Girl in a Wig: Normality

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Been thinking about blogging a lot recently. I started this to offload my own thoughts and feelings and also act as a journal. I have had some published via Chatter at http://www.apvallan.com a local blog and the author of this has been very encouraging.
I have deliberately not looked at other blogs in this whole area though. I did have a look at one recently and while our stories were similar in some ways the author was having a difficult time. I also saw comments on her lblog that as I have described before were almost competitive. That is – who had the worst side effects/ diagnosis etc. Competitive cancer.
I really can’t be arsed with that.
So, my pledge to anyone who reads this is that when I’ve got enough of the stuff about cancer treatment out of my head, I’ll be blogging about normal stuff. That was always my intention anyway.
Normality.
Because in the end, whilst I’ve had a bit of cancer taken out, I’ve had lots of treatment as an insurance policy. I’m probably in better shape than a lot of people as my health will be monitored closely for the next couple of years. I’ve had a clean MRI and CT scans with no signs of everyday wear and tear or things like arthritis lurking away.

What you focus on, grows. My focus is on normality.

http://www.breastcancer.org.uk

http://www.girlinawig.wordpress.com

Ann Allan: Memories No 15: Public and Personal Turmoil

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1970 was the beginning of a new decade but not the beginning of the end of the conflict.

1970 was the beginning of a year that would see me marry and take a step into the unknown, crossing the sectarian divide, unsure of what would be on the other side

1969 had ended on a personal high knowing that at long last Gordon had been accepted by my family and I had been accepted by his.

Plans were being made for an August wedding in my local church in Rostrevor, with the reception planned for Ballyedmond Castle hotel ( now the home of the late Eddie Haughey or Lord Ballyedmond to give him his full title ). image The date was set for the 19th August which was also my parents anniversary and so that box was ticked. I turned 21 on Valentine’s Day and had a small party for a dozen of my close friends. I was allowed to serve my male guests a beer each and my female friends a Babycham. My parents were under the mistaken illusion that my friends and I were teetotalers. If only they had known. We didn’t however shatter their illusions. They accepted that I smoked and as it was not considered dangerous in 1970 they did not object. We all thought we were super cool sitting with a cigarette in our hand. Little did we know what the long-term consequences for some of us would be.

image           On the political side there were now two divisions of the IRA, the Provisionals and the Officials. In March the Police Authority of Northern Ireland  was set up together with the RUC reserve. The reserve was not phased out until 2010.

My wedding plans continued. My bus route to work in the morning took me from Botanic Avenue to Howard street and then a walk to Chichester Street to get a bus to Dundonald House. Every morning I passed Robinson and Cleaver. imageTheir corner window featured bridal dresses and one morning I stopped in my tracks . I looked in the window as I did every morning and there it was.  I had found my dress. It was the most beautiful dress I had come across and I was determined that it was the one I was going to walk up the aisle in.  At lunch time clutching my 3p I waited patiently for a telephone box to come free.  I dialled home waited for the beep, beep and put in the money. imageMammy, I said, I’ve found my dress. You’ll have to come up to Belfast so you can see it.  No mean feat in those days. My mum didn’t drive and dad wasn’t too keen to drive to Belfast so she had to take the bus. Luckily she loved the dress too and the little bonnet with the veil that the assistant suggested would go well with it. It cost £29 and looking back I know that was quite a lot of money in those days.  Probably around £600 in today’s money. Another box ticked

Riots took place in Ballymurphy in April between the Catholics and the army. As a  result the UDR was formed. The UDR was seen by the Catholics as a replacement for the notorious B -Specials. They were mainly Protestant and many ex B- specials joined.  They were despised by a large section of the catholic community. In the UK Edward Heath was elected Prime Minister defeating the Labour Party.

Continuing with the wedding plans, a request was made to the local Parish Priest for permission to marry in Rostrevor. This was around the middle of May.  At the beginning of June or thereabouts I was returning from Sunday mass ( I went to humour my father, after all he was paying for my wedding ) when I saw the local Parish Priest,  Monsignor Boyle, hovering at the church door.image He called me over and summoned me to go to the Parochial House and wait for him. I did as he said and the house keeper showed me into the parlour. He came in. He was quite old, very doddery, deaf as a post and all in all quite intimidating.  I was waiting for him to say that all was fine and of course I could get married in my local church, where I had been baptised, sung in the choir and distributed petals on Corpus Christi ( It’s a Catholic thing ).  I’m sorry, he said,  but if you persist on going ahead with this marriage I will not permit you to get married here in Rostrevor.   However, I am prepared to marry you in Killowen ( a small nearby parish ) but you will not be allowed any guests or congregation. I was feisty then. I still am now and I had no intention of letting him talk to me like that. I shouted at him that he could threaten all he liked but it would make no difference.  It was something you just didn’t do to a priest in those days,  to answer back, but I did and when he was in mid sentence I got up and walked out leaving him gobsmacked. I’m pretty sure he had never been challenged like that before and possibly never was again.

