Breast Cancer in Lockdown, and Writer’s Block

This is a bit late for Breast Cancer Awareness month. Just because we’re no longer in October, it doesn’t make it any less important. I’ve thought long and hard about writing what I’m about to post on this blog. PackThePJs is a positive, happy place where our readers can follow our travels, our home projects, and to a lesser degree our family life. And although lockdown has been tough around the world, for my family it got a whole lot tougher again in August.

24 August 2020 to be precise – the day I attended a mammogram recall to learn I had breast cancer. My story has only just begun, and although I’ve been keeping a diary for my own sanity, I’m not planning on releasing “Diary of Tracey Kifford, aged 47 ¾” yet a while. I’ve not felt able to write new blog posts. Hopefully, by posting this one, you’ll understand why PackThePJs has been quiet lately.

Don’t worry, this WON’T become a cancer blog – I will only write pertinent updates as and when. I need to get back to focusing on happier (less stressful) times. So, please, humour me for a few minutes. You are here to read about our travels and days out. But today I’d like you to read this.

No Clue?

Just before lockdown I had a letter through the post inviting me to attend a mammogram. My immediate thought was “NO! I’m only 47 – I have a few more years before I faced a mammogram!” Then lockdown happened, and it was cancelled. I learned I was part of a pre-50s random study to see if early screening was beneficial. The scan was rescheduled for 13 August: I went along so that I could tell similar-aged friends what it was like. The nurse spent more time imaging one breast than the other one, but said it was just to make sure nothing was missed. I believed her.

A week later a letter arrived – I needed further investigation. I phoned the number on the letter and spoke to a nurse. She told me that the scan had detected a small anomaly in my right breast and they needed to see me, but that in most cases it’s nothing to worry about. By now I was getting worried. My mum had cancer (a different type) and my only experience of it to date isn’t positive, as it ultimately killed her. Surely, I hadn’t got breast cancer – I check for lumps regularly? I’d had no pains, no concerns, and I felt really healthy.

Clinic Visit

Four days after I received the letter, I found myself sitting in a breast clinic waiting room, alone. Noone could come in with me, so Huw sat in the car outside. Wearing my face mask, I tried to focus on the TV in the room. The news was on, but the volume was down. All I remember hearing was my heart pounding in my chest. I’m a bit of a wuss whose body reacts badly to people in white coats – something that would later become a bit of an issue. Friends, and Huw, were messaging me; without them, I’m not sure I’d have coped.

I was at the clinic for 45 whirlwind minutes. During this time I had a further mammogram. Then I saw a consultant who wanted to do an ultrasound. While still lying down, I had two biopsies taken. Tiny dot markers were placed at the spots where tissue was removed. I was then sent for another mammogram, then back in to see the consultant. She told me that, although it needed confirming with the biopsy, it appears I had a very small (around 1cm) cancer that had been caught really early. The nurse called Huw in from the car, and only when it was explained to him – and I saw his face drain of colour – did I realise how serious this was.

Holiday

Three days later we were due to drive to the Outer Hebrides – a trip we had booked to ‘escape’ from crowds … and a virus! We wanted to remain in splendid isolation … but somewhere with a much nicer view to the one at home. The day before we travelled, while out walking with a friend, the call came in that I was fearing. The biopsy confirmed I had cancer … but the second biopsy, an oversized lymph node, was clear. In that same call I was told the date and time when I’d get to see a breast surgeon – literally the day after we returned home from Scotland, on Millie-Mae’s 14^th birthday.

The Outer Hebrides helped take my mind off what lay ahead. I’ve been before, and I truly love the place. I will write about it when I feel I can do it justice. We walked so much while there, and I stared out to sea (a lot) while practicing mindfulness. I kind of knew it was a skill I’d be needing.

Meeting the Surgeon

So, on MM’s birthday, having dropped the kids at school, we headed off to see the consultant for the first time. I cannot stress how scared I felt. All this mask wearing and no contact makes you feel even more alone, at a time when you want to see faces, be able to have a hand held etc.

I went in to see the surgeon … he was in scrubs, with a face mask on, so don’t ask me to describe him! A mature guy, well spoken (as they mostly are). He had the kind of dry humour that I appreciate – I liked him, and I knew I had to instantly trust him. He examined me. As I sat back down, he said “Well, the good news is that you won’t lose the breast”. Wow … that had never actually crossed my mind! How could something so small ever result in needing that kind of surgery?

