Tick

There is a lady I would like you to meet…

Ladies and Gents, I give you Dr Powell (or The Amazing One as I like to call her).

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Excuse my tear stained face, but she had just announced that my MRI was ALL CLEAR!
Making it one year cervical cancer free.

*wibbly lip*

We then got chatting about the blog and raising awareness and to hear how proud Dr Powell was that I was doing this, just made me realise how important this message we all need to spread really is.

As ever, my purple army really stepped up a gear and really made me feel supported and loved with all the pictures and banter that everyone shared. We managed to change timelines to purple lines again and I couldn’t be more proud and overwhelmed.

If it’s made one woman get a smear test that she’s been putting off or go to the doctors or got a man to have an awkward chat, then our work is in progress.

I love you all.

One year. Tick.

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Notes from a dexa scan

1. Waiting rooms where Dexa scans (bone density) take place are filled with old people, where to be fair, hip replacement are more common than a cold. You will bring the average age down to about 70. 68 at a push.

2. Because you are ushered in quite quickly, you will hear the equivalent to 40 billion tuts as the ‘youngen’ is seen before Mildred, who has been waiting ’45 bloody minutes’

3. The curtain in the changing area never fully closes. A passerby will snatch a glance at your boobs as you speed change. You hope passerby is a woman.

4. You stop long enough to take a stealth selfie in your gown for obligatory gown superhero pose. You realise that you cannot do pose and take photo. Message kind of gets lost. End up with this instead….

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It’ll do.

5. The other issue is tying up aforementioned gown so you don’t expose a) the puppies (they’ve been let loose) and b) your M&S knickers. Mildred might get jealous of your pretty pants.

6. You fail pretty miserably at number 5. None more so than when you’re called in and your trying to hold you hospital bag, coat and dignity while pinching together your gown and tweet your picture all at the same time.

7. Radiographers will not help you with your paraphernalia to assist in limiting exposure of your bum to Mildred.

8. You still have the ability to blush. Well done.

9. The actual scan takes 4 minutes. You are still red when you walk back out.

10. Next time, don’t be all bloody minded and independent and take someone with you. Crying. Out. Loud.

Results next week…

3 More Sleeps

Actually that title should read, 3 disturbed sleep nights.
3 more sleeps until the 6 month check.
In some ways this check is worse than the 3 month check. At the 3 month check I was 400% more positive that I was doing better.

This time round, I’m not as sure. I think a lot is to do with it being the longest time I’ve gone without being seen by any doctor since I was diagnosed.
I can hear you thinking ‘But surely this is a good thing’, but in the mind of a cancer warrior, that’s not as comforting as you think.
I can only best describe it as it’s like you’re treading water.
Most days you can paddle for hours. You can go days where it’s a mere blip on your radar.
Some days you struggle to keep up. Pushing through a current which just wants to pull you in. A tiny thing triggers it. But your safety net is not there.

My anxiety is definitely getting worse. I’ve reached out and got myself a panic attack buddy. That poor girl might get bombarded this week.
I’ve started yoga (stop sniggering). I’m forcing myself to do something. I can’t let this current drag me in every 3 months. I can’t do this to my boys. I can’t let this cancer take anymore from me.

This song pretty much sums it for me. For now.
If there’s a rocket, tie me to it.

Yes, I do have an obsession with Snow Patrol. It’s like you don’t know me at all…

Purple Power

Today I asked for some help.
I asked my army to step up and to give me good vibes, prayers and thoughts.

I then went one step further and asked you all to wear something purple. In my head, seeing all those pictures of people wearing purple just for me, spurred me on.

I sat in a tiny office today and Dr Powell’s Registrar, lets call him Dr Awesomesauce, told me (3 times no less) that the scan showed ‘no cancer activity’. Fuckwit wasn’t seen. It’s disappeared.

They couldn’t confirm that a white flag been left.

The nitty gritty of it all is, and I quote, ‘it’s responded excellently to treatment and no activity is shown on the scan, but we will closely monitor you every 3 months’.
I’ve not stopped crying. Every call I’ve made, every text I sent since finding out I’ve just balled my eyes out.

I think we’re still in shock. I feel like I’ve won the lottery. I keep expecting to wake up.

I walked out into that corridor and I screamed like mad. It just had to get out.

I can’t even begin to thank you all. I don’t know where to start. I looked at my phone today and all I saw was a sea of purple.
You will never know how much I feel loved and supported by every single one of you.
I love you all and thank you, thank you, thank you for your continued support.

Now you can have some home leave soldiers, I’ll expect you back here in 3 months for some more purple power.

I am always looking for more recruits…if you don’t sign up, I’m setting this little one on to you…

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Dear Fuckwit

Dear Fuckwit,

So here we are.

Today we are going to see you

Actually, we’re hoping we don’t see you.
In my head, I’m hoping what they find is a little Osama-esque degenerate, fucked off its been found out in his cave but somehow it knows it been caught so just gives up.