I marched through the village and headed home. image I just about held back the tears until I saw my mother. She  was fit to be tied when she heard what he had said. It was Sunday and I headed back to Belfast distraught that all my plans were in disarray.  My bridesmaids were making their own dresses and we had decided on an all white wedding and they had chosen a lovely pleated georgette. I had to let them know that plans had changed and the wedding was now in jeopardy. A ladder and Gretna Green were looking more inviting. However, on return from work on the Monday evening my mother phoned. She and my dad had been working hard all day and had managed to contact a cousin who was a priest in Ardoyne. He was happy to marry us and the date was free. They had contacted the Dunadry Inn at Templepatrick  and they could accommodate the reception. No daughter of mine, my mother said would ever have to marry in a church without a congregation.  All arrangements for the wedding now moved to Belfast.

Meanwhile the situation in NI and particularly in Belfast was getting worse.

In June loyalist groups attacked the Short Strand. The IRA defended the Short Strand from the grounds of St Matthew’s church, the very church I had lived beside for almost a year. A close friend who was a volunteer with the Knights of Malta ambulance service was behind the lines in the church and told of his fear as a gun battle raged on the Newtownards road. Three people were killed that night with each side declaring they were attacked by the other side.  The day after 500 Catholic men from Harland and Wolff were told to leave by their fellow Protestant workers. They never got their jobs back.

Thankfully a lot has changed in the intervening years but we are still a long way off from a society that can live side by side in peace and harmony.

Next time: The wedding. In jeopardy again ?

Anon: Girl in a Wig, Looking Forward

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Radiotherapy

June 1st 2015: Began radiotherapy.

July 1st 2015:  I finished radiotherapy. In between had 23 sessions ( called fractions). Each of these entailed a trip to the Regional Canimagecer Centre to get zapped.

The waiting room is massive, apparently they treat 300+ per day there. The desk is manned by volunteers from the Friends of the Cancer Centre and also I saw a gentleman volunteer playing guitar one day . It all helps keeps your spirits up. There is some horrendous artwork though, one huge piece in particular was what looked like a playground in blood red. Made me think of Terminator 2 and laugh every time I saw it which possibly wasn’t the artist’s intention.

Anyway you get a pager and can wonder about in the vicinity until the radiographer pages you. Once you’ve been paged they take you off to one of the rooms where they check your details. After partially undressing you get on the bench, get lined up to the lasers and then zapped. This bit only takes a minute .

Contraptions

Anyway, radiotherapy itself was fine. To anyone having to have it, the staff are all very nice and it only takes a few minutes. If you drink lots of water and moisturise as advised it is fine. I managed to avoid any skin damage luckily but it can break down a bit. What I do have though is a very brown tanned circular patch where I had the Boost treatment. This is a few fractions where the beam is focused in a very small specific area. This also entails a bit more drawing on you with felt tips, this time using a template to trace the area. Not so fun with male radiographers doing it. I tried to make it normal by chatting about the weather etc but really- strangers drawing on your boob is not normal.

Wasn’t too unhappy to finish though. I had got sick of trekking to the hospital every day and not being able to wear deodorant under the nearest arm to the area being zapped. Apparently the metallic particles can effect the radiation -which makes me wonder what exactly we put onto our skin without thinking.

When it was all over I did feel a sense of relief. The active treatment phase is over and I’ll just be reviewed regularly from now on. That plus 10 yrs of taking tamoxifen .

But….far better than the alternative. At least I have an alternative

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http://www.breastcancercare.org

Ann Allan: Send in the Clowns.

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imageDid you like myself and thousands of others stand beside the police at Twadell Avenue and watch a small bunch of thugs launch a horrific attack on our police force? Thanks to the fortitude of RL we watched from behind the camera,  as young boys and teenagers held Belfast up to ridicule throughout the world. We gaspedimage in horror as a missile hit its target and a policeman slumped to the ground. We saw him having to be literally dragged away by other policemen eager to protect him and get him to safety. We were able to see at close hand what these men have to put up with when crowds are brought on to the street without supervision.

