The Dents du Midi on the day we arrive – glorious!
We made it! Here I am with my boys in the mountains, getting ready for Christmas: the goose is collected, we smuggled the chipolatas and bacon through customs, the champagne is chilling, presents wrapped and last-minute instructions for shopping issued! It’s Christmas Eve and Ross and Tommy are off skiing while I am left to some retrospective musings.
The first one is of a practical nature: even if the weather is gorgeous, the snow is terrible so I don’t feel I am missing out. I had been dreading the feeling of unadulterated jealousy, listening to tales of knee-high powder and virgin slopes, instead it’s a litany of overcrowded, muddy pistes and closed runs. Sigh of relief!
This is always a very sad time for our trio: the last Christmas we spent with Louise was here in Champéry, and the memories are still so vivid: the tension and heartache when she nearly didn’t make it due to the British weather – it took four days, three cancelled planes and a £65 taxi before I scooped her up from Aigle station, her presents and possessions spilling out of broken bags (so Louise!); her garish New Look jumper; the delicious goose; the fairy-tale weather; the company of good friends – in other words, a perfect family Christmas.
Louise in her New Look jumper on Christmas Day 2010
Being on crutches up here evokes the time when I broke my hip three and a half years ago. Despite all the obvious downsides to such an injury (nine weeks no weight bearing followed by a further 12 on crutches), it also brought Louise and I very close. She came to look after me in Geneva while Ross was away and we had a riotous time with her wheeling me round the park and to restaurants, she so little she could barely control the chair! We then went to Barbados together for a fabulous 10 days recuperation with friends Heather and JP in their beachfront villa, and we had a very bonding and girly time sharing a room, fuelled by fine dining and drinking. I feel so privileged to have these memories. And now Tommy is manfully filling this gap by looking after me, both here and in London, in a similar fashion. It is very special.
Putting on the Ritz in Barbados, summer 2010. I wear Louise’s necklace every day
My lovely GP happily prescribed the forgotten painkillers – don’t know how I’d do without them…tramadol, paracetamol and anti-inflammatories. The pain is constant and aching.
My not-so-lovely leg post clip removal
I had a pedicure to cheer me up! After all my feet are on constant display!
The rest of my clips were painlessly removed by one of my nurses. She took a photo of the wound – not for the squeamish. It has been bleeding a bit behind the knee and it is quite bruised there. But everyday it feels a little better, though I foolishly keep forgetting to ask how long the pain will go on…perhaps not so dumb as it might only add to the vague air of anticlimactic depression that has descended. I apologise to you all, but I’m afraid it is not possible to be superwoman all the time.
A kind friend sent me a link to a book about cancer, obviously meant to give hope. However it only served to send me into deep angst about secondaries. Not knowing the histology yet (I know I said I was going to forget this for two weeks, but…) and the mitotic rate of the various tumour cells that were found, there is this faint niggle which can only be assuaged by quarterly scans for two years, and then six-monthly ones for a further three years. So it’s a long haul. I guess my status remains ‘living with cancer’.
But today I must make the bread and apple sauces, the red cabbage and do my physio. Tonight we will feast on empanadas and oysters with cousins Christine and Diego and tomorrow morning we will open our stockings, have a light but jolly lunch with friends, before tackling the goose with my brother Sasha and more friends. Tommy is donning the head chef cap.
I will enjoy this Christmas and be thankful for being with loving family and friends: three years ago it was Louise’s last, how could we have known?
Pickle enjoying the Simon’s Cat video xmas card
So Bonne Fête as we say here! I will raise a glass of Christmas bubbly to you all and those less fortunate than ourselves. I will especially be thinking of my friend Brigid, who is trapped in Juba having evacuated her team from Bor, the heartland of Sudan’s civil war. Just a week before this she had told me how much she was enjoying her work there…see how life is constantly balanced on a knife-edge.
