All Change at Piccadilly

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This time yesterday I was doing a yoga class on Zoom and today I am desperately trying to finish a blog post in bed before the kids wake up. Why the keenness? At 9am my laptop gets seconded to ‘home school’ and I don’t see it until later in the day. Normally when I’m doing after school snacks and prepping dinner. I then have to log the kids on to their Zoom calls with their class mates! Which I think are great as the lack of peer social contact is having quite a negative effect on both my kids. Yesterday I took the opportunity to go for a walk (with my son) while my daughter was ensconced on a slightly crazy seven way Zoom call with a handful of the 8 year old girls in her year group. It was a joy to see all their happy little faces, yet I wasn’t sorry to leave the squealing behind. Earlier that day (P.S I’ve learnt yesterday that that is a fronted adverbial!!), I’d joked on a WhatsApp that Zoom was the new babysitter. However, I cringed when my husband informed me that one of our friends (another of the 8 year old’s Mum) had called him because our daughter had managed to turn her camera off or something similar and was having a meltdown on the call. I had asked him to keep an ear out for her, but I was slightly amused at this digital to human hands on work around my daughter had triggered.

Anyway I digress (as usual).

Those who follow me on Insta will know this, but for those that don’t: it is with huge relief that I can confirm that my bloods came back up the Friday before last. My neutrophils went from 0.4 to 18.8 in less than 3 days. The extreme back pain from the GCSF injections was worth it. I got my Day 1 treatment. And again by the skin of my teeth (neutrophils came in at 1.1) I got my Day 8 treatment. It was a bit odd in London that first Friday, but nothing like the Friday just gone.

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My brother on the apocalyptic Millennium Bridge Friday 20th March at lunchtime

That day was more than eerie. Whilst a week or so ago there were less people (the Millennium Bridge had not even a handful of people on it) and less traffic, on this latest Friday the shops and cafes were dark, chairs stacked on tables in the middle of the day, all the shutters down in Hatton Garden, some pubs and shops in the city were already boarded up, presumably to avoid vandalism, looting or squatting.

Today, I was with my brother. We spent a lot of our childhood Sunday’s driving up to London and seeing the sights from the car before parking up and going to a museum or a favourite haunt of my Dad’s The Tower Hotel Carvery (it was the late 70s/early 80s and it made a change from a Berni Inn, plus they had free parking for patrons).

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Throw back logo

One of my many memories of these Sunday jaunts was quiet roads and pavements, and closed shops. Resturants and museums being your only available open establishment. But last Friday it was deserted. We had a green light pretty much from Hammersmith to the Holborn Viaduct. We sauntered round Piccadilly Circus in my brother’s van, taking pictures as we went. A journey that had been taking 3.5hrs we did in 1hr 10mins. We arrived so early we had to wait in my brother’s van before queuing to get into the hospital. This is no hardship as he has a kettle and an enviable array of herbal teas, coffees, soups and hot chocolates. I’m loving hanging out in this van with my little bro (he looks after me like he’s older, but he’s actually my second youngest sibling). I’ve spent a lot of my life sitting next to my Dad or my brother in a van or lorry. I even learnt to drive in a little van!

My brother carried my bags to the hospital building queue, but left me there. It was 8.15am and the queue (2m apart) was already long to get inside the hospital. Once in the lobby security made sure I sanitised my hands and then I completed a Covid-19 questionnaire/checklist with a nurse who then signed the form that allowed me in the hospital. I then made my way to the place to have bloods. There were 2m tape makers to queue for the lifts, but no queue. There was only me and about 5 other people in the entire ground floor of this central London hospital. You could hear a pin drop while waiting for that lift. The lift itself was divided into 4 spaces (not strictly 2m apart, but they were trying). Today, for the first time ever, I was the only person in this lift.

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Social distancing attempts in a lift

Once on the chemo floor, it was busy. We had to wait to go in to the bloods and chemo waiting room. No one allowed in without having their temp. tested.

Last week this had been quite jovial. We had all had our one guest/relative with us and a chemo patient from a couple of generations above me started singing Vera Lynn Songs. We all joined in. We felt united, cancer patients, facing chemo yet again with Coronavirus just another challenge to overcome. It had an ‘in it together’ spirit that I had felt many times on a chemo ward or on a TNBC forum, but this time it had bells on – we were singing Dame Vera Lynn FFS.