Which begs the question, why were the nationalists out at the other side of the road? Why didn’t they go to their homes and leave the police to deal with the situation, or have riots now become a spectator sport? We hear about police brutality.  We were only defending ourselves, is the usual excuse. Well last night there was no police brutality, the police were stoic and patient. I would have been tempted to have gone across and grabbed Joey/James the clown and shoved him in a paddy wagon until he calmed down.

Close up pictures of the crowd showed middle-aged women laughing and egging on the young bucks who thought it clever to attack the police,  because the Godfathers are their idols and they listen to their outdated rhetoric.  Young children looked on, cheering when a missile hit home. Where were their parents? Behind them? Enjoying the spectacle with a can in their hand?  I would suggest that in future the water cannons have a coloured dye added to the water. It would make identification of these thugs a lot easier. Maybe I’m naïve, but I have been around a long time and last night was my first look at a riot from the policeman’s perspective. I scanned the crowds for evidence of a politician or a community worker grabbing one of the rioters and telling them to go home but I didn’t see any.  This was a PR disaster for the orange order in Belfast. It was a peaceful and enjoyable day everywhere else.  Going to bed last night I read that youths in the Bogside were intent in undoing the good work achieved in the city. For goodness sake, somebody, sort it out or we are saddling another generation with this crap.

Send in the clowns, don’t bother there here.

Ann Allan : What is Culture?

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1.The arts and other manifestations of human intellectual achievement regarded collectively.

image2.The ideas, customs, and social behaviour of a particular people or society.

The above are the popular definitions of culture. The word culture has become a dirty word in Northern Ireland, misused, misunderstood and sensitive. I’m not out to offend anyone by my observations as I come from a mixed community background since 1970. I also grew up in a village, before I crossed the great community divide, where there was a toleration on both sides of parades, both on the 12 th July and the 15 th August. A bonfire was a small family occasion where a few logs burned in the middle of a safe non contentious area. No pallets, no tyres, no flags or emblems, no election posters and no ‘holy’ statues.
Move forward 45 years when one would expect that as a society we would have moved forward. But no! Ask one of the bonfire builders why they are building a bonfire and you’ll get the cliché, It’s our culture. Should they be pursued and questioned what they meant by culture I doubt you would get a lucid or reasoned answer.
We hear the cry respect our culture. I’m sorry culture to me doesn’t entail:

The paving stones on the street painted red, white and blue,
Flags flying from every lamp-post for weeks, some in tatters.
Flags of other nations flying. What is the flying of the Palestinian and Israeli flag all about?
To improve the situation and to move towards some semblance of toleration. Let’s start with both sides removing any flags that:
1.Are from other countries
2. Are from paramilitary groups which are threatening to any sections of the community.
This year we have even seen the swastika and the confederate flag. These can only have been put up to offend some sections of our community. The flags are also flown in areas where the community doesn’t want them but that doesn’t seem to be taken into consideration.
In some areas where bonfires are built way in advance of the twelfth, the streets are littered with rubbish both before and after the 11th night. How can anyone take a pride in their area with this being allowed to happen? I feel for those house proud residents who have skimped and saved to buy their houses.  We have seen this year how residents had to move from their homes in Chobam street to accommodate a bonfire. Result people  inconvenienced. Rate payers foot the bill. Fire service on duty to make sure houses not burned down. This is not culture.
Speak out against this situation and you are likely to fall foul of the organisers and some members of the loyalist community. I have friends in the loyalist community so please don’t say I am biased.
So if you want me to endorse your culture, take the sectarianism out of the picture on both sides, promote the good aspects like the bands and the encouragement of young musicians. Don’t turn our streets into what looks like public dumping areas. Enjoy the bonfires. Remove the sectarian aspect and it could turn out to be an occasion without ridicule and rancour.

Ann Allan: Memories No.14 Across The Divide

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My engagement was a low-key affair. I was happy that Gordon had at last been accepted by my parents but there was no party or champagne corks popping. We celebrated over a cup of tea and I was ecstatic. No more hiding and jumping over sea walls. It was out in the open and the last four years and the angry words were more or less forgotten. However, I still had to meet and introduce Gordon to the extended family.