I have been quiet the past few days – nothing much to report. Leg has been aching and tingly all at the same time. I am told this is all the nerve endings waving around madly trying to re-attach themselves. I am walking round the house unaided, but take crutches when I venture out, more to keep people away from me!
As well as receiving welcome visitors, I have been active: two trips to the movies (see http://www.vickyatthemovies.net for my reviews of The Hobbit and The Hunger Games); two visits to the physio – I am doing a form of Pilates to pinpoint the glutes and the thigh muscles (so painful that one exercise made me bleed behind the knee); some Christmas parties locally; and one at Art First, where the Patrons and Artists had put together a wonderful Christmas Stocking full of loving messages, original paintings, poems, an African necklace, knick-knacks, and even a bottle of organic apple juice. All have contributed enormously to my spiritual and mental well-being.
my Xmas stocking courtesy of Art First
However as the time draws near for my appointment with the Prof to cut the clips, I begin to feel nervous; the night before I sleep badly, worrying about the histology and whether they will find something new which might require different treatment – heaven forbid! Also about confirmation of the clearance – whether he managed to get a good margin round the tumour. Sadly there is no-one beside me to poke awake at 3 am and confide these anxieties, only Pickle as a comfort blanket.
my guardian angel
As Ross is on a plane, chum Hilary accompanies me as scribe and ears.
Disappointingly the histology is not back yet – apparently it takes longer from the Marsden but Prof is not unduly worried. He is very pleased with his handiwork – lovely, clean ‘perfect scar’ and no sign of any infection or swelling. He picks out every other clip – not quite as painless as people lead you to believe: I emit an ‘ouch’ every now and then. ‘It doesnt hurt, at all’, says he, to which I reply ‘You’re not the one having your leg attacked!’.
There are only two things that are important, he opines. One is your leg and two is my reputation. I correctly hazard a guess as to which he thinks is more important…we laugh.
On the clearance issue, he admits that, while the tumour was self-contained, it was very close to the neuro-vascular bundle and he cut as close to the surface of it as he could without damaging it and my leg permanently, thank goodness. He confirms that the gastrocnemius and soleus are completely removed and the Achilles is only attached at the bottom and not at the top. It is therefore quite remarkable that I have as much up and down flex in my foot as I have. But I must exercise this movement more if I am to walk properly. As he seems unconcerned by the histology – or lack of it – I decide I must follow his example and forget about it until January.
But the best news of all is that, once the rest of the clips are removed on Saturday, I am clear to fly. I am so thrilled I forget to ask for more painkillers – only realise as I am floating away in a cab – and have to try and get to the GP instead!
I will post a picture of my leg once it is restored to its pristine self.
Here I am at home with my little friend Pickle, who has not left my side.
I am walking well, can manage stairs, but have to rest/elevate the leg until staples come out Thursday week. We are planning on leaving for Champery on Sunday 22 and staying through the New Year. Radiotherapy will begin mid Jan.
For those who keep asking me about what I will do about the hole in my leg, I cannot even contemplate anyone cutting my leg open again. If there is no therapeutic gain then cosmetic pain is a waste of time. I wouldn’t cut my face open for the same reason.
Ready for visitors and may need help next week with getting to/from physio as Ross is going to Beijing Mon -Thursday. Volunteers? It’s only round the corner in Heath Hurst Road.
Thank you so far for the visits and the thoughtful gifts. I have a nice leg cushion,courtesy Marion, a magenta cashmere blanket (Tommy), which I can tuck up under and lots of reading materials, flowers and tempting morsels. The chicken soup is arriving on Thursday, thank you Judy in advance! Under my pillow I find my worry family, which is a comfort.