Give it up Fuckwit. The search teams are out today.

Don’t mistake these tears I’m shedding or my hand shaking as I write this, as a sign of weakness, for you would be so wrong.
It’s only proving how determined I am to rid you, once and for all.

Never under estimate the quiet ones, for they have the biggest army behind them.

And they are coming to get you.

The tale of a toddler and a 24-hour urine sample

I am going to preface this by saying this post is about wee. If you don’t like wee then don’t read, ok pissy pants?

Mornings always start early in this house and today was no different.

Today I had to carry out a 24 hour urine sample (basically peeing into a 5 litre container) as part of my kidney test before starting chemo on the 6th.

It has to start with your first wee of the day and continues for 24 hours, pretty much self explanatory.

So I get my peeing jug I used when I was pregnant and sterilised it because this was the easiest way to get it in the frigging jug.
If you had or have a toddler, you will already be aware that going to the toilet on your own is quite the sacred act and its a rare occurrence to be able to enjoy a poo on your own, let alone trying to carry out a fiddly specimen test.

At 6.40am I set about doing my first wee. I’ll try not to give you a visual because it already bad enough that you know my fanny is up the creek without you visualising me squatting over a jug.

Oops. Sorry.

Where was I…oh yes, so I’m doing my…business and James plods along towards the loo and opens the door.

Mum-mum
Yes James,
Wee wee?
Yes, Mummy is having a wee
Poo?
No, no poo.
Juss wee wee?
Yes, just wee wee

He then proceeds to sit down in our very small, awkward toilet and give a commentary of me pouring in my urine into the frightening sized container.

Mum-Mum issa wee wee. Heee hee wee weeeeeeee.
Weeely. Poooo.

I really feel I need to clarify that I didn’t do a poo.

I put down the oil drum and usher James out and then we proceed to wash our hands for 5 minutes and he continues playing in the bathroom (which is entirely safe before anyone calls SS) and I go to do the washing up.

All is quiet and I think nothing of it until I hear…

Oh nooo

*Lots of clattering*

Bye Byeee weee-weee

I run to the bathroom just in time to see the last of my piss go down the drain. Bye bye wee wee indeed.

Cue a frantic call at 7am to the research nurse who, once she stopped laughing said that it wasn’t entirely uncommon event and that it shouldn’t hinder the test too much.

Clever bugger that toddler…I would have been upset if I wasn’t so impressed at his cap opening skills.

I’ve got trouble on my hands with that one.

Niggling

So, your sitting there one day and you think to yourself ‘I feel a bit weird’ and then you think back to the last couple of days and you realise that you had a late night, maybe had one too many wines the night before, baby was FAR. TOO. ENERGETIC, and you think ‘Ahh it’s probably catching up with me’

The weeks whizz by and you feel a ‘bit weird’ again. This time you put it down to stress with trying to find a job and think nothing of it.

A couple of months go by and your body starts reacting. Again, you think nothing at first, but now things in your life are calming down, this ‘reaction’ starts praying on your mind.

You pick up the courage to visit your doctor, expecting to be waved off with a script of antibiotics.
Which is exactly what happens.

But in your head, something starts niggling. Niggle, niggle, niggle.

You KNOW your own body, but you start questioning what is your ‘normal’.

Niggle, niggle, niggle.

You go to the Doctors again because the antibiotics didn’t do shit. You know something is up.

This time bloods are taken, an ultrasound scheduled. Bloods are normal, a little low on iron but nothing major. An agonising 6 week wait for an ultrasound.

You lose 16 pounds. You’re still eating, maybe absentmindedly, but still trying to be healthy. You know something is up.

Niggle, niggle, niggle.

Your ‘reaction’ is getting worse. It makes you self conscious, you wonder if people know, like you know something is up.

It’s remarked that you’re losing weight, your running around after a toddler you say.

Niggle, niggle, niggle.

All of a sudden its the date of your scan. Legs are jittery, a nurse has to hold you still. She holds your hand too.

And before your eyes, in the same room you saw your little baby on the screen, is something else with a bloodline.

Niggle, niggle, fucking mass, niggle.

You are then rushed through on the ‘2 week wait’ list and important people are starting to fuss over you.

You KNOW something isn’t right.

Niggle, niggle, fucking fibroid, fucking cancer, niggle.

You are surrounded by doctors, specialists nurse, a fucking biopsy pot.

Niggle, niggle, niggle.

All of a sudden its as if someone has turned off the volume in the world and all your hear is Mr Hollingworth’s words.

Yes, it is cervical cancer.

Nig…no more niggling. This is what it is.

This post is important. I hope that if you are reading this, man or woman, old or young, if you have something niggling you, you act on it. Go see your Doctor. Not one thing is a petty complaint.

I should have acted sooner, but at least I didn’t put it off altogether.

If me having cancer is to make just one person take a look at themselves and think ‘Actually, that’s not quite right’ then I know this shit hasn’t been in vain.