The extended family included three maidenly aunts, one of which was a nun. They were polite on hearing the imagenews but I could hear the prayers for my soul echoing around the village. I was the first to stray, the first to cross the religious divide and the first in recent times at least to marry a non catholic.  I say in recent times as it’s a bit ironic that years later when researching my ancestors I discovered that the Coles were from Somerset. We were Protestant and we were planters,  arriving in Enniskillen in the 16th century.  Sometime after the 17th Century there must also have been some liaison with the local Catholics and the family split.

We soon realised that Gordon’s family were dubious about the match but were slightly more subtle in their approach. On one occasion when Gordon was in his family home alone, there was a knock at the door. He was surprised to see the local Presbyterian minister at the door. An unusual occurrence. Turned out that he was there to try to talk Gordon out of marrying a Catholic. He got short shrift. I had thought I had been accepted but there was that underlying doubt apparently. However they also accepted me into the  family and were wonderful in -laws.

We returned to work and friends and colleagues were delighted with the news. We were ‘adopted’ by the ladies in the canteen and I hopefully can admit without fear of arrest at this stage, we got very good value for our money every day. We both looked like twelve-year olds and in need of a good feed. They were determined we wouldn’t go hungry while saving to get married. I’m not sure we would have eaten so well if it hadn’t been for them.

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In 1969 it was still the practice to have a ‘bottom drawer ‘ so any extra money over the next year went to buying linens, and small items needed to set up home. No such luxury of having a home already set up with dishwashers and washing machines. We either went to the launderette in Botanic Ave or carried the dirty washing home at the weekend where it was washed and ironed ready for another week.

August of 1969 was a frightening time. We were living in Fitzroy Avenue. The second week of August was particularly frightening. There was rumour and counter rumour in Belfast. Rumours that the Catholic community was going to be attacked were countered by more rumours that the IRA was going to defend the Catholics and attack the Protestants. Suffice to say all hell broke loose and we lay in bed over the next few nights listening to the gunfire and the sound of petrol bombs hitting their target. The following mornings palls of acrid smoke hung over the city. Bombay Street had been raised to the ground along with others. Refugee camps were set up along the border due to approximately 6000 fleeing from Northern Ireland. The rest of the year was troubled. Rioting in the Shankill, due to a decision to disband the B Specials, resulted in the death of the first policeman.

We headed home to the country at the weekend for a break and on our return we were diverted down the Falls Road. We saw barricades at the end of many streets. made up of burnt out cars and busses. We were scared that our bus would be hijacked but we were lucky. For the first time we  saw the British Army on the streets of Belfast. They had been called in to defend the Catholics on the Falls and in Ardoyne. Little did we know they would be here for the next thirty years.

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During the summer of 1969 Gordon’s niece who was born in Jordan became ill with an undiagnosed illness. She was about 10 months old. She came home to Northern Ireland with her mum and her sister but was admitted to the Royal Sick Children’s Hospital on the Falls Road. The family stayed in Warrenpoint as travelling to the city wasn’t safe.  As it wasn’t possible for her mum to visit, Gordon and I went to the hospital every evening to feed her and settle her in bed. Not exactly the safest place to be visiting but thankfully she recovered and was soon on her way back to Jordan.
In September 1969 the first ‘peace wall’ was erected. This was to be a temporary structure to separate the rival factions. Over 40 years and they have been replaced by permanent structures. In my job as a Housing Officer, I have visited homes on both sides of the divide. No difference in the people on either side other than the religion they were born in to. Same worries, same day-to-day problems. Life made unbearable by the intolerance of some members of one community to the other. I had hoped by now a new generation would have brought about change but it’s slow, very slow, one step forward and two steps back.
But life went on. We were less enthusiastic about going out in the evenings. The groups stopped coming to Belfast. The city was deserted at night. TV became a source of entertainment. We had great friends in those days and had many good times. I remember on one occasion Gordon borrowed his dad’s car to collect a very good friend who was returning from working in London. En- route to home he  revealed a small package which contained LSD.  Stop the car, I shouted. We came to an abrupt halt. Ok, I said, hand it over or we drive to the nearest police station. He duly handed it over and I threw it into the hedge. I like to think I stopped him before things got out of hand. That is the closest I’ve ever been to a banned substance in my life. We still laugh about it to this day and he remains one of my closest friends. Plus he was our best man.  Love you JT.