A week later the wait outside the waiting room had a somewhat sombre atmosphere. People were on their own. Relatives left outside the hospital. Everyone was jostling to keep 2m apart, yet not lose their place in the queue and all the while dodging the new patients arriving gingerly from the 3 lifts. Lifts that opened straight into this unspoken, eerie, seemingly haphazard, yet strategically placed ‘queue’. It was weird. Once in reception patients chose their seats to keep as far away as possible from the people already seated. It was a bit like picking your spot on a beach that is filling fast. I even had a towel, blanket, packed lunch and a cool bag. It gets cold having your head and hair follicles frozen for 3hrs. On the advice of a friend, I also take a big bag of frozen gel packs that I wear on my feet and hands with special foot sleeves and a pair of my husband’s old socks (on my hands). Alledgedly, this will help prevent nerve damage and the chemo getting right down to your outer extremities (in your capillaries). I have had a lot of peripheral neuropathy and am still dealing with a lot of numbness and nerve damage in my right hand. I can’t feel or use my pinkie or my ring finger properly. This pain is indicative of damage to my ulnar nerve. My physio, pain relief therapist and lympodema nurses were making a big difference to this and other pains. The movement has been improving in my whole right arm, but it’s impossible to receive hands-on physio, deep trigger point or lymphatic massage over the phone or internet. So, whilst struggling to carry my cold blocks and to put them on myself, I do it because it just might make a difference to my comfort levels, use of my limbs and my quality of life.

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This was me looking like a sea lion with my ice blocks in place a few weeks ago. No photos from other people this time.
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This time was a far more sombre affair. 3hrs of this and limited use of my club hands.

The atmosphere in the chemo bay is one of caution, suspicion and the unknown. Almost no chit chat amongst the staff or the patients. Each one dancing between politeness and wondering if they/you are the person that will unknowingly pass Corona on to them. At home I am waiting two days to open post and touch envelopes or grocery packaging, but here I have a chemo nurse right under my chin attempting to access my port.

I can feel her breath.

This doesn’t feel like social distancing, but what bloody choice do I have? Stay at home for 12 weeks plus and let this aggressive cancer take hold again. Cancer cells growing in my pleura causing me to feel like I am drowning in my own lungs. Cancer cells blocking my blood vessels and lymphatics so my arm blows up to over 3 times the size and weight of the other. Cancer cells growing in the nodes under my arm so I can’t lift it and pushing on my nerves causing deep crackling pain. Cancer cells growing in the skin on my chest and mastectomy scars, so it is so tight it restricts movement and eventually the skin breaks and God only knows what breaks out of my chest wall and will not heal over.

No thanks, I’ll take my chance with Corona.

Obviously I don’t fancy getting it or being the one who might bring it home to my family, but given the choice between the certainty of the cancer taking over or the chance of getting Corona (even with complications) I know which I will continue to chose. I’ve spent nearly two years on treatment that has not really worked and now after 13 months of teeth gritted determination I have finally got a drug combo that seems to be working. I’m not giving up on that lightly. Not on your Nelly.

Once I have had my chemo I head out of the hospital in silence, alone, with all my bags and a heavy heart. I have had over 3hrs to think about this hand of cards I have been dealt and have tried to play as doggedly and as positively as I can for nearly two years. I am tired and overwhelmed by sadness. Sometimes, it is just too much to bare emotionally, never mind physically.

I pop out the hospital grounds and see my trusty, solid (no offence) brother in his familiar, safe van and I burst into tears. We abandon social distancing and he gives me a bear hug.

Time to get the van kettle on and sail home through the baron and still streets of London.

Chemo & Immuno on 20th and 27th March 2020 finished on the 31st March 2020

Don’t speak too soon…

17th March 2020

I know I’ve been radio silent. I know you have been thinking about me and I know by the volume of texts and message I have received in the last week that Covid-19 has triggered the rise of my name up the list of people to think about.

Thank you for thinking of me. I’m OK.

Actually I am not just OK. I am pretty damn good. I could have written this a couple of weeks ago, but despite my strong belief in my intuition I was still too superstitious to announce that my cancer is shrinking. I think I need to write that in capitals.

‘MY CANCER IS SHRINKING’

I knew this by the feel of my armpit, the colour, shape and feel of my mastectomy scar and chest. They way I felt, my shrinking arm, my ability to breath and move. I knew it in my heart, but whilst I couldn’t keep my opinion from close friends and family I didn’t feel I could commit the news to writing without the confirmation of a scan (even though these are notoriously unreliable).