I am feeling very upbeat, just in case you are wondering! As far as I am concerned the tumour is excised and with it any future issues. Of course I will have to have quarterly scans to check the other soft tissues for hot spots; after two years the stats say I am 50% clear, and after five, 100%. But I don’t think like that. Now all that matters is for the leg to heal and for me to get on skis again. Not this Christmas, I hasten to add, but certainly next year. And those trips to Mana in July and Raja Ampat in October look very tenable. Carpe diem!
my Mayan worry family, given to me by Olivia; anxieties are transferred to them while I sleep
Cartoonist Annie Tempest draws me my own personal cartoon. What an honour! more too the point, how funny. That’s what it feels like when id do my tummy jabs….
It is now exactly 48 hours since I went into surgery. The first 24 hours passed in a morphine-fuelled haze, interspersed with doses of paracetamol and anti-inflammatories. I recall texting like a maniac at hourly intervals as I was coming round – apologies, probably all gibberish! Then deleting all sorts of posts from well-wishers on FB as my fingers were just too fat and disobedient. I would wake from a doze and find a half finished text with random letters in the text box…as yet unsent (I hope).
Tommy and Olivia trying to cheer me up!
After 24 hours of fasting a good English breakfast sets me up, but the pain is omnipresent and there are tubes sprouting from all orifices including a couple of holes in my leg. Private hospitals seem as short-staffed the NHS as I seem to wait for all sorts of things – for instance the drain removal is eventually carried out 3 hours later than scheduled and today the physio has not come at all! This is rather annoying as I have been dosing myself up with morphine in preparation for the former and so by the time it happens I am off the planet!
Tommy to greet me as I come round
I am both fascinated and frightened when they remove the bandages prior to unplugging the drains. “This might be painful. First I will cut a couple of stitches, then count to three, and you take a deep breath and out it comes!” I breathe deeply, and feel nothing. “Is it out yet?” Happily both are removed painlessly. And when I am brave enough to admire my leg with fresh dressing on, I am amazed, despite the fact a large chunk is missing, it is neat and virtually unscathed.
my neat little leg
Today, day 2, we decide to try and walk to avoid the risk of an embolism. The first attempt is terrible, the pain excruciating. However I cannot lose the catheter until I can walk to the loo, so its a vicious circle. When Tommy and Ross come in we try again and its much better. Soon I am unplugged, have made a reacquaintance with the loo, and am having a lovely shower and a clean nightie (thanks Hilary)
A few visitors pop in and out, I sleep, but the real progress is in the almost total diminution of the pain; only a slight pulling of the stitches when I walk but I think that’s to be expected. And I even took some steps on my own.
Once I’ve got the physio sorted I fully intend to be out of here…
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 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?)
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
Me in the botanic gardens – just because I like the picture and it might be one of the last times in a summer frock!
So here I am sipping champagne in BA Club Class. My leg is supported by two large blankets and I’m feeling pretty chilled. Before I left for the airport I gave myself the second tummy jab – piece of cake! Decided that in the scheme of things why be scared of one tiny injection? Though trying to get the needle though my extremely tough epidermis is – literally – harder than I had anticipated, but pain there is none. I am a tough old boot, remember.
Ross cannot be with me today on the first part of my journey to recovery; he comes on Tuesday. Too much to do to at work before he leaves for a month or so. It’s hard saying goodbye to him, even for a few short days. But the thought of the other man in my life, son Tommy, waiting for me at the other end, is cheering.
The worst moment is going through security when, despite my wheel chair, everything is of course scanned. My syringe is nestled snugly next to the oxycontin, a controlled drug in Singapore, and my sleeping pills, aspirin and other emergency supplies. ‘Madam, we have to check your bag.’
Here we go…but the expressionless guard pulls out my jewellery bag and peruses it carefully. It is stuffed with Omani silver necklaces, beads from Bhutan and Somali gold…I surreptitiously take my handbag with its contraband onto my lap while she does this and we sail though. Phew!
On board the Singaporean steward has been charming and solicitous. I pop half a sleeping pill after a glass of champagne and sleep like a security guard, only to wake up 3 hours later. So off I toddle to the tiny cramped loo and prime my syringe for another jab, as prescribed by the doc, take the other half of the sleeper and fall asleep immediately.