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In 1969 we had the moon landings. Didn’t go down to well when I didn’t go into work the following day as I stayed up waiting for Neill Armstrong to take that giant step for mankind.  The staff officer wasn’t as impressed as I was. Now it’s a big conspiracy theory . Was it real or was it a fake? Conspiracy theorists have been prolific in their theories. All I know is that it was exciting and I firmly believed it at the time. But then I believed that people walked faster in the olden days because of  seeing those old cine films. I also believed that there was an upstairs in a plane for smokers. So I’m easily fooled.

Next time we are into the 70’s and life in Northern Ireland deteriorates even more and I have to stand up to the local Parish Priest.

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Anon: Enlightenment.

Posted on by Chatter

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Indoctrinated from birth is what was done.
The religion of mine was a Catholic one.
I went with the flow and sat on the fence,
Though deep down inside it didn’t make sense.

Told to believe in one god – persons three.
Born a sinner, required to be free.
Adam and Eve – they were to blame
They committed the sin, ignited the flame.

If I were good, heaven would be mine,
But if I were bad, hell for all time.
Purgatory an option – still there was hope.
If people prayed for my soul, then there was scope.

The stories of prophets – and virgin birth,
Jesus, miracles, resurrection from death,
Ascension to heaven, for his mother as well,
Forgiveness of sins, to my priest I did tell.

Rejection of satan I had to recite.
Said prayers in the morning and at bed-time at night.
If I broke the rules and died in sin
I’d be gone to the flames, the devil would win.

I now feel free in thought and will,
To discover, reason, learn … and still …
I know what’s good – what’s right and what’s not.
It’s innate in me, a human thought.

Gone are the stories and myths in my mind,
Written in a book for a different kind
Who just didn’t know and tried to make sense
In a world of no science, without evidence.

It’s taken me time to learn and be true,
To think for myself and to accept my view,
To continue to search, to grow and evolve,
And to remember there’s questions that I will not solve …

… but that’s OK!

(Anonymous)image

Girl In a Wig: Looking Back.

Posted on by Chatter

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Fifty Shades of Radiotherapy

JUNE 26 2015: Have found a new lease of life for my tentative blogging in the past few days. I poured out a lot a few weeks after the surgery, mostly to get it out of my head and away. Reading back now and tweaking posts has been strange but good and I have been inspired to continue. To put in the normal stuff too.

But first….Radiotherapy.

13 days after my last chemo session I spent an hour planning my radiotherapy. Was wrecked to say the least. The appointment consisted of me lying on a table with measurement scales with my limbs in various contraptions, a nurse taking Polaroid pics, people drawing on my boobs, followed by an CT scan. After this scan I got my first ever tattoos. Nothing exciting, just three bluey black spots. One in my cleavage and one at breast height either side of my torso.

But I’m telling everyone that now I’ve got three tattoos. Makes me seem cooler.

Then 18 days after my last chemo session I began radiotherapy. Bit fecking harsh if you ask me, was still recovering. Usually quite cool in the room and with your arms stretched out behind your head in metal restraints, it is like something out of an S&M dungeon. Not that I’ve been in one, but I kept expecting Christian Grey to swan in.IMG_0638

Radio isn’t so bad, more the fiddling about, wriggling your bum up and down the table, strangers gently manoeuvring bits into position but on the upside it has cool green lasers. The actual bursts of radiation only take a few seconds each.

Have got through 20 so far. Three left. Been doable. Everyone has been very nice and professional but I have to admit that I haven’t liked having men do it. There are always a few people in the room but I swear half of Belfast have seen my boobs at this point and I have reached my limit. It’s pointless even undressing behind the curtain when minutes later you are lying there with them drawing on your boob or squashing it into a different position. Dignity long gone.

Anyway…I’ll be really glad . Have had my fill of hospitals and medical folk. And sinister looking contraptions.

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Wigging Out
JUNE 28 2015:  Am going to back track to before Valentine’s Day, to when I still had hair. Before I went to the wig salon, before chemo had even started I began half heartedly looking online at wigs. Hours and hours of it.

Let me tell you I had never believed there was so much fake hair out there. Raquel Welch also seems to have cornered the market in swanky auburn or brunette styles too. She’ll not starve anytime soon judging by the prices.

