Good Cop? – Feb 2018

David and I trek over to Addenbrookes following a couple of weeks of relative misery.  It’s hard to wallow in despair when you are caring for a lively toddler and a growing baby.  But when I look at their sweet faces, faces I won’t now see develop into children, I want to howl with rage.  Why me? What have I done to deserve this?  Is there something I did or shouldn’t have done?  The doctors have all said not but there must be some reason why I’ve got this thing in my head.  And while having the children to care for keeps the worst of the rage and despair at bay, every time I look at them I’m reminded that my children will grow up and won’t have any memories of me, won’t know the sort of person I am.  They’ll just have pictures to look at, of them with a stranger.  All I want to do is cry.  But it’s hard to cry when I have to focus on their needs.  They are oblivious to our pain.  And we want to keep it that way.  I’m incredibly fortunate having Debbie on hand to ensure life goes on for normal for them while we cope with all the bad news.

We have an appointment in Oncology, to see Dr. Sarah Jeffries.  Dr Jeffries is a warm individual, about as far removed from Dr. Death (for that is how we have come to refer to him) as can be imagined.  Dr Jeffries is accompanied by a nurse, Kate and they are to be my team.  We discussed the scans and they reiterated that surgery was not an option as the tumour, which was located in my right parietal lobe, was too close to my motor function, any attempt to remove it would run the risk of severe damage to my left leg.  I explained I didn’t mind losing the use of my leg if it got rid of the tumour.  They patiently explained that wouldn’t work as I’d lose quality of life and there was no guarantee the tumour wouldn’t return and that tumours don’t necessarily grow back into the space created by the removal.

This did not mean, however, that there was nothing more to be done.  They explained they could use radiotherapy and that they had the most up to date equipment to do it at Addenbrookes.  They’d machines that could really target the tumour with minimal damage to non-tumour brain cells.  It would involve six weeks of daily treatment at Addenbrookes but, radiotherapy, when successful, had the potential to hold back the tumour for up to 10 years.  10 years!  This seemed a lifetime!  Long enough for cures to be developed, long enough for my babies to grow, long enough for them to get to know me.  Dr. Jeffries said they would start things in motion but in the meantime, if we wanted a second opinion, she suggested Dr. Brada, at the Royal Marsden.

At the end of this meeting we were asked if we’d give some feedback to another member of staff.  I don’t remember their role or exactly why they wanted to talk to us but the gist of it was that they had gathered the pervious meeting with the neurosurgeon had not gone terribly well and could they get our feedback.  I’m not sure we knew what to say, I’m pretty sure we didn’t mention we referred to him as Dr. Death – and still do, to this day.  In retrospect I wonder if there is a good way to tell someone they’re fucked?  I wouldn’t want to do it.  Perhaps it had been his first time.  I did point out it would have been useful to have the meeting we’d just had immediately after the one giving the bad news, to give some glimpse of the hope I now felt.  I think they nodded, cited logistical difficulties but ‘took it on board’, or something to that effect.  And perhaps they were right to give us time to really feel the full assault of the bad news before dangling a carrot.  I certainly left that day with more of a spring in my step.  Indeed I felt I’d won the jackpot.  10 years – something I could work with.


An Abnormality – Jan 2003


I stayed in the N&N hospital for the next few days having tests.  Only 5 short months earlier I had given birth to Posy here.  Well not quite in here, rather she was delivered in the car park.  Posy likes to do things her own way.  And talking of Posy, I was having to be separated from her for the first time for any length of time. What would they do for milk?  I’d been breastfeeding to that point, and expressing the milk she then refused to take in a bottle.  Well no longer.  I was told she couldn’t have my breast milk any more because of the anti-epilepsy medication they were putting me on. I was desperately worried, what would they do for her?  She was starting to have some solid food but a baby of that age should be having most of their nutrition through milk.  I was also desperately saddened by it.  I liked breast feeding.  I had fed Ned till he was nearly a year and enjoyed the closeness it offered.  Given the battles we’d had to get her to take any milk from a bottle I was not confident she’d get what she needed.  In the event, that was something, at least, I needn’t have worried about.  Remember all those people who insist on lecturing you about how your “fussy eater”, “veg refuser”, “bottle denying” offspring won’t starve themselves if you just persevere?  Aggravatingly it turns out they’re right.  Posy didn’t even put up a fight, just smiled sweetly and glugged the milk down as though all those months screaming when anyone tried to bond with her by giving her a bottle had simply been banter.  Like I said, Posy does things her own way.