I feel very strange the day I leave Singapore. I can’t help but ponder if and when I will be back. I know ‘If’ is not positive thinking, by my leg has been so painful the past 24 hours and seems to be trying to burst out of its stocking. As I give myself a mini pedicure, and slather on the Jo Malone lime and basil, I wonder if my left leg will ever receive such a treatment again.
The last picture of me with two perfect pins (Patrick Mavros eat your heart out)
I look around the flat for the last time, which we have made our own with favourite pictures: a Barns Graham, an Eileen Cooper, a pair of David Prices (chosen by Louise), a Margaret Hunter sculpture and our latest additions, a couple of Indian granite Buddha and Vishnu heads. We even have mementos of Mum – her favourite Arab Chest and a pair of fine Omani copper coffee pots. The words of the song pop in to my mind: ‘When will I see you again?’
As if in sympathy, two little sunbirds visit us today, male and female. We decide to change the blog header to reflect the symbol of hope and Louise that they represent. Then, in the middle of lunch, a massive storm breaks and it pours for 5 hours, so heavy our lift lobby is flooded. ‘Singapore weeps at my departure,’ I tweet, ‘I may be some time but unlike Scott, I will be back’.
* * *
Now back in London, it’s 2 am and, despite taking a whole sleeping tablet, I can’t sleep: yesterday the mix of drugs, the long flight and general build up of stress left me feeling queasy and exhausted. I couldn’t even stay up to watch the Strictly dance-off, a treat I have anticipating in my sojourn abroad.
Dear Tommy drops in and stays all day, cooking a delicious late lunch of cod, crispy chorizo with pea and spinach puree. How spoiled! The only bad news today is watching Liverpool lose 1-3 to Hull in a lacklustre game, which has son throwing cushions around the sitting room (he’s 25!). His girlfriend has brought me a tiny bag containing Guatemalan Worry People. The Maya Indians put this woven sachet, containing 8-10 tiny figures, under their pillow at night so that the worries transfer to them. Despite the early hour I am feeling remarkably fresh and whole lot less anxious than last night, when I felt very tearful and afraid for what today has in store.
The other highlight of the day is an exchange of email with Prof Khong. He will be amused, I tell him, that I have managed to inject myself.
He replies: ‘I was very sure you would give the injections yourself given your determination and decisiveness. You remind me of Helen Mirren in Prime Suspect. If I may, I shall keep updated through your blog as well.’
So Prof Khong if you are reading this, you made my day!
* * *
Morning brings the darling Lewins at 9 am with chicken soup, guineafowl casserole, and chocolate cake! By 11.15 Dr Fi, now taking on Auntie role, has arrived and we sally forth to the Marsden in a cab, after greedily devouring the soup.
I have a really good night’s sleep with my little worry people under my pillow and feel refreshed, though still in great pain. Of course we arrive far too early so have a cup of much needed coffee opposite.
much-needed coffee while we wait anxiously
Checking in to the Private Out Patient wing of the Lister/Marsden in the Kings Road, I realise that, in order to avoid any confusion as to my identity I need to become Victoria Cattell as per my insurance. In Singapore, I was interrogated, Gestapo-style (You Unwin or Cattell? Need to change wrist-band and sign all documents again…) while on the trolley waiting to be wheeled into the operating theatre. I’m afraid I completely lost it!
Unfortunately this completely throws Professor Thomas and we spend the first 10 minutes of this precious appointment being administrative, changing my names and numbers. Whether it’s this or a bad morning in theatre, I am disappointed that he has not read the files and reports I had sent in advance. There are two terms, he says, I need to become familiar with: the ‘powerhouse plantar-flexor muscles’, which comprise the soleus and the gastrocnemius, and it appears the cancer is in all of them, putting large amounts of muscle tissue and movement at risk; and ‘clearance’: the amount of tissue they will have to cut out to prevent spread.