I thought long and hard about the colour and style of my hair. Didn’t want to look dramatically different and wanted to slip unnoticed through the playground. There is real hair (expensive),  synthetic, lace front (gives you a natural hairline if the wind blows your hair up), monofilament, etc. etc…. It really is worth a visit to a proper wig fitting salon to discuss all the options and try some on.IMG_0636

In the end I chose the second one I tried on, from the Ellen Wylie Hair Power range. Five months later there are people I know who have not realised my hair isn’t real, after hours of face to face conversation. They somehow have managed to miss the drawn on eyebrows (top tip : an eyebrow brush swept across the line helps make it look natural) or lack of eyelashes (top tip 2: black kohl across both sides).

It isn’t so bad wearing a wig. There have been a few worrying moments on windy days and I went through a few months with a pull on beanie hat in my handbag, just in case. Ditto for rain.

Upsides to wig wearing : salon fabulous hair EVERY day. Can change your look completely if you wish. No hairdresser costs. No hair dyeing.

Downsides: windy days are stressful. Rainy and snowy days too. Hoodies and hoods in general are tricky unless you hold your hair with one hand while removing your hood. Opening the oven too close is a no-no, ditto, getting too near barbecues and fires. You also need to take care bending over in public and I’d really advise against handstands.

One thing I realised about wigs though is that there is a whole other world of secret wig wearing going on. Not just girls like me. When I’d been looking online for a cheapy spare I googled ‘cheap wigs.’ There are loads out there. I never even wondered why. But then one day I realised….

I’d kept seeing a UK site with some pretty decent wigs. Their homepage however had seemingly unrelated items on sale. Shoes. Stilettos to be exact. Didn’t think twice until one day I returned and took a closer look at those shoes. Very nice shiny stilettos. I checked out the sizes. Started at size 5. Went all the way up past Size 12.

Soooooo. Like I said. A whole other world of secret wig wearing is out there……

https://www.breastcancercare.org.uk

Anon: girlinawig ( Part 2)

Posted on by Chatter

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March 2015:  Second lot of chemo was on Thursday p.m. I’d called into work for an hour in the morning and had a laugh, which was a real boost.

6 p.m. Chemo round 2. This time I used a hand warmer I’d got stashed away for footy spectating . Seemed to work as the nurse got in my vein first time. Big relief as I don’t want a PICC line fitted that needs to be regularly dressed by a nurse.

Asked about Monday’s blood test results. Apparently all my scores are those of a normal healthy person. Neutrophils too, which is a relief. These drastically drop during chemo so the higher they are to start with, the better. If they drop v low, you can end up in hospital just because of a sniffle. Came home, ate a bit of dinner. Not too bad.

Friday : Felt a bit more sick in the early hours but better after a morning nap. Even got across the threshold this time. Last time I didn’t go out of the house from the Thurs night until the Wed.
Walked up the street to collect my boys from their friends. My lovely friend had brought them home from school and fed them. Walked them back up the street for her to take them to a school disco. Then lovely friend 2 dropped them off. Then I took them up to MIL for a sleepover as hubby was out. Was all planned in case I felt as ill as the last time. Except I didn’t!

Saturday: Got up, not feeling so sick. Not got a bright red shiny face this morning like last time.

Phew!

Saturday was great. Pootled about in the car taking youngest to his friends to play. Even nipped into the Spar garage for stuff. Got my Neulasta injection from the District Nurse…once she’d worked out with her colleague how to open it. Had never seen one before. Yet it would be cheaper for the NHS than an admission to hospital for a few days. Should be given as standard.

Sunday:  BLEURGHHHH.  Neulasta side effects kicked in. Sore in every bone. From top of my spine right down to my shins. But that was it working, forcing new blood cell growth. Fuzzy headed all day. In fact felt like that for a few days. Luckily this coincided with a trip over by my parents .

I napped. I did nothing. They pottered about fixing and cleaning stuff. Things I hadn’t been up to doing in months what with surgeries etc. . It was brilliant to be looked after.

JUNE 2015: First three cycles of FEC went by without too much bother. In the week following chemo I took it easy and while I didn’t feel fantastic, I didn’t feel horrendous either.

Yes there were side effects but they were manageable.

The last three cycles I had were Docetaxol. I assumed that I’d (relatively) breeze through this too.

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So…less nausea but I really thought I was going to die from the pain. Every single part of me hurt. No painkiller could touch it. Couldn’t even cry as it hurt to move my cheeks. Even the duvet hurt my legs. Three days like that. It might have been four. It’s very hazy. I spent Easter week in bed. Finally called my nurse for advice and she brought me in. After a quick blood test, I was given antibiotics and told my neutrophils were very very low, surprisingly. If I developed a temperature I had to go directly to A&E to get admitted.

