vickygoestravelling

my journey to health and well being via exotic destinations

Tag Archives: radiotherapy


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in which we talk radiotherapy

We have dates! Went to the Marsden yesterday, all by myself, armed with a stick so I look disabled and people steer well clear. Saw the lovely Dr Aisha Miah, who remembered me from the last visit. She is a tiny, but very reassuring, presence; someone you can ask all the nagging questions. Like the one about the hotspot in my groin lymph glands that the PET scan had picked up and I have been angsting about, knowing the cancer cells could have travelled. No need to worry, sarcoma cells do not become lymphatic cancers; if they do spread it is to the chest/lung and liver (not sure quite how reassuring THAT is!). So my next scan will be in April and then three-monthly thereafter.

Next Thursday (16th) I go to have my leg cast made; then Friday a localised CT scan of the leg so they can position the ray machine correctly. Then start properly 30 Jan, though I am hoping she can bring this forward a few days, so I can escape to Singapore for a couple of weeks before coming back for Easter and my first scan. Each session will take 30 mins. For the first 5 weeks they will irradiate the whole leg, and the last week and a half they will notch it up a bit to concentrate on the sarcoma area to zap any remaining tumour cells.

I have signed a consent paper, which is rather grim reading.

Intended benefits: improved survival; prevention of recurrence

Serious or frequently recurring risks:

Acute – skin reaction (redness, tenderness, breakdown…severe discomfort); tiredness, oedema (very likely)

Later – permanent skin discolouration; thickening of skin; impairment of joint/limb function (esp. knee joint) fracture risk; secondary cancers; lymphoedema.

She says I will need wide trousers to prevent irritation – so a visit ot Primark in Oxford Street is called for! Help! and lots of aqueous creams…

So not much to worry about then!

We had a giggle about the Prof’s views on training women doctors: I was interested to gauge her views. She said, ‘I told him he had better wear shin pads in addition to full body armour’.

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Meanwhile, to help me prepare and boost my immunity and general well-being,  I have started doing free weights and sit-ups in addition to the physio. I am also working my way through a lovely Chinese cookery book of recipes especially for cancer patients. Luckily we have a TCM shop (traditional Chinese medicine) just down the road for foxglove root , hyacinth bean seed and the like.

I am also walking unaided: last night went to 12 Years a Slave  – by bus! – and walked up the road to the Chinese restaurant; I can do the half-mile aller/retour to England’s Lane  to do shopping, and I have just traded in my sexy red mini Cooper for a rather less glam second-hand metallic black automatic. Arrives next week. So I intend to live as normal a life as possible during my incarceration in London for treatment.

Pickle loves to rub her face against my legs. See how form the front my calf looks almost normal!

Pickle loves to rub her face against my legs. See how from the front my calf looks almost normal!

I was reminded of the fragility of life last week (as if I needed reminding). On the way to Geneva airport we saw the most terrible accident; a white van with all windows blown out, children’s toys, bikes and sledges scattering the road and bank, and the family dog – a beautiful red setter – being stroked by a paramedic. It was the only living thing left at the site, but not for long.  It raised its head woefully to look right at us while the vet sent him to sleep.

I am haunted by the image of that family: one minute returning from a lovely Christmas holiday, car packed with presents; the next and their lives are forever blighted.

All the more resolved to make the most of it.


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in which we make a decision

A phone call yesterday bump starts me out of my holding pattern. ‘Professor Thomas has reviewed your scans and says there are no surprises, but can you come and see him tomorrow morning?’

I can’t help but wonder why (that sick feeling again, I said it would be the first of many last time); my instinct tells me there is a need for further discussion. The rest of the day passes in a blur of friends, a haze of chocolates, flowers and gifts, not to mention several glasses of fizz.

This morning Ross arrives at 6am, from Singapore, and we go together to the appointment.

My sixth sense is right: there is a discussion. The lovely oncologist Dr Miah and the Prof are now recommending that we consider 6 weeks of radiotherapy, followed by 6 weeks recovery, then the surgery to remove the tumour.

On cross-examination it appears the only benefit of this approach is that my leg will receive less radiation and to a smaller area.  If I have the op first, they will have to irradiate the whole area around the incision, probably the length of my calf. (The diagram here shows the soleus and the gastrocnemius muscles.)

The tumour sits across both these muscles

The tumour sits across both these muscles

The purpose is not therefore to shrink the tumour to make it easier to operate: the Prof says it makes little difference to his surgery; and indeed there is no guarantee that radiotherapy works on my kind of tumour.

For me it’s a no brainer: I really don’t think I can take this pain for another three months, nor live with the anxiety of hosting my tumour, which might spread in the interim, especially if the radiotherapy doesn’t work. I also need to capitalise on my current levels of positivity, which might get worn down with such a distant objective. My recovery will, in the end, all be down to this.