It is customary for surgeons to want to do their own path and histology, and this is going to cause further delays: I had hoped that we would get on with whatever almost immediately, but no, the first offer of an operation is over a week away. Slightly horrified by the thought of further hanging around, not least because of the pain, I ask myself what DI Helen Tennison would have done, and plump for sticking my neck out at the risk of unpopularity! Fi the while has decided not to let on she is a doctor, just my PA, scribbling frantically throughout the consultation. That’s what good friends are for! As I tweeted later, she was ‘a brick’ the whole day and I don’t know what I would have done without her comforting and wise presence.
Pointing out I had hotfooted it back specially, we manage to negotiate a date for this coming Friday 6 December, provided he can get the path completed. He kindly arranges an appointment with the radiologist at the Marsden for that afternoon to speed things up, and writes a prescription for more oxycontin and anti-coagulant injections.
The prognosis is good he says. ‘What prognosis, my leg or my life?’ He laughs, ‘Oh your life should be fine, and so should the leg…that’s what I’m here for’. Although as I later learn my leg will not look the same – withered and horrid to start with – and I will always walk funny. ‘No change there then, Mum,’ quips my lovely son.
Cheered by this yet dismayed by the thought of more time-killing, we stagger out to find a stiff G&T while we wait for the radiologist. We decide to try and get the prescription in the chemist opposite the pub (the same one we went to before my father’s memorial service at the Chelsea Arts Club, just last year). Oh no, they can’t dispense oxycontin as it’s a controlled drug and he’s written it on the wrong prescription! So they suggest we try the Marsden, where we have the same problem, even though the Prof is one of their consultants. Even worse than Singapore, where they insisted Prof Khong fill in my address himself on the prescription before they gave it to me! At least that didn’t take three hours!
Dr Aisha Miah is young and petite and absolutely charming. We click immediately, and we admit that Auntie Fi is in fact Dr Fi, and we therefore have a very grown-up discussion about my leg. She answers all the questions we forgot to ask in all the shemozzle over my split identity. Like: how long with the wound be? Several inches so they have good access; how long will I be in hospital? 4-5 days; how long in between op and radiotherapy? At least 4 weeks (Yay, maybe I can go to Champery for Christmas and New Year!); how long will the radiotherapy last? 6.5 weeks, the first five being ‘conformal’ with the last week-and-a-half being intense. This to preserve the lymphatic drainage system and prevent lymphoedema later on; how quickly will I be on my feet? He gets you up straight away – be warned! Will I need chemo? No, even if tumours elsewhere are detected later on they will be treated as localised lesions.
She also gives us some statistics: 70-80% of tumours as dealt with successfully by surgery; a further 10% respond positively to radiotherapy, leaving about 10% with a bad prognosis rate. This is very good news. She also writes out a new prescription!
However, on examining my leg, she is concerned at the position of the tumour and re-visits the advantages of radiotherapy pre-op, which means 6.5 weeks of 5 times per week. Then the burns have to heal, another 4 weeks or so before the operation. This is mainly because of the proximity to the vascular and nerve bundles, but she and Prof Thomas need to sit down together and look at all the scans properly and will tell me on Wednesday evening which route they will take.
I had hoped for more clarity by this stage and am naturally a bit frustrated I don’t know which way this is going, although I realise its crucial to get it absolutely right.
I will therefore sit at home like the Queen of Sheba, being waited on hand and foot, catching up with all the Borgen and Homeland episodes I’ve missed, and await the final decision. The most wretched thing is that the booze and the drugs don’t go together at all – feel queasy a lot of the time – so that solace is denied. I’m not giving up that easily though…
And, horror of horrors, when I open my new pack of tummy jabs, instead of the pencil type I was expecting, I discover a whole new set of long needles to torture myself with until Friday! WAH!
those needles! they joined me in my own mile-high club!
I hope it doesn’t get to this….thanks Annie for sending me your cartoon!