Today my oncologist confirmed that I am having what is called a partial response (PR) to treatment. When you have been fighting advanced cancer for nearly two years this good news does not seem real. The tumours have not gone altogether, the pleural fluid was malignant and the cancer is still lurking and lying low in my body.

Waiting to pounce.

My treatment is to extend my life expectancy, not curative. But God damn it (too many Netflix boxsets, I never say that!!) now I have it in writing, that it is actually shrinking.

And that my friends (or should I say you’ll) is something to celebrate.

However, we know it is a roller coaster and the good bits are pretty rapidly followed by a setback or frustration. This wouldn’t be my journey if it was straight forward.

18th March 2020

I wrote the beginning of this post yesterday morning when I had seen my oncologist and checked in to the NHS on-site hostel (more later!). I’d got through the security and the temp checks on the doors of the hospital. I’d navigating (at very wide berth) the person having a row with security on why they were not a Covid-19 test centre. I’d passed the staff having their ‘donning and doffing’ training for their Covid-19 suits. I had my bloods done, lovely Jim (name changed to protect his blushes) got my port first time, I went straight in to the oncologist, the news was good, they were still treating patients: all there was to do was hang out on my own and do some work and read my book all in the knowledge that my treatment was working for the first time and my tumours were actually diminishing below my fingers. I was happy and chilled despite the eerily quiet waiting rooms and the impeding doom of Covid-19. I was isolated in my own little bubble in the NHS hostel. That even looked ok once I’d put the sheets on my bed and covered the mattress cover!

This was surreal, now it’s getting real
Frankly, I did not want to touch it.

Then my phone rang and the trial’s nurse informed me that my bloods weren’t good enough to go ahead with treatment tomorrow and it would be delayed a week. The treatment that was properly working for the first time in 2 years. I was now frustatingly stranded in central London with no treatment the next day. I was confirmed neutropenic (no fighter white blood cells). A situation no one wants to be in, especially on chemo & immuno and especially in the midst of a global pandemic. I was gutted and a little bit scared.

As I was about 10 yards from my oncologists office I suggested that I popped over. There had to be some advantages to being on site. I was poised for action and I needed to see the people who could help, face to face (from 5ft). Together we had a chat about options. I did not want to delay a week. What if they close the chemo ward? What if the cancer sees its window of opportunity and runs rife? What if I get Covid-19 and they won’t give me treatment or worse throw me off the trial?

Despite the racing questions, trial protocol and frankly common sense told me we couldn’t do treatment as scheduled. I didn’t want to wait a week. The oncologist prescribed me some GCSF injections. They super charge your bone marrow into making more white blood cells and give you mental bone aches. Oh goodie.

The upside is I have persuaded them to let me try for treatment again on Friday and of course I hope to go from 0.4 neutrophils to something so super charged Covid doesn’t even darken my door.

The truth is I’m not worried about having Covid-19, but I’m not rushing to a ‘Covid Party’ either. My big concern is that they stop giving treatment, if they need the wards or staffing becomes so low that hospital can’t function. School closures are imminent. I’m sorting out lots of stuff for home schooling, but I now have to juggle getting to the hospital and back and childcare. The worry at my hospital is if the schools close the healthcare staff won’t be able to work. This is a systemic challenge of gigantic proportions, we have no idea how this will impact on our society in the long and short term. There will be many unintended consequences, good and bad.

I have given up on a normal future. And a normal now. I have had to stop most of my work as my appointment schedule is so intense. I have faced squarely into the depths of my own mortality. I have accepted the reality of an early death. Now the rest of the nation is being asked to challenge what their day to day life looks like for the foreseeable future.

The plus side to all of this (toilet roll hoarding aside) is we should spend more time with our immediate family, in our homes, just being. Creating experiences for our children that will shape them forever. My hope is that co-operation, creativity, collaboration and kindness will prevail. We will consume less and pare down our lives a bit.

I have certainly had a simpler life (parking the advanced cancer dramas) for the last two years. I booked our first family holiday on a plane a few weeks ago. The kids were delighted, it was iconic to them. If we can fly and leave the country, Mummy must be getting better. We cancelled it two days after booking – still at least my kids aren’t blaming me anymore!

Tech is failing me for photo uploads today and my proof reading head is not on, but if I put off posting another day it will be another week.