So, while all the grump and rant was going on about the Femara side effects and the afters of treatment, just to ice the cake, I have had a Visitation around the same time. Only now am I able to share that.
The first element of the Visitation became evident not long after I had posted the aforementioned “thanks, but no thanks” rant. Possibly this was retribution?
I had an infuriating itch, under my prosthesis. I absentmindedly swatted at some invisible irritation for a while, before heaving myself off to the bedroom and having a look at what was bugging me. Perhaps literally.
There was some clear irritation – possibly a bite, but it was incredibly itchy. I did not scratch, but tried to soothe the area and willed it to stop itching.
When I looked at it properly, my heart stopped. There was a mark, the approximate size of a cigarette burn, less than 2 cm below my scar. Let’s call it a wirple – after all we have been here before. The “wirple” was red and angry and weeping slightly, as if it had been scratched and clawed at. But I had not been scratching.
I have been aware that Captain Paranoia has not been very far away even if he has not been as intrusive and troublesome as he has in the past. He has been there, as a presence, keeping me on my toes, but not actively pursuing me.
But here began the serious part of the Visitation.
On seeing this new wirple, Captain Paranoia leapt into action. With one single bound, his feet were on my shoulders, as he leaned right over my head and pressed his nose, upside down, next to mine his eyes glinting. His gloved finger jabbed at the wirple with jubilation, as he pulled my ears and tweaked those fine hairs at the base of my neck to make my eyes smart.
I did not need to be prompted. Such a mark on my skin near the scar is automatically worrying. The scar represents the whole area which was home to my left breast. And two tumours. And Paget’s disease. Which tells clearly that the skin and not just “stuff inside” was malignant. The scar which intrudes even into my right breast shows clearly that the margins needed to ensure that there was no evident cancer in that area, had to be radical. There was little flesh left, and only a thin covering of skin over my ribs and the extensive removal of cancerous lymph nodes to remind me that cancer had taken quite a hold.
So it does not take an extreme leap of thinking to acknowledge that although surgery had been radical, chemotherapy as great a regime as was possible and radiation extensive, the possibility of cellular cancerous activity is entirely within the realms of possibility. Especially so close to my scar.
On Monday morning I took a series of photographs. There was no point in heading to my doctor right away, but by recording the wirple I could at least show if it was progressing.
On Tuesday morning I took more photographs and compared them with the previous day. The wirple was most definitely still there. It had changed from an angry, slightly weeping area to an equally angry but enclosed wirple, with a crusty top. Just like a cigarette burn. Shit! Double Shit! This was not looking good. Captain Paranoia was by now living on my pillow, tweaking my earlobes if I dropped off to sleep. Whispering in my ear. Just check, he was telling me. Just have a look at the Google images. Dr Google is on standby. Go on!
I cannot tell you the reserves of determination (and fear) it took to resist that temptation to look at images of skin mets from breast cancer. I remembered consulting my doctor here in Yangon when the first wirple appeared and together we looked at skin mets images. And were marginally reassured. But this wirple was different. The last one had been a slightly hard area under the skin, painful as well as itchy, but not inflamed or weeping. This one looked sinister to me. The crusty area scared me. And the location terrified me.
On Wednesday I took more photos. I had swum that morning and the crusty scab had fallen off (sorry about gross detail, but heavens above, this is cancer we are talking about and cancer does not do genteel!) The area was no smaller, but equally it was not larger. I needed to monitor this to see if the crust and scab formed again and if this changed in size.
This Visitation was in full force.
On Thursday I took more photos. The area of the wirple had not increased or looked as it had decreased. It also just seemed to me a tiny bit less angry. Cancer does not get better, it gets worse, generally, Dr Y had advised me when wirple No 1 had appeared. This was not significantly better, but hey it was not worse.
I allowed a minor exhale.
Captain Paranoia was still urging me to consult his sinister partner, Dr Google. And finally I did. I am sorry, but I did. But hey, I am proud that I waited until the wirple was either stable or lessening. That has to be progress – right?
The crust had not re-formed. The wirple was less red and angry. It was not getting worse. Nor was it getting significantly better.
On Friday I again rose at dawn. There was some drizzly rain. Out came the camera. More photos of the wirple. It looked, dare I say – slightly better”? Perhaps less angry? Perhaps not so big? It was very hard to say, but I was glad of my photographic record of its journey.
By Saturday, finally I exhaled properly. It was clearly disappearing gradually. Captain Paranoia sloped off to the wings. He is still there, and jabbing unhelpful suggestions about the joint pains in my knees and elbow, but at least he has stopped that infuriating taunting, his face is no longer pressed against mine and his horrible creepy fingers now not pulling at those sensitive hairs at my neckline.
I cannot completely exhale, as I know that this wirple has to be monitored and reported to Dr W2. But it has not got worse, and has changed from an angry crusty wirple to a tiny, more healthy pink mark.
On the face of it, this has been a very minor tale of a probable bite on very sensitive skin. But in fact it has been a much greater tale psychologically, particularly in its timing. This has been another encounter with our deepest fears and a major Visitation. I am sure that this is not the last, but I for sure wish it were.