I’d only ever spent nights in hospital previously when I had my children so this was a new realm.  There are screens by your bed with telephones, it’s really rather pleasant if you’re not actually feeling in any way ill, which I wasn’t.  I’m desperately trying to remember how I did feel, back then?  I don’t think I felt worried about myself.  I think I was anxious about work but I used the bedside phone to call my colleague and friend Charlotte.   “I’m in hospital!” I said.  “I know, I can tell by the number”, she replied. (She had been a healthcare researcher).  I filled her in and she reassured me that all was covered.  Then I started having my tests.  I really don’t remember much about it now.  There was an EEG, a CAT scan and an MRI.  I don’t remember how many days it was I was there.  But I do remember the doctors coming to speak to me about what the tests had shown.
“There’s an abnormality on your brain”.  These were by far the most devastating words I’d ever, have ever, heard.  I don’t remember anything else from that conversation, I can’t even remember if anyone was with me, David or my sister, Catherine, though I assume they didn’t tell me when I was alone.   Now it was all real, definitely happening and I had no idea what to do.  On my brain.  An abnormality.  What did that even mean?  Was I now one of the unlucky 0.1%?  There were no answers forthcoming.  I was told that I’d need to be sent to Addenbrookes in Cambridge for a biopsy but that in the meantime I’d be able to go home.  I have a memory of another kindly, well-meaning young doctor telling me not to worry, if it was a grade 4 I’d be being “blue-lighted” to Addenbrookes.   I had no idea what any of these words meant but I don’t think I took comfort from them.

I also remember, when my sister was with me there one day, she asked a nurse if I was allowed to be taken outside for a cigarette.  “Of course you can” she said in a compassionate and was it perhaps a somewhat pitying way?  She thinks I’m already done for, I thought.  I went for the cigarette but resolved to stop completely.  I didn’t know what was coming but I was going to try my hardest to meet it fighting.

Once home I went to my local G.P. practice seeking clarification.  My usual GP, yes I have a usual GP we’re a small rural community and our practise is fabulous, was away so I spoke to another.  He was kindly, tried to help and explained the biopsy would be looking to establish in more detail whether the abnormality found was benign or “something more sinister”.  So all I could do was wait, for the biopsy at Addenbrookes.  Anyone who has experienced unexplained illness will tell you, the waiting is always the worst part. But I’m not sure for me, that that stage was too bad.  I’m not one of life’s worriers and I was back home, with a toddler and a baby so life was fairly lively. And I felt, still, perfectly well.  The Tegretol medication I was taking had stopped the seizures so they weren’t bothering me.  I wasn’t allowed to drive but I lived in a small town with everything on hand so that didn’t then cause a problem.  There was nothing for it but to wait.

Round Two – Sep 2018

By the end of my “break” I am feeling basically back to normal.  The summer holidays have been particularly long with glorious weather, it felt like they would go on for ever.  Then before I know it, Posy has her birthday and I am due back at hospital for round two.  No tears for me this time, not now I know the drill.  I fair skip into the Colney Centre, ready for my spot in  a comfy chair and a nice cup of tea from a McMillan volunteer.  During the week I had a blood test done at my local surgery.  As ever they  found it difficult to squeeze much out of me but there was enough apparently for them to check my platelets which were excellent, thank you smoothies!  They need to check the white count but they have a machine on site to do this.