I have to admit, that shook me. From then onwards I had no further questions – could barely talk if I’m honest. I had become a rabbit in the headlights willing for the appointment to end so I could go outside, remove the mask, and go home. The conclusion from the appointment was that I’d need surgery to remove the mass, and to remove some lymph nodes to confirm the biopsy results.

Surgery during lockdown

But we were in lockdown, and theatre space was scarce. I was surprised to receive a surgery date for 1 October – my birthday, typically. It was due to take place at my local private hospital, as an NHS patient. I was happy with this – I’d delay my birthday until I got home afterwards; I’d have a double celebration.

However, the stars didn’t align for me, and that white coat syndrome came back to throw a spanner in the works. Basically, I failed my pre-op assessment. BP, heart rate, weight … it all counted against me, and the private hospital deemed me a high risk. Apparently, I needed the operation close to a high-dependency unit … Crikey, I started to feel that if the cancer wasn’t going to kill me, the surgery to remove it might! Yet I felt healthy? Tired perhaps as I’d stopped sleeping – but otherwise there was nothing wrong with me. Was this really happening to me?

I was put back on the waiting list. Eventually, and it did feel like forever, I was given a surgery date of 15 October. It was an afternoon surgery, but I’d be home that evening (assuming HDU wasn’t needed!)

Pre-surgery

I needed to have a marker inserted, to guide the surgeon to the spot that needed removing. This was done under local anaesthetic, and guided by ultrasound (with a mammogram afterwards to check on the positioning). Wow – it hurt (the placement and the mammogram). And it really bruised! It was necessary though.

Surgery

Petrified pretty much sums me up this day. I’d never had an operation before. Huw dropped me off outside (not allowed to come in) and I walked to the day surgery ward, to be shown to my bed. As I sat waiting, a nurse wanted to check my BP … it had NEVER been that high before. He checked my heart rate – on two different machines as it was twice what it should be. My SATS were worrying the nursing team, so I worried even more as I feared my operation might be cancelled as a result.

Please don’t cancel?

But then the anaesthetist arrived. He quickly realised I was seconds away from a panic attack, so sat with me and calmed me down. He was a godsend that day … and he put me at the top of the operating list so I didn’t have to wait so long.

When ‘my time’ came, he came and got me and we walked arm in arm to the knockout room. Waiting for me were 4 other doctors/nurses … and they kept me so distracted, the next thing I remember was waking up! It was the sensation of my blood pressure being taken that woke me – and the first thing I said was “what is it reading?”. It was 120/72 … perfect. And was fine throughout the operation I believe … maybe I’m not so high risk after all.

I was home by 8pm. I didn’t feel sore. Not hungry, but a little sleepy. So, I went to bed. Just after midnight I woke up – WIDE AWAKE! No pain – but starving. Never before has a bag of Mini Cheddars tasted so good! The rest of that night I dozed on and off. Each time I woke up I wanted to punch the air with euphoria … I’d done it!

I healed quickly. Very limited pain. No obvious external bruising. A bright blue nipple though (due to a dye they used during surgery) that is still bright blue nearly a month later! I knew that the follow-up appointment was incredibly important as it would determine what happens next. Assuming it went to plan I already knew that radiotherapy followed by a few years on tamoxifen was my probable treatment.

Post-op Follow up

I’m a person that needs to be prepared, so I considered all options and I attended the appointment with an open mind. However, what I heard could never have been predicted … the surgeon removed the marker, with a big chunk of tissue. He scanned it, but couldn’t detect the biopsy metal dot it was marking. The lab has since taken lots of slices from it to analyse and they couldn’t find any cancer either. During surgery the surgeon decided that the only place it could be was deeper, so took another large tissue sample … it wasn’t in that either. The tiny dot marker placed when I had the biopsies were not present in either of the removed samples.

So, during the follow up, I was told the cancer was still inside me. Well he didn’t actually say that of course – but he did, if you know what I mean? Of the lymph nodes removed, 6 were clear, but the sentinel one had a 5mm cancer it in – not good news.

As for a treatment plan … there wasn’t one at this point. I so wished the surgeon didn’t have a mask on – I wanted to try to read his face. Was this a regular thing, or has someone made a bit of a booby (excuse the pun)? As usual, the news silenced me and I felt unable to ask any questions. I felt incredibly deflated. I felt lost when I left the room, with no idea what was next.

