berlingo.

I tried to figure out why it felt so much worse than the heart thing. With the heart thing it had already happened by the time I knew anything about it. That might be easier to take - whereas this queasy journey was about maybe being absolutely fine and maybe being ill and having to wait with all the thoughts and imaginings that engendered.

Hospitals are such grim places. The two times I went up for a biopsy to the WGH I had to walk up past Maggie's Cancer centre where there were punters standing outside smoking cigarettes. Then I had to queue with a mask on while a dragon reception lady barked at me to put gel on my hands (even though I already had). The second time, when I was waiting to hear why I'd been called back in in a hurry, my anxiety was through the roof. I genuinely thought I might kick off. People generally go in the fight or the flight direction with adrenaline. Flight is more common but I'm a fighter. I'm just warning you.

I went in the horrible waiting room where we were socially distanced. There were two other women who I suspect were actually ill. Everyone was sunk in their own thing anyway. There were no windows. There was a poster on the wall that said "Men can get breast cancer too". Thanks for that. Fuck you. 

Do you know there's a genuine debate about health screening - whether the benefit in terms of cancer picked up early outweighs  the anxiety. I'm not coming down on either side of that debate, I'm just saying it would help to not have an imagination.

Anyway, happy days. I can plan. I want to go on holidays. I want to improve my swimming. I want to learn Spanish. I keep thinking about writing stories. I want to get every last ounce of speed out of these old legs without breaking my heart again. And I don't want to go on a cancer journey.