The tale of happily ever after.

Review part one – A tale of love and betrayal.

Review part two – A tale of virus(es). The part where I go into hospital in the middle of a pandemic.

So, when you left me, I had had my surgery and was heading home.  I am grateful to be in my own bed but am very protective of the boob and her cut.  I noticeably walk with my arm in front of me wherever there are other people.  I have to wear a sports bra for 2 weeks solid, so the lump removal doesn’t affect the previously perfect shape. I do. It doesn’t. I may never wear a sports bra again.

The next step is radiotherapy. With a new brand of indignity – 

1. more skin art, I now look like a moving archery course

2. running the half naked hallway marathon

By which I mean, getting my gears off and having to walk past the open door of the doctor’s office on the way to get zapped.  

I know the Germans don’t care about showing off their bits, but….I am not German.  When I try to explain this to the Dr in charge (a 12 year old who rides his bike to work), he chalks it up as “cultural differences”.  I try not to lose my mind as I explain that the 2020 Walk of Shame is uncomfortable for me, with my tiny scar – how might this feel for women who have bigger injuries? Double mastectomies? Missing limbs? He shrugs.  I give up.

I go zapping every day for 3 weeks.  I’m not sure why the machine sometimes makes more beeps, why they are sometimes long and sometimes short.  I wish someone had explained it to me. The zapper is noisy, I am tired and have burnt skin, but it’s not that bad. 

I am reminded I am lucky that the bump is on the right, not my heart side.  I am reminded that I am lucky that we caught it early.  I am reminded I am lucky that the tumour is hormone reactive. I am reminded I am lucky that I don’t have to have chemotherapy.  I am reminded that I AM LUCKY.  

Hey world, exactly what part of cancer is “lucky”?

I am exhausted from hearing how lucky I am.  Cancer is not a competition.  There is no gold medal. Cancer is not meant to be a chance for people to minimise anyone’s journey by way of comparisons.  (NB My anger is not to belittle others’ experiences. Believe me, I know that it could have been much, much worse.)

So, I try to count myself lucky and normal life resumes. Ish.  

I have 5 years of taking a drug that stops breast cancer – and periods, by way of inducing early menopause. Friends, I was looking forward to not bleeding.  Begone, all that mess and bother. The constant forgetting of tampons, the fear every bathroom visit. I never was a polite bleeder.

I was even nonplussed about the flashes.  I mean, I’ve lived in the tropics, right?  I like being hot.  Hot flashes might even be fun.  I AM WRONG.  This internal combustion is extreme and not at all fun.  I sweat after eating.  I sweat after standing up.  I sweat in my sleep.  I sweat when my neighbour mows the lawn. (Ok that one is an exaggeration.)  I am a constant pool of melt.  More indignity. Unfortunately, there is nothing that can be done, as all the treatments are hormonal and therefore are unable to be used with the anti-cancer drug.  Sigh.  It’s a case of woman up and deal with it.

Sigh.  Friends, this is not the end.  Come back soon for the next installment.  Part 4

A tale of “me too”.  The bit where my ovaries feel left out. Spoiler alert. I survive.