It’s been a tough couple of days since I received the biopsy report. The phrase that keeps on leaping out at me is ‘high grade’, scattered liberally amongst all sort of nasty-sounding long words – hypochromatic, eosinophilic cytoplasm, karyorrhectic, even the cancer type, myxofibrosarcoma – which all mean absolutely nothing to me. As I am avoiding the internet, I will have to wait until I see Prof Khong again for enlightenment. But there’s a couple of days to kill…
My conversation with Prof Meirion Thomas (my surgeon from the Marsden) has left me feeling extremely anxious, not least the demand I hot-foot it back to London. Not to mention his cross examination of the Singaporean methodology…I tell myself that surgeons are well-known to be a bit gruff; later Prof Khong laughs when I tell him this.
Now come the questions: should I have gone back to London straight away? Would it have saved time? would it have stopped the cancer spreading to teh lungs and other soft issues (the biggest worry)? Deep breaths, Vic, calm down. I have to remind myself that it was not clear until AFTER the biopsy and PET scan that the tumour was malignant, so these thoughts are counter-productive. All the same, once JP has left and I am on my own, these anxieties niggle away and I envisage the little spindle cells wriggling their way through my blood stream like a sperm seeking an egg.
A couple of stiff drinks and some Nordic Noir are pretty successful distractions. However sleeping is becoming increasingly difficult and the pain-killers seem to do no good at all. The stocking seems to be growing increasingly tight as I imagine the tumour growing within its confines.
In the meantime my phone rings constantly and emails ping around, lots of good advice and loving thoughts alleviate the underlying fears which, along with the pain, interrupt my sleep. No Ross to reach out for…he is in Korea.
So time for a bit of pampering: spend an hour topping up the tan by the pool, but as I can’t get my leg wet it’s too hot to stay for long! Then off to see a friend, who I have been helping with various articles on fans, so we escape into a world of Chinoiserie and the French court while we sip home-made barley water. Can’t do a pedicure as one foot is bandaged and they will only remove all varnish as soon as I step into hospital; anyway its too far to walk and too near for a cab. So as I settle for a cut and colour, I can’t help wondering if this is the last time I will have hair to indulge in such a way. I’m thinking of asking Louise’s friend Robyn Coles to design a special post-chemo hat for me; if she can make the princesses Beatrice and Eugenie look nice I’m sure she can sort me out.
‘Oh, what you done to your leg?’ asks Alvin the androgynous hairdresser. ‘Don’t ask,’ say I, ‘cancer but I don’t want to talk about it’.
‘OK, la, we talk about nice things…’. And utters not another word the whole two and a half hours. The word cancer has that effect on people.
Conversely taxi drivers here are delightful, full of concern and ‘God Bless’.
Which brings me on to the God question. I am delighted that so many people believe and are praying for me; even if I don’t share that belief I am sure that every positive thought helps me. Please keep all your prayers, positive vibes, messages, comments and love flowing my way…
Finally we get to the debrief appointment. For the first time in my week of private medicine in Singapore we are running on time. As ever, Prof Khong is straightforward and honest, and explains everything to me in great depth.
To summarise: it is a high grade tumour and very fast growing. I don’t ask the stage number as I don’t want to scare myself and know that everyone is different so it is meaningless. More significant is the replication rate of the mitosis, which is ‘bad’ at 26. Anything over 10 is a cause for concern. He thinks it has not been there for very long, less than the 6 months he originally guessed.
I ask him what he would do if I was his patient. Operate immediately he says, and then do radiotherapy. These tumours – there are several ‘extremely rare’ present, one of which he has not seen before – do not normally respond to chemo, so he would not automatically do it since the tumour is contained. But other doctors may decide to zap any rogue cells on a ‘just in case ‘basis. He reassures me that it is possible that some cells might have already ‘spawned’ but they are so tiny that they wouldn’t show up for at least 3 months, the time it takes for them to reach 1mm when they can be picked up on a scan. ‘And in those early stages, its very treatable.’ The delays I have been angsting about are put into perspective.