Since then …

A few days later I had a CT scan – first one of them I’d ever had too (it’s definitely a year of ‘firsts’). I had a dye injected into me, and I was told it was to check if the cancer had spread … wow, this was seriously escalating. This scan took place one Tuesday afternoon (last week actually). The following lunchtime my mobile rang, and I feared the worst. Before I had time to speak, the breast clinic nurse told me the CT scan was clear and could I attend a mammogram that same afternoon – of course I said yes. I took a thimble full of painkillers before I left, fearful of having a recently-operated on breast squeezed between the imaging plates of a mammogram machine! It was actually ok – they didn’t press down too much, as they found the ‘missing’ marker quite easily.

I then saw the surgeon again. I could only see his eyes (pesky masks) but he looked ‘awkward’. And this may sound weird, but that moment actually marked a change in me. He became human, and not this life-saving robot to be feared. And I found my voice for the first time. I asked him to talk me through the scans on his screen. I wanted it explained to me, and he obliged.

What’s next?

The outcome from the meeting was that I’d need another surgery, and that I’d have to have another marker fitted. But his nurse handed him his surgery book and the date was booked there and then – no waiting like last time.

It’s actually a week today, assuming I pass the Covid19 test on Monday. The marker was placed a couple of days ago. I don’t want to think too much about that as I’m still feeling a bit yucky … it had to be done, and it had to be accurate. All I will say though is imagine a part of your body had been operated on 3 weeks ago, and still felt bruised. Now pinch that really, really tight, and hold that position for 30 mins. Yep – mindfulness really helped me zone out. It was bordering torture.

The story continues …

I have an operation next week upon which everything depends. This time it really must remove the cancer, as I don’t fancy doing this for a third time! I know I quite like the surgeon now, but I’d rather treat him to coffee than need surgery as a route to seeing him! Not that he’d want to – he called me an Enigma … I think there were other, more choice, words going through his head at the time, lol!

I genuinely feel more positive about all this than I ever have, but I’d like to see a swift conclusion to it too. There’s a big world out there and my wings have been clipped for a year. I need to book some flights as soon as we’re able. I nearly put then, ‘before the cancer comes back’ … this is a part of my brain I really need to work on.

Me

So that’s me. What a year! Not exactly the ‘adventure’ I had planned, but quite an adventure none-the-less. And as for experiencing a mammogram – I think I’ve had eight now in as many weeks!

This diagnosis has changed me. It may be one of the most horrid times of my life, but it’s also been a turning point. I’ve played ‘mum’ for the last 14 years. The children’s successes are my successes. Tracey has been lost in the chaos of family life. I hope I haven’t left it too late, but I think it’s ‘Tracey Time’! Time to focus on me. Sort myself out. Work on the areas of my life that I’ve actively avoided tackling. It’s time to focus on being positive. To trust more. Be brave. Find the good in everything. I’m not convinced that this cancer will go away – I have my mum’s cancer story to remind me that it doesn’t always work out. But I think good can come out of whatever lies ahead.

Before I end this, I need to mention my friends. Family too, but mainly my friends. They have propped me up since day 1. They’ve listened, calmed me down, distracted me, and just looked after me. Sitting in silent, empty waiting rooms, alone, knowing they are there – in my phone – talking to me, made such a huge difference. I’ve no idea if they read this blog, but if they do, “Thank You x”. Don’t stop loving me yet though – we’ve still a way to go!

Wrapping up!

If you’ve read this far – well done! What do I want you to take from this? Simple – if you ever get invited to a scan, or a smear, or whatever diagnostic test you’ve been lined up for … say yes. I nearly didn’t. I was told the scan detected my cancer up to 3-4 years before I’d have noticed/felt it. That’s a scary thought. Although I don’t know the end of this story, I know I’d rather be facing what I am now, rather than discovering it in 3 years’ time.

Of course, keep yourself safe from Covid19, but look after yourself too. Other diseases haven’t gone away just because Covid dominates the news. Your GP doesn’t send out scan/smear invitations just to ruin your day … they are sent to help keep you alive. Don’t waste the opportunity; instead feel grateful and blessed that we have the NHS, and that it’s doing it’s best to look after us.