Question I
Someone has asked what it felt like when the doctor said I had cancer. This is how I think it is/was.
Firstly, I'm not sure he actually used that word - 'mass' was the one I remember but I certainly construed it as cancer.
Secondly, ever since the GP had said I had a lump, I had been in pessimistic mode about what it was. I had previously put various twinges down to lifting something heavy, or simply a gripey tummy which matched the need to run to the loo more than usual. Once 'lump' was added to the loo issue, I started to feel it, the twinges, the gripes, obstruction when I bent in the middle and so on. That gave me plenty to be pessimistic about and that set off the 3-day panic attack, which I think was my really low point. It was the equivalent of being told, cold.
I think my dad had recently set a very good example of how to be when you have cancer, even though his treatment options were delaying then palliative rather than a serious bash at getting rid of it. His was not the only sort of good example, but it was good. He had some very bad episodes but overall he thought he'd had a good life, that we all have to die, and that he was blessed to draw family and good friends in around him when he was in trouble. Also, he never said as much, but even in undignified circumstances, he participated as best he could in his care and I think he must have made a decision about that at some point. He could have withdrawn and let things be done to him and this would have been harder for us. I'm sure the drugs helped, but he also took great delight in small things - like Channel Island milk on his crunchy nut cornflakes.
I'm trying to say that I really did not want to be in that panic state if I could get out of it. My own experience of misery and trying not to feel it has been small so perhaps the lessons have not been too hard and are narrow but these are what I drew upon:
A. Being dumped by my 'first love' (he didn't deserve my misery but what difference does that make?). This was followed swiftly by a family holiday in Slapton, nana and all. I spent the first half lying moodily around on my bed reading, being annoyed at family attempts to make me feel better, but emerged, to my astonishment, feeling halfway normal and probably proceeded to bore my family taking them to all the places I'd been taken on the 6th form field trip there. (There are leeches that look like dark green jelly babies and live in ducks' noses...) For a bookworm, a good book is a great anaesthetic. And now there's telly and Radio iPlayer and Audible - hooray for Radio iPlayer and BBC Drama. Also puzzles in the Guardian - Codeword, Word Wheel, Killer Sudoku (only Easy and sometimes Medium so far) and Suguru - I'm incapable of thinking of anything else at the same time.
B. When the kids were small, misery was best dealt with by distraction - a hug, yes - but then 'oh look, there's a dog/bird/aeroplane'. I don't think I'm much more sophisticated in my emotional responses - back to books and other entertainment, and company - wonderfully distracting.
C. Ruby Wax's book - you've got to stop your brain following the tramlines to hell, and get back on the commuter track.
D. Square breathing - I'd just recently heard a Woman's Hour where someone described anti-anxiety breathing - 2 deep breaths to start, then breathing round a visualised square. Slowly in up one side, hold breath along the top, slowly out down the other side and hold along the bottom. This really helped me get some oxygen in.
E. Sleep is crucial and best done at night. Plug the quaking waking times with Radio iPlayer again - Jeeves - great to listen to but also really easy to fall asleep to (for me).
F. There may be miserable times ahead, so there is absolutely no point in prolonging them by anticipation.
G. Dennis Potter's blossomiest blossom.
So by the time there was some sort of definite diagnosis, I'd already been working very hard at keeping gloom and anxiety and dread and bad thoughts at bay. They were lurking, and it was hard work and I knew that as the investigations continued, bad stuff was definitely progressing in my body. I wasn't harbouring any illusions, but I was trying not to dwell on them.
Thirdly, I didn't exhaust myself with reading around, but I had looked at the Macmillan and Cancer Research sites on ovarian cancer in order to be able to ask intelligent questions. Avoiding being in unknown territory awaiting an ambush - the questions were written down and ready to fire.
Fourthly, Whittington Consultant 2 had such an apologetic face on when he collected us from the waiting room. Ok, we had waited - was it an hour and a half? But all the same! Something was up.
Fifthly, by the time we met Consultant 2, we'd done a lot of turning up at hospitals for an investigation or a consultation - always full of dread and always inconclusive, but surely not good. I'd reached a state equivalent to having a six-pack and tensing it. So it was like a punch to a tensed six-pack. It hurt but it didn't do mortal damage. I had my questions ready, the conversation could continue.
Firstly, I'm not sure he actually used that word - 'mass' was the one I remember but I certainly construed it as cancer.