My Portacath is used to get the blood and I am delighted it can be used both to get blood out as well as do the infusion, what a clever device, how smug I feel for getting it put in!After a few minutes the nurse returns.  She is very sorry but they can’t proceed with my treatment.  This news comes as an absolute shock to me, this is not something I thought would happen.  It seems my white count is too low.  It has to be over 1 and mine is languishing at 0.24.  But I feel fine!  What has gone wrong?  What have I been doing wrong?  I’ve had all the smoothies with spinach and seeds and other shite, why hasn’t that been good enough?  “it’s just the treatment” the nurse keeps repeating.  I don’t understand and I feel unaccountably upset.  The nurse tells me they’ll defer me a week and my count will come back up.  I should be pleased at the reprieve but I am fretful as I’ve plans to attend a good friend’s 50th at the end of the summer and I’m worried this will throw out my timing.  But I calculate the next week will still be ok and I defer for the week and return home.

The following week David and I arrive at hospital again.  We resume our spot in the comfy chair.  Again I feel fine, as fine could be so all should be well.  My blood is taken through my trusty Portacath.  I’m getting more used to the sensation now.  It’s not without pain but in skilled hands it’s very momentary.  Again we wait and the nurse returns having checked my bloods.  It’s not good news; my white count is up but only to 0.46, still not high enough for the treatment.  The nurse explains we’ll defer another week and that she’ll speak to Dr Pinelopi, my consultant.  She’ll review things, possibly review my dose and we’ll see her next week for a discussion.  I feel I have failed, totally and utterly failed.  David and I return home, dejected.  I resume research on how to improve my white count.  We realise through this research that I am effectively neutropenic and should therefore be taking certain precautions.  These include for example, washing the spinach etc. that I am shoving down in my morning smoothies.  Ooops. However, these precautions are all about staying free of bugs as your system has no immunity to fight infection, they won’t actually bring the white count up.  Further searching turns up zinc and almonds.  I add in a handful of almonds and a zinc and vitamin C tablet to my daily regime.

Also, and this cheers me up beyond measure, I make contact with Hannah, who will be my new specialist nurse.  While Tracey has been lovely over the phone, we’ve never met in person as she doesn’t work on a Friday, when my treatments happen and we’ve had fairly limited contact.  Hannah, however,  will be there for my treatment and I feel comforted that this may help me to sort out some of the confusions and anxieties I am feeling, if I have a face and a person I can perhaps know and just maybe get to trust.

Not so bad – July 2018

Following the zapping in hospital I am released home to take the next part in tablet form over the next 11 days.  I feel ok, just tired.  I’m also taking a decent anti-sickness which I suppose is helping though today I dropped down to a lower one as there is a risk of constipation with the one I was on.  I feel good enough in fact to decide I will go to see a local play, that a friend is in.  It’s a hot day, really hot and I start to find it a struggle.  Once in the hall, my anxiety rises.  It’s overwhelmingly hot, my friend and I are fanning with our paper programmes but it doesn’t help.  I hope the play will distract me.

As soon as there is a lights out at the end the first scene, I bolt out of the hall and gulp in some air.  A lady appears with a chair for me.  My friend appears soon after and drives me home.  As I get to my drive I puke up some bile.  I guess that was too much, too soon.  It is, also, abnormally hot!  I am still being a bit sick and David calls the oncology centre for advice  They tell me to go back on to the better anti-sickness drugs while I am taking the chemo drugs so that is what I do.  For the next 11 days I pop the pills and dutifully start each day with a health boosting, constipation busting smoothie, packed with raw spinach, fruit and seeds and a bit of yoghurt and juice.  I’d have laughed aloud if you’d told me I’d enjoy anything that looks so repulsive but amazingly I do.  It is refreshing, easy to sip and I’ve no appetite for food.  And this must surely be the most amazing side effect.  I no longer feel queasy, thanks to the anti-emetics, but nor do I want to eat. This is a first for me, I can normally eat under any conditions.  Stressed?  have a snack.  Sad? have a comforting bit of cake.  Happy?  Celebrate with a meal.  There are simply no times when I don’t think a little nibble of something won’t improve things.  Clearly if they could extract the element of these chemo drugs that has this effect, without the poisoning the shit out of your body they’d be making a fortune…  Enough probably to fund research to sort out all our cancer and weight woes!

