It has been a while since I have updated the blog. There are myriad reasons why this is - including work, an absence of significant stuff relating to my cancer treatment and more recent fear - to which I'll turn momentarily. This is a blog concerning my relationship with the big "C" after all - and my instinct is to update it upon significant moments worthy of words.
After the last appointment with the Oncologist - my next appointment was with my plastic surgeon who advised something which I had not expected - an ultrasound on the one year anniversary of my diagnosis. Well, OK. This was far enough away at the time not to worry too much and it made sense to me. However, BUPA were a little keener than I had anticipated and booked the ultrasound pretty much immediately. I queried it and was told this was OK. When it came to it, various stuff got in the way - work, appointments etc. I know this is inexcusable and blatant cowardice, but it is far too easy to try and put it off by the everyday activities of daily life. I put if off a couple of times before catching and admonishing myself. This kind of prevarication got me in this state in the first place, godammit.
I went to Exeter with my wife again and had an ultrasound underneath both arms. The specialist was a nice guy, but I knew immediately what was going on when he returned again and again to one particular area under my left arm (not the side I have had significant surgery on). Various repetitive expletives came to mind whilst he was doing this - it clearly meant that he had found something he was not happy with. Sure enough, he said that he had found an anomaly - in the muscles in my left shoulder joint and recommended an MRI. In panic and sheer desperation more than anything else, I blurted out that I had dislocated my shoulder pretty badly when I was 17 when a scrum collapsed - maybe that was it? He was fairly non-commital on this and I left the hospital fearing the worst.
To my shame I bounced the MRI appointment a couple of times as well - more out of fear than anything else. My inclination (as most of those who know me well will know all too well) is to assume the worst in the hope of being pleasantly surprised by something better. Blame my profession if you like - its a useful trait as a lawyer - you can then cater for all the possible outcomes. However, when you couple that with the big "C" - the worst is pretty bad. In this case - all my instincts were screaming darkly and persistently that the cancer had come back somewhere else and it would mean more surgery, more hospital time and worse. It would also mean telling my kids something was wrong and I dreaded that more than anything. Call me a drama queen if you like - this is the sort of thing which goes through your head when you have been diagnosed and have everything to live for.
In the end, I had the MRI on 10 May 2010. I knew this time that I wouldn't get away with the open CT type of scanner - this would be the proper bad-boy claustro-causing narrow tunnel that I have heard of before. I should make it clear at this stage that I am lucky enough not to have ever suffered from claustrophobia - but the idea - the very thought - of the tunnel was disconcerting. How would I react?
An MRI is an odd thing - I had to confirm the absence of any metal in my body - fillings, etc before it could happen. It is also surprisingly loud. I had to have ear-defenders whilst being scanned. It is also true that the tunnel is very very small indeed. I'm not the smallest, or biggest of blokes - but the tunnel touched both my shoulders, with its upper surface about a hand's width away from my nose. For the first 8 minutes or so, I did have to concentrate on controlling my breathing. I didn't want to have some sort of asthma attack and have to abort the scan. In the end, the scan was OK - at the end of the 20 minutes I was starting to nod off. However after the scan, in the paranoid state I was in - the radiology staff's reaction was not ideal from my point of view. They were far too gentle with me afterwards and didn't say anything about the scan itself. I was told that the results would take about 24 hours and the consultant would contact me.
There followed the most excruciatingly stressful two weeks I have ever had - waiting to be told the worst. It got to the point where I was sleeping badly and dreading each day. I know it also affected Lisa as we began to live like we were on limited time - trying to enjoy each moment we had in case it all fell down around our ears. After 5 days or so, I began to really stress - why no contact? Was it because there was nothing there or was there something and they were all discussing what to do about it? Those with more rational heads advised the former - how I wished they were right! I started to have problems at work - the odd occasion where I would have to get out of the office and walk a circuit just to clear my head and calm down.
In the end, I was getting into avoidance again and on Lisa's urging emailed my consultant to find out what was going on. I was starting to jump nervously at phone calls and e-mails.
On 24 May, our wedding anniversary - my wife rang me at work to say she had a present for me. She read a letter that had been written on the 18th confirming that I was fine and they had not found anything on the MRI. Relief doesn't begin to describe what I felt that morning. Another massive release of bottled-up emotion. My mother continued the family tradition of crying in a French supermarket (read previous entries) and lots of texts came in from concerned friends. I could finally start again and have the Summer that I had longed for.
I strongly suspect that this is all common stuff to someone that has been diagnosed - the ups and downs, the fear of a relapse. I'm sure it won't be the last for me - but in the meantime, I'm fine. No, really... and good to go. 4 down, 11 to go.