Secondly, ever since the GP had said I had a lump, I had been in pessimistic mode about what it was. I had previously put various twinges down to lifting something heavy, or simply a gripey tummy which matched the need to run to the loo more than usual. Once 'lump' was added to the loo issue, I started to feel it, the twinges, the gripes, obstruction when I bent in the middle and so on. That gave me plenty to be pessimistic about and that set off the 3-day panic attack, which I think was my really low point. It was the equivalent of being told, cold.
I think my dad had recently set a very good example of how to be when you have cancer, even though his treatment options were delaying then palliative rather than a serious bash at getting rid of it. His was not the only sort of good example, but it was good. He had some very bad episodes but overall he thought he'd had a good life, that we all have to die, and that he was blessed to draw family and good friends in around him when he was in trouble. Also, he never said as much, but even in undignified circumstances, he participated as best he could in his care and I think he must have made a decision about that at some point. He could have withdrawn and let things be done to him and this would have been harder for us. I'm sure the drugs helped, but he also took great delight in small things - like Channel Island milk on his crunchy nut cornflakes.
I'm trying to say that I really did not want to be in that panic state if I could get out of it. My own experience of misery and trying not to feel it has been small so perhaps the lessons have not been too hard and are narrow but these are what I drew upon:
A. Being dumped by my 'first love' (he didn't deserve my misery but what difference does that make?). This was followed swiftly by a family holiday in Slapton, nana and all. I spent the first half lying moodily around on my bed reading, being annoyed at family attempts to make me feel better, but emerged, to my astonishment, feeling halfway normal and probably proceeded to bore my family taking them to all the places I'd been taken on the 6th form field trip there. (There are leeches that look like dark green jelly babies and live in ducks' noses...) For a bookworm, a good book is a great anaesthetic. And now there's telly and Radio iPlayer and Audible - hooray for Radio iPlayer and BBC Drama. Also puzzles in the Guardian - Codeword, Word Wheel, Killer Sudoku (only Easy and sometimes Medium so far) and Suguru - I'm incapable of thinking of anything else at the same time.
B. When the kids were small, misery was best dealt with by distraction - a hug, yes - but then 'oh look, there's a dog/bird/aeroplane'. I don't think I'm much more sophisticated in my emotional responses - back to books and other entertainment, and company - wonderfully distracting.
C. Ruby Wax's book - you've got to stop your brain following the tramlines to hell, and get back on the commuter track.
D. Square breathing - I'd just recently heard a Woman's Hour where someone described anti-anxiety breathing - 2 deep breaths to start, then breathing round a visualised square. Slowly in up one side, hold breath along the top, slowly out down the other side and hold along the bottom. This really helped me get some oxygen in.
E. Sleep is crucial and best done at night. Plug the quaking waking times with Radio iPlayer again - Jeeves - great to listen to but also really easy to fall asleep to (for me).
F. There may be miserable times ahead, so there is absolutely no point in prolonging them by anticipation.
G. Dennis Potter's blossomiest blossom.
So by the time there was some sort of definite diagnosis, I'd already been working very hard at keeping gloom and anxiety and dread and bad thoughts at bay. They were lurking, and it was hard work and I knew that as the investigations continued, bad stuff was definitely progressing in my body. I wasn't harbouring any illusions, but I was trying not to dwell on them.
Thirdly, I didn't exhaust myself with reading around, but I had looked at the Macmillan and Cancer Research sites on ovarian cancer in order to be able to ask intelligent questions. Avoiding being in unknown territory awaiting an ambush - the questions were written down and ready to fire.
Fourthly, Whittington Consultant 2 had such an apologetic face on when he collected us from the waiting room. Ok, we had waited - was it an hour and a half? But all the same! Something was up.
Fifthly, by the time we met Consultant 2, we'd done a lot of turning up at hospitals for an investigation or a consultation - always full of dread and always inconclusive, but surely not good. I'd reached a state equivalent to having a six-pack and tensing it. So it was like a punch to a tensed six-pack. It hurt but it didn't do mortal damage. I had my questions ready, the conversation could continue.
Sixthly, when we met the gynae oncology surgeon, we thought we knew the picture - we probably weren't ready for the news about the volume and variety of cancer that was in me. But there had been an extra week's delay between the Whittington and UCLH while (it turned out) they did more histology testing. By that time, we were simply desperate to get to the next stage, so it was a matter of taking it on the chin as well as the six-pack and just taking the pummelling. Taking notes helped me, at this and previous stages.
Lastly, after all the waiting and gnawing uncertainty, to have someone propose treatment options, however horrible, pointing the way to a path out of a thorny thicket, brings a huge sense of relief.
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