During the period of taking the chemo I am very tired, I can’t manage without a nap in the day and I’m not getting up to much more than the odd amble out with the dog.  The weather is still really hot and quite humid and seems unlikely to change anytime soon.  I love hot weather normally but this July I yearn for some rain.  Latitude is happening at the weekend.  We’ve got weekend tickets but I have realised I won’t feel up to camping, I’m not one of life’s enthusiastic campers anyway.  But I can bear it at  Latitude as we live near enough that we can bail out should the weather turn really bad. Quite often I just go on day tickets.   This year we had booked tickets  for the whole weekend, the last time our kids would be camping sort of with us and we would be meeting up with friends too.  So I had been looking forward to it, there are some great bands playing, The Killers are headlining the Saturday so I plan to go just for the day on the Saturday.  I can meet my family and friends on site and just enjoy a day of revelry, I can always sleep all the next day.  I can see most of the things I was really hoping to; The Killers, James, Bridget Christie, I can take it easy, not rush around too much.  I can surely manage that.  No, in the event I cannot even make it in for the day.  It’s too hot and I can’t tolerate being in direct heat, the Latitude site is lovely but shade is in pretty short supply.  Despite my enthusiasm, the thought of being out, exposed all day proves too much for me.  It might as well be being held in the Sahara.  Ah well, Ned has a friend without a ticket so I figure it may as well go to him to enjoy, perhaps the karma of giving up the ticket will come in handy!

So I don’t make it to Latitude but with each day I feel increasingly fine.  This is not what I had expected at all.  David and I start to think about what to do with our long summer.  We’ve had to cancel Tanzania on medical advice, all rather gutting but perhaps we can salvage some fun from the holidays.  I call my specialist nurse to say we’re thinking of grabbing a week in Europe I say, would that be okay?  She says no, they wouldn’t want me flying and what if something happened abroad and we had trouble speaking the language?  I feel really dissatisfied by her reasons.  David speaks excellent German and we can get by in French, I’m not being told anything that makes sense to me as to why we can’t go.  Tanzania I could understand but I’ve experience the healthcare service in Europe.  Both my parents died out in Spain and received excellent care.  (They were living in Spain, they didn’t just get unlucky on holidays there!)  I feel mutinous but David is not inclined to discard their advice.  Anyway there are lots of lovely parts of the UK we’ve not seen so we agree to a week in Yorkshire.







Chemo Go Chemo Go Chemo Go… July 2018

The chemo regime begins for me, with the insertion of a Portacath.  A cunning device that will sit below my skin so that intravenous chemo can be piped directly in rather than through a canular which tend to be a problem with me and my tiny deep veins.  The appointment is for 7.30 am which horrifies me as I’m not an early riser but needs must.  David and I arrive about 10 minutes late and I wait, nodding off gently for about 40 mins.  Then they come to do the pre-procedure questionnaire.  They check my name, date of birth then ask me to wait a minute.  They return, apologising profusely.  It seems we were not 10 mins late, rather 24 hours early.  They are too busy to squeeze me in so we agree to return the next day.  I feel, foolishly  I’ve gained a reprieve. To add to this boon, that night England win a penalty shoot out to proceed to the quarter finals – could this be a good sign?

The following day there is no dodging it and we return to the hospital where, despite the early hour the mood is chirpy with chatter of the England win.  I find myself becoming very tearful.  This worsens as I am taken in to the bay,  I have no idea why.  It’s not a difficult, dangerous or painful procedure.  it will last only 30 mins, under local anaesthetic and they are explaining everything to me as it happens.  I try to keep breathing, nice and calmly, deep breaths.  I’ve done this so many times in scans, when the panic starts to rise.  But the tears still come.  This is not about this procedure, this is what it represents and I am overwhelmed by it, overwhelmed by my fear.  Afterwards I wait and they make me a strong sweet tea.  I am shaking uncontrollably but it subsides gradually as the tea kicks in.  I am very relieved to call David to say he can come and get me, I want to go home.  I can’t delay any longer, I’ve avoided it for 15 years but on Friday I will start chemo.

