Diagnosis: butterflies in tummy area

So, as I am sure is the case for many of my cancer contemporaries, an annual appointment with the oncologist can be an anxiety inducing experience. In my case, even though I have received lots of good news recently, I still can't quite shake off the feeling that the butterflies in my stomach might burst out and land on the oncology Professor's forehead.

My usual modus operandi is to measure the feeling in the room (look for clues e.g. is he smiling? Are the nurses looking at me sympathetically? Is his handshake warm and welcoming?) before sitting down with my entourage (my dream team, wonderful Dad and amazing husband). If all the signs are good and his opening sentence is a positive one, then I am so giddy with relief that I essentially zone out for the remainder of the appointment.

I mitigate this problem by asking my Dad and Dean to make notes so that I can absorb the news when I'm back home.

Incredibly, despite the enormous pressure on the NHS, my oncologist always takes time to write a summary letter of what was discussed. This then gives me the chance to Google any complex terminology and disseminate the information to friends and family (and for this blog obvs.)

So, this one included my initial diagnosis:

"Triple negative ductal carcinoma left breast" is translated by me as "super aggressive cancer that cannot be treated by hormone therapies".

And my secondary diagnosis:

"Metastatic poorly differentiated carcinoma to the brain, had left craniotomy followed by whole brain radiotherapy" translated by me (I can't blame Google) as "OK...this is not looking good."

But that was then and this is now. I home in on the key phrases of the letter: 

"CT and MRI scans of the head showed stable appearance and no new metastases...This is TREMENDOUS news!"

"It is looking OPTIMISTIC that this will have been a solitary metastasis."

"She is doing very well from a point of view of the breast cancer generally. Clinically there is no sign of any recurrence."

And...drum roll..."We are now optimistic of the chances of a CURE!!!!!" *Words: oncology Professor. Punctuation and capitalisation: Author's own.

So, again, it's an amazing miracle at God's hand. According to a butterfly conservation site, butterflies are considered to represent "freedom, beauty and peace". Exactly my aims for the future.

Amanda

Imagine my embarrassment when these flew out

To see a rainbow we must deal with the rain

I'm no meteorologist but if I had known when I celebrated my 40th birthday five years ago what the storms ahead would be, I would have replaced my umbrella with a full-on body suit.

So, the conditions of cancer were stormy (a lumpectomy followed by turbulent vomiting), tempestuous (six sessions of chemo) through to downright savage (whole brain radiotherapy).

The forecast seemed so bleak (my terminal diagnosis in 2015) that it would have been easier to zip up my rain mac and stay indoors.

However, after every rainstorm, something beautiful occurs. A prism of colour that fills the sky. A symbol of hope and the promise of a pot of gold.

This month, I had my annual reviews with my neurosurgery and oncology consultants. My neurosurgeon hugged me and discharged me (WOW!) and the oncologist told me he had only had one patient before me who was diagnosed with Triple Negative Breast Cancer that spread to the brain, in 28 years and that she was still alive and well. He even said that my outlook was sunny (well in more formal language, but that didn't help my weather metaphor) and that now I have the same chance of getting cancer (again) as anyone who has never had cancer (WOW!).

I was often to be seen in this outfit

So after the rain subsided and the clouds dissipated, the rainbow appeared. Being alive and cancer free, able to spend time with my loved ones is a huge pot of gold.

Now I am painfully aware that friends around me are still in the eye of the storm and I pray for them to make it through. But this is a story of hope, and God's love and grace. He has saved me from the hurricane and it's time to rebuild.

Amanda

P.S. Debbie has her oncology review today, so I hope she finds her pot of gold too.