He further explains that the big challenge facing the surgeons is the proximity of the tumour to the main vein, and how they remove it without damaging the main flow and losing it: there are three veins forming the vascular tree in the lower leg, can they damage one and survive on the other two is the question? He draws me a lovely diagram. Skilled stuff. In order to do this effectively he thinks that the English surgeons may want to do a CT Angiogram as it would help them be precise. They cannot rely on an MRI taken two weeks ago as the tumour is growing so fast.
I had taken the precaution of checking out my anticoagulation injection kit: imagine my horror when I remove the protective sheath to discover a needle one and a half inches long! The last ones I had were like an insulin pen. This is in fact my major concern today: it’s funny how anxiety can channel itself into something so seemingly irrelevant in the scheme of things. Hmm, they don’t do those in Singapore…so I am trying to work out if I have enough courage to jab myself inflight, as well as before and after… WAH! Am making contingency plans never fear…my bravery has its limits!
Now I have visions of being arrested and executed as a drug trafficker before I even get off the ground. I will be boarding the flight with a fully primed sharp and a load of the painkiller oxycontin, a highly addictive prescription drug which kills thousands of people each year in the US. Phof Khong is highly amused when I verbalise this fear. ‘You’ll be OK – no white powder,’ he reassures me.
After much hanging around (Singapore loses out to Switzerland on efficiency I’m afraid), I now have my MRI scan on disc and the biopsy slides, so I am all set for the next stage of my journey. There’s thunder and lightening outside,the oxy is kicking in and I feel mellow and relaxed as I write this…bring it on!
This darling sunbird, sometimes joined by its mate, comes to sing to me every morning on the balcony. Its yellowness reminds me of Louise…
Sadly my optimism has taken a slight nose-dive with the news that I have myxofibrosarcoma, which is, to quote Prof Khong,
‘one of the nastier ones where you may have to throw everything at it. It has a high mitotic index of 26 per high power field (HPF), meaning that the cell multiplication cycle is pretty fast’.
I am seeing the Prof on Friday and will post an update if there’s any different news from this.
I am hoping that it will not come to this – the amputation of my leg, and it being replaced with one from an Ethiopian as here! Thanks Clare C for this image!
Saints Cosmas and Damian (3 Century AD) were the patron saints of doctors, surgeons, pharmacists, and barbers. Fra Angelico
By the way I am not reading anything on the internet so as not to scare myself as you all seem to read is other people’s disasters, never the success stories. I will be guided by sensible medical friends and professionals about what to expect and then I will share with you all.
the second G & T is slipping down nicely, and now for an evening of Nordic Noir as pure escapism…
Many thanks lovely friends for all your messages. Now home and can stagger around with help of a stick. Leg is very sore to tell the truth. Proper results Monday, but the lovely Mr Khong has confirmed the tumour is figure of 8 shaped and each one is 5 cms ie quite big. Also that there is a haemotoma so the whole muscle will probably have to come out.
I bought these shorts and top for Sulawesi, so had to put them on!
The good news is that there is a margin of 5mm between the tumour and the nerve and blood vessels, so that a good surgeon/treatment can save the leg…also that while I wait for the wound to heal and get clearance for flying (DVT risk until leg settles down) there is little or no risk of the cancer spreading into lungs, liver etc.
Other good news is that sarcomas are usually painless so only discovered when too late. Ross’s father said I was lucky to have been alerted by the pain, due to its pressing on the nerve. Mr Khong thinks its probably been there 6 months. It’s grown pretty fast!
So I am going to sit back, relax, have a G & T and finalise my xmas shopping lists, though Ross may have to do the buying!
For now I am being waited on hand and foot by my lovely husband, and on Sunday we have a dear friend, JP Jones, coming form Barbados for a few days.
The plan is that Ross and I fly back together, arriving on 10 December.
vickygoestravelling 