On Friday we head to the Colney Centre, where we’ve been quite often for appointments with Dr. P.  This time though, we won’t be going through the doors to the consulting rooms, today we will go left into the Weybourne Centre, were chemo is administered. When we’re told to take a seat, we grab the two closest to the doors of admittance, like over eager students on the first day of term.  I am weeping, I hope discreetly.  The chap next to David strikes up a conversation.  He is here for his 19th cycle he explains cheerily, he’s now on it for life, as it were.  I feel faintly ridiculous but still can’t get a grip on the waterworks.  Then all of a sudden, I am called, my time has come.  We go through, they are more than happy to let David in with me.

It’s bright and airy inside and we are shown to two really comfy chairs.  They check my Portacath and establish it has settled enough to be used. There’s a bit of pain when they try it the first time, unsuccessfully.  Less so on the second.  And then it’s in.  The source of so much terror for me, drips in, over the next half hour and it’s too late now.  I’m doing this, the treatment of last resort is underway.  While it drips slowly through I observe the man opposite.  He’s not very old, emaciated but he looks happy, chatting with friends and family.  And he’s eating!  Working his way through a sandwich and crisps and I realise I’m ravenous.  As if by magic a Macmillan volunteer pop up offering a sandwich and yes I do want it, I want it very much!  The next step is 5 tiny tablets then we can go home with the third element of the combination therapy to be taken in tablet form for the next 10 days.  I feel suddenly optimistic.  Perhaps I can do this after all.




Appointment with Doom – Feb 2003

I don’t recall how long exactly it took for my biopsy appointment at Addenbrookes to come through, only that it felt like forever.  I felt then (and to my shame still do!) a foolish pride that my referral letter from the N&N described me as a charming 32 year old lady.  I’d never knowingly been described as charming before and I rather liked it.   All I vaguely recall is going to the hospital the evening before the operation and a very kind female doctor shaving patches of my head on one side.  I must have had the operation some time the next day. I don’t even remember how long I stayed in.  But I do remember vividly a conversation I had with the surgeon, I think, following the biopsy.  “I’m generally a very positive person”, I said, “but I do want to try to prepare myself for what’s ahead.”  He took my hand, gave it a gentle squeeze.  “There’s always a treatment”, he replied and I felt very comforted.  Entirely reassured.  Once they knew exactly what it was they were going to deal with it and all would be well again.  I relaxed and went home much happier to wait to be called back for the results.  Again I don’t remember how long this wait was nor how my mood was.  I think all felt okay, the busyness of my everyday life continued though I was not working at all at this stage, my company had me signed off on full pay so I had no financial concerns, something I’m well aware made me far more fortunate than the vast majority in a similar position.

The day came for me to be called for results with the Addenbrookes team.  David was coming with me and for some reason, we decided to make the trip by train, rather than drive.  Just in case the news was bad, we felt it would be better not to be driving.  This was most unlike us.  Perhaps this was our insurance policy – if we are prepared for the worst, the worst won’t happen.  If so, we had gone with the wrong provider.  But a train route had recently opened up between Norwich and Cambridge so we gave it a whirl.  I think we made plans on that journey, of things we do with our garden, planting we’d do, flowers we’d nurture. Planning a future we desperately wanted to be seeing.

We went in to a room and saw a single doctor, a neurosurgeon, quite young, not one I had met when I had my biopsy.  I don’t remember his name.  What was the preamble?  Did he bring up images of my scan?  I don’t think so.  I imagine he told us something about the frozen section not being entirely clear but that it was a grade II/III oligo-astrocytoma in my front parietal lobe. He probably talked about how it was going to affect the motor function on my left side because the right side of the brain controls the left of the body. There was probably other technical information I didn’t take in.  What I did take in was the following words, “It’s inoperable and it’s incurable.”  My world stopped.    I believe he said “I can’t tell you if you’ve got 3 months or 3 years. “, or words to that effect.  I heard nothing after “3 months”.  But there’s always a treatment!  I wanted to scream at him.  The other one promised me, there’s always a treatment.  Much of the rest is a blur, David and I were both sobbing uncontrollably.  The doctor was clearly uncomfortable but I think he told me that I would be feeling anger and be in denial and that he would refer me to Oncology who would discuss next steps.  The journey home was almost unendurable.  It was cold and grey on Cambridge train station and all I could think about was my children and their young lives and that I wasn’t going to watch them grow, I wouldn’t be around to nurture them, be there for them when they were sad or hurting.  That I would be gone, before they even had a chance to create memories of me.