I  took a couple of antibiotics over the day and sat watching my temp go up. And up. I figured the trip alone to A&E would make me worse as I couldn’t get downstairs again at that point. If I was admitted I’d get antibiotics anyway….so I hedged my bets. Very risky. But it was fine. My temp started to come down at 3am. The next day I felt like a different person.

Side effects, apart from the pain and need for antibiotics, were pretty spectacular. My hands swelled up and were fiery hot and red. After a few days of this the skin began to peel off in big strips. like sunburn peel but much, much bigger pieces.   Lovely.

IMG_0631Anyway scab handed I went to my next checkup, hoping I’d be too ill to go ahead with chemo. Apparently not, my blood levels were ok. However the consultant said he was reducing the chemo dose by 20 % due to my severe reaction. It had packed a pretty hard punch he said, then smiled. Yay!

Last 2 Docetaxols

Rough.

That’s all.

Had been given a co-codamol and brufen schedule to keep ahead of the pain. This helped a bit. Not totally. Mouth sores weren’t as bad, though I ended up with scabby peeling feet instead of scabby hands.

My parents came over to stay for a week each time, given how ill I’d been the last time. This was amazing. I could barely sit up in bed for a few days let alone eat or function. I let them pamper me and hid as best I could how unwell I was from the kids. Childhood comfort food like eggy bread, hit the spot

For the penultimate cycle I was offered tramadol to see if it helped. So I took one in a vain attempt to help pain wise. Never ever again.

I woke up crawling on the bathroom floor, trying to clean it with my hands. I was convinced I had weed all over the floor and bed (not true). When I came to enough to realise I was dreaming, I went back to bed. As I sat down I was pulled onto the bed by hundreds of pairs of hands that I started fighting off. All I remember after that is fighting demons and flying and more fighting.

Yeah.

As my Consultant said afterwards, You’ll never make a junkie.

Suede Head

JUNE 2015: Never fully lost it. Was never a shiny baldy. I kept a v fine layer of grey patchy fuzz. Lost eyebrows, eyelashes and everywhere else though. I am a dab hand at fake eyebrows now. The first pic is about 4 weeks after the last chemo.

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The pic below is tonight. That is 6 weeks exactly since the last chemo.

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It might be coming back with a lot of grey, but it is coming back.

To be continued.

https://www.breastcancercare.org.uk

Anon : girlinawig (Part One)

Posted on by Chatter

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First attempt at blogging. I’m new to all this. But hey ho, will give it a go. My aim is to write about life, right now.

A bit about me : Aged 43, wife, mum of two boys, charity worker and all round busy person. All very mundane.

Why I’m writing this? Well it’s a type of journal. A place to whinge and feel better. Whinge a little. Not too much. Promise.
To set the scene….

Sept 2014.

On my birthday I felt a lump. Yes, a lump. Bit of a rubbish birthday present. Didn’t tell anyone as my folks were over visiting. Plus nothing was actually wrong. Really.

After a few days it disappeared with some bruising, but I went to my Doctor anyway. He said to come back if in a few weeks,  if needed, which luckily I did as I wasn’t happy. He suggested I go to my local cancer charity who do mammograms as there was nothing he could refer me on for as ‘urgent’ . It would mean I wouldn’t get a scan til March 2015 at least , given the pressures on our NHS.
Totally had forgotten the decent health insurance we have via my husbands work which would have done it sooner, but I was seen within two weeks at the charity.
My mammogram was easy enough but something on this got me referred to the one stop breast clinic at the Regional Cancer Centre. The letter said four out of five such referrals were fine. I assumed I’d be one of the four.

December 2014

I spent a morning getting poked and prodded, more scans, an ultrasound and a biopsy. In between which I accidentally saw WAY too many elderly lady boobs in the waiting room, due to the ill-fitting gowns.

Then a meeting with the Consultant. The waiting room emptied. Husband kept saying ‘ it’ll be fine’. Last patient of the day. Consultant came in, I saw her expression….and I just knew.

Small tumour. .04-what-is-that12cm
But…early stages. Type of cancer that responds to hormone treatment.
All in all, very treatable.

But still.
I’m not ill I thought.

JANUARY 30 2015

As surgery approached I began to panic about the general anaesthetic. Silly I know but I was convinced I wouldn’t wake up. Ridiculous anxiety .

