WAKEY WAKEY

So that’s it. Stage one complete. I’m actually a bit nervous about the scan that Sam has to have in 3 weeks or so because, whatever the size of the lump, that is what we’re dealing with. No more shrinking. The size will be final.

Today’s chemo went ok. It was all done and dusted in just under 2 hours and Sam finished the chemo exactly the same way she started it….. with a smile.

Of course, not only was she pleased that the chemo had come to an end, she was also looking forward to having the PICC line removed from her arm after 4 uncomfortable months. No more having baths with one arm in the air, no more uncomfortable sleeping and no more irritation from the sticky dressing. The fitting of the PICC line took 45 minutes but the removal took no more than 20 seconds. They just pulled it out like a piece of string.

It was actually a bit weird today because we’ve got to know all the people in the macmillan ward quite well and it felt like we were leaving them. Another part of me, however, would be quite happy if we didn’t have to go back there ever again (no offence to the lovely people intended).

Now, this next bit is not a criticism. It is not a moan about the treatment or a dig at anyone who is involved with anything that we’ve had to deal with so far. It’s just far too entertaining to leave out. I just want to say (before anything else) that the way we’ve been looked after has been amazing. Absolutely amazing. The nurses, the doctors, the consultants, the administration staff and even the fellow patients have all been so welcoming and accommodating that it’s made the past 4/5 months whiz by. However, there is one tiny little alarm bell going off in my head and that alarm bell is dressed smartly, talks smoothly and I’m pretty sure has Marvin Gaye “let’s get it on” playing around in their head (on loop) as they walk around (in slow motion) talking to people. Nurses giggle and patients blush as they receive a little wink and a comforting smile. I am of course talking about the one, the only, Dr GQ Smooth. It’s not his ability as a consultant that’s setting off the alarm because he’s actually supposed to be at the top of his game, nor is it him as a person because he’s actually a really nice guy. Like I said before, its more a style thing more than anything.

Pre chemo was yesterday and the nurse showed us into the office. Dr Silver Fox was sat in his chair looking at his monitor. He turned, smiled and gave Sam a handshake as he said hello. He looked across at me and gave me that welcoming look and then proceeded to ask Sam (smoothly and quietly) about which side effects she had experienced after the last session. She explained about that the joint pains weren’t as bad but the anti depressants made her a bit spaced out for longer. He decided not to prescribe them again but told her to take the few that she had leftover only when she felt the pain coming on and not to take them every day. That way she would combat the joint pain but not have the spaced out feeling all the time. Sam then asked what happens next. He told her that we are now passed over to the surgical team and that we wouldn’t see the oncology department again until stage 3: Radiotherapy. The surgical team will be the ones who will study the scans and decide the next course of action. It’s at this point that Sam said that we hadn’t yet received the scan dates yet. Looking puzzled, Dr Suave checked his pc to see if there was any information from the radiology department. He brought up Sam’s notes on screen and started to go through them. Deep in concentration he read line after line looking for any nugget of information. He got about 3 pages in before Sam pointed out that it wasn’t her notes that he was looking at.

“I’m sorry?”

“Really? Oh, ha, wrong person. I’m going crazy”

And with that he logged out of the screen. He smoothly shuffled Sam’s notes and then re-entered her details into the pc. There were no details of any appointments made for any scans and he looked puzzled as to why not. He put the requests in again and said that if we hadn’t heard anything in a week then we should call the nurses and chase it up. I asked if Sam would need any top up sessions because of the dosage being dropped for each docetaxel session, but he said this wouldn’t be needed as they only really like to give 6 sessions overall. Sometimes they will do 8, but only on very special cases.

I’ve been a little concerned about the length of time that they’re going to wait before performing the surgery and to be honest, I would rather they got it out sooner rather than later (I mean, just get the little fecker out now!). I decided to seek reassurance from Dr Laidback that the intended timeframe is the right one.

“With the surgery not being planned for another 4-6 weeks, is there not a chance that the tumour will grow again in that time?”

He looked at me, turned his head slightly and replied

“I don’t know…… You’d have to be pretty unlucky if it did”.

And with that, he turned back to his computer.

Come on Doc!! Where’s the reassurance?? Where’s the “Don’t worry Mr Lester, it’s standard procedure and you can be reassured that we will do our utmost to get this tumour out in the quickest time possible”. I suppose we just have to trust the professionals and know that they deal with this kind of thing all the time. It’s just in a situation like this you want to be steered in a certain direction and not left to let your mind run away with you.

He checked Sam’s lump before we left and was pleased with the size (or lack of it). He said there was a little bit of thickening there (whatever that means) but overall he was happy.

Our time with the oncology department is over for now. We don’t see them again until just before radiotherapy. Stage two begins and we are now passed over to the surgical team. They will study the scans (when they’re done), decide what happens next and then hopefully we’ll get a few more clear cut answers about the next step. 🙂