99.9% – Jan 2003

It all began in January 2003.  This was a very happy time in my life, I know it may seem that I have rose-tinted glasses but it really was the best of times.  I had just had Posy, my second child.  I was enjoying a lovely period of maternity leave.  I have a very strong memory of being in the kitchen of my old house, with Ned and Posy, the song “Gorgeous” came on and I danced around singing along.  I think I felt absolutely content with my lot. And why wouldn’t I?  Two beautiful, healthy children.  A loving husband.  A secure home, no real financial pressures. I’d finally had some success with my perennial battle to lose weight and was feeling good about myself.   The only cloud on the horizon was my imminent return to work.  It was a great job, working from home but I’d become less enamoured of it in the period leading up to maternity leave and had been toying with a change though I’d no idea to what.  So if I had any desires for anything different, it was that I was not entirely enthusiastic about resuming my work in a couple of weeks.   Be careful what you wish for.

In early January 2003, Norfolk was hit by a spate of cold, snowy and icy weather.  I was into my final week of maternity leave and my most pressing problem was how to convince Posy to take a bottle, something she had persistently and determinedly refused to do thus far.  My return to work was the following week so in order to push the issue I had decided to leave Posy with Debbie, her brave nanny while I took Ned off into the Norfolk countryside to take him on a rail trip.  The roads and pavement were very icy so in hindsight we were very fortunate, given what subsequently happened.

The weekend brought visitors from London, our good friends Sue and Din with their daughters.  It was a beautiful day, despite the cold so we had planned to go for a walk.  I drove to Bungay for the start of the walk.  We set off, walking and catching up with each other’s news.  David and Sue were slightly ahead, I think with the older children.  Din and I were close behind.  I was carrying Posy in a BabyBjorn carrier, something I loved to do, for the convenience and the closeness they give.  Then I felt momentarily strange, a feeling unlike anything I’d ever experienced.  I had no idea what was going on but I asked Din if he could take Posy for me which he did.

My memory of what happened next is not what actually happened which I find particularly odd as to me it is as vivid as though it happened yesterday. What I remember is a sudden, strong, shooting pain through my left leg and I screamed.  Then nothing until sometime later.  I remember being in hospital though not getting there.  I wasn’t there too long and was discharged that afternoon.  Everyone, it transpires can have a fit for unexplained reasons but I was checked over and was healthy and well.  Good to go.  That evening we all ate the meal I prepared, drank and generally had a lovely evening.  Sue remarked on how astonishing it was that we wouldn’t have expected drinking and being merry at 11 that morning.  Indeed we would not but, as it turned out, that was just the beginning.

The following day they left and we passed a normal quiet Sunday with the children.  I put them to bed about seven in the evening and came down to start preparing supper.  Then I felt it, that same strange feeling I had felt the day before.  But this time I had an idea of what was coming so I shouted up to David that it was happening again and lay myself down on the rug as that seemed a sensible thing to do.  Again, I’ve no memory of the seizure I then had.  The bonus of being the person having a Grand Mal is that you are blissfully unaware of it. For people observing I assume it is probably very distressing and I’m glad I’ve never had to see it happen to someone I love.

I don’t know how long I was out and my next memories are from being back in hospital.  Everything is rather hazy from this time.  I seem to think they said they needed to keep me in for a while and run some tests.  I was distressed and resisted as I needed to be home to look after Ned and Posy.  But they were insistent that some checks were needed.   I don’t recall what I thought was happening to me, everything had happened so suddenly and with no warning.  I suppose I was assuming I had developed epilepsy, something that would be manageable (though it isn’t always and is an unpleasant, terrifying and potentially life threatening condition – not one I would wish for anybody – but I knew little of things neurological then.)   Please don’t worry”, a kindly, well-meaning young doctor said to me.  “99.9% of these cases aren’t brain tumours”.