The Prof understands my thinking completely, as does Dr Miah. The pain factor cannot be underestimated. It’s a deal! And of course, it may just mean I can escape to Switzerland for Christmas and New Year, although skiing is  along way off (even walking is going to be difficult for a long time). It’s about things to look forward to….

Also my other surgeon, Prof Khong, who has been in touch, favours immediate surgery.  I am still revelling the comparison to Helen Mirren – what do you think? Perhaps it’s more about indomitable spirit rather than physical resemblance. Don’t forget she was in her 40s in this photo and I am now 56! Mind you I think I look pretty grim!

Carpe diem does mean seize the day after all, so that day is now Friday, and after that the only way is up…

LOOKALIKE (apologies to Private Eye)

Helen Mirren............Vicky Unwin (shurely shome mishtake)

Helen Mirren………………………………………………….Vicky Unwin (shurely shome mishtake?)

Administrative notes: I will be in the Royal LISTER Hopsital on Chelsea bridge Road at least until Monday; please don’t just pop in unannounced but contact Ross on 07831361190 as he will be my gatekeeper


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in which I get some bad news

When our lovely daughter Louise died, aged 21, I really felt I didn’t want to go on living. But, gradually, through the love and support of my husband Ross, son Tommy and my fabulous friends, I came to an understanding with life, and realised that I could re-discover my old zest for it.

Since Louise died we have travelled the world – from Bhutan, where we erected prayer flags in her memory, to Kerala, Zimbabwe, Kenya (where we interred her ashes with those of her grandparents), Switzerland to ski and walk in the mountains, and then a move to Singapore with Ross, where we have been capitalising on the delights of the Far East: India, Malaysia, the Philippines, China and Indonesia. All in 9 months!

Suddenly all this recovery is catapulted into outer space. Yesterday I was diagnosed with a soft tissue sarcoma of the calf, and here I am today in hospital having had a biopsy and a PET scan, waiting to hear the prognosis. Our 30th anniversary dream diving holiday to Wakatobi in Sulawesi cancelled – we should be there right now!

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The tumor began as a suspected hematoma in the calf, which would not go away: I had a couple of weeks of ultrasound and massage, with lots of stretching but it seemed to get increasingly painful. By Monday this week, I was beginning to have difficulty walking without limping, so decided to go back to the GP. Suddenly I was being rushed to a vascular surgeon, having an MRI, followed by a consultation with an orthopedic surgeon and, finally, today into hospital to have a PET scan and biopsy.

Post biopsy feeling sore! Post biopsy feeling sore!

The last 36 hours have been very dark indeed. Reading up on Soft Tissue Sarcomas (STS) of the calf was hardly comforting: not only is it extremely rare, but also the treatments include chemo, radiotherapy and excisions, sometimes all three, and often two of the above. Then there’s no guarantee that the excision will not affect your nerve, and you might be unlucky enough to lose your leg; at best your calf muscle will probably be damaged.

But the worst scenario is that it could have spread to the soft issues of the lung, liver and pancreas. In that case it is usually terminal.

Last night I could not sleep, hardly surprising really. ‘Why me?’  As Louise would have said, ‘Its not my fault’. What have we done to deserve all this bad luck:  the deaths in close succession of my mother, Louise, and then father, with Ross’s prostate cancer in-between? He at least is now clear. I have never believed in God and I certainly would not be tempted to do so now!

At 3 am I am sitting on my lounger overlooking our softly-lit pool, all calming turquoise and gently fading pinky/mauve lights, the palms gently rustling in the breeze, and breathing in the scented tropical air. Out of nowhere a big storm rolls in, forked lightening and soft rain. I begin to think how much I love my life, my husband, son and friends, and I am not ready to go just yet. So much travelling to do, so much laughter and joy to be had…but later in the darkness of the bedroom as I toss and turn and remember my maxim, Carpe Diem, I can see that elusive day flitting away from me like a will o the wisp,  tantalisingly out of reach.

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The worst moment today was when I was recalled to the PET scan: ‘We think we have seen something on your pancreas and liver and need to re-check it’.

As I lie in the tomb-like scan, tears roll down my cheeks, my whole body trying not to convulse – you have to keep very still – silently shouting out, I don’t want to die!

And maybe my time has not yet come: the radiologist confirms that while there was indeed ‘hot spot’ ie tumor in the calf, what they had thought were shadows on the other internal organs turn out to be my gut. Phew!

But we are not out of the woods yet; the precise nature of my tumor has to be diagnosed and treatments agreed. I will come back to England for those, at least 6-7 weeks of horridness. I will probably lose my calf muscle – no more mountain walks – but should be able to ski again in due course. These are small but meaningful mercies if one can at least continue to live.