Anyway, got to the day ward for 7am. On my own in a taxi, so the kids wouldn’t be disturbed or know anything was awry.
Starving.
Anyway met 2 chatty wonderful women , we collectively rallied each other’s spirits and moaned about being hungry.

There was no surgery in the morning due to theatres being inspected. While inconvenient, it was good as I knew they would be spotless and everyone would be on their toes.

9am. A trip for me and an older lady up to radiography to receive a tracer isotope. This was to enable the surgeon to locate and remove sentinel nodes -lead lymph nodes that can show if cancer has begun to spread.

How they do it it is, in hindsight pretty funny. But at the time it was excruciating.
A portly bow tied gent introduced himself with a radiographer.
After which , he injected the side of my nipple with radioactive gunge.
That wasn’t the worst. The worst bit was then having to massage my own boob, for a couple of minutes , under the watchful eye of said Doctor.

The scan after that , was pretty easy.

Got back to the ward and the other lady came and sat on my bed. She was a bit out of sorts bless her. She said “I’ve never done anything like that in front of a man. Never in all my puff” .

Time rolled on. We could smell the nurses lunch. Even the magazines we had between showed page after page of food. Humour got us through.
Then one by one people were wheeled off. I was the only one left. It was 4 p.m. I knew I had to recover enough by 8p.m. or I’d have to be admitted as the ward was only a day ward.

4.20p.m.. Finally wheeled down. Pretty panicky and my heart rate went up to 140. Last thing I remember is the rapid ‘ping ping ping’ of the monitor.

Woke up crying at 7p.m.. Has happened before with anaesthetic. But partly relief too. Made it down to the ward and forced the mandatory tea and toast down. Walked out the door, 8p.m. on the dot, having put a bit of make up on.
We picked up the kids from MILs, and that was that. Almost normality.

Well. I was told all along that I’d lose my hair. Never quite believed it. Joked that no doubt it would fall out for  Valentine’s day.images

Day 11:  Had scalp tingling on day 11 after chemo. Having looked it up I knew it was a sign that the epirubicin (part of the FEC treatment) was working to blast all the fast dividing cells. Unfortunately some of the fastest cells are in your hair follicles.
Day 13:  Ran my hands through my hair. About 20 strands came out. Ran them through some more. More came out.
This happened through the day. Was surprised at how low I felt about it.
I know it’s temporary. I know I am choosing to have the treatment to ensure I have another 40 years hopefully.
But…..

Day 14:  A lot more. Going to have to arrange to collect the wig.
Going to have to tell the kids too.
Mood isn’t great tbh. But I’ll get there once I get my head round it. No pun intended.

Day 15: Run my fingers through and loads comes out. I definitely have less all over. Ordered a spare wig online. Hopefully will arrive in time.

Sunday: Out in absolute handfuls. Looks straggly. Pony tailed it all day to hide from the kids. This resulted into a third of said ponytail coming out when I took out the bobble.
Wishing I’d taken the plunge and got it short before it came to this. But that would have meant explaining things at school gates. I.e. Drastic haircut. Then sudden long hair lol.

Monday: Went to get my wig fitted. Booked myself into a Look Good Feel Better thing run at the Macmillan Centre. And a makeup demo. Mainly because you get freebie products but also shown how to draw on eyebrows. Which will be useful.

As I was collecting the wig, a teenage girl was coming out, with her mum and wigs. I will never complain about having to wear it. Imagine being 14 or so and having to wear one. Doesn’t bear thinking about.

So..kept it on from the fitting. Nipped round Sainsburys. Did school run. Nobody even noticed. Not even the kids. My spare cheaply wig from Annabelle”s Wigs online arrived today too. Only £26 and actually looks like the posh one.

Wednesday: Not much left. Straggly long bits and handfuls and handfuls out. I got a hairdresser to cut it v short. He says clippers would be too traumatic. After this I looked pretty good. Patchy but good . Wigs fitted better too.

Couple of days of jumping out of bed to put my hair on before my boys saw. Took it’s toll though. I had to tell them so they wouldn’t be upset if they came into our bed for cuddle. I said ” Mummy’s had some medicine like strong antibiotics. It’s made my hair fall out a lot, but it will grow back in May’. They accepted all this, didn’t ask why. No further questions. Told them their teachers knew, if they ever wanted to talk about it, but that it was just a side effect.MARGIE WON Phew!

https://www.breastcancercare.org.uk

To be continued