ALL CLEAR!
Another year of being in remission is now behind us and I can’t describe the relief.
Thank you, again, to everyone who has supported us in different and kind ways over the past year. We both appreciate it more than anything.
Now I can move forward. Next scan is January 2016 and I hope I find myself here, again, giving you all more good news.
Until then, I hope I have nothing to report on this blog!
Happy 2015.
K x
who doesn’t love a scan of a cat’s ass?
Today is the day before my first annual scan results.
It’s surprisingly easy to experience minutes, sometimes hours if I’m lucky, in a blissful state of cancer-free thoughts. My friends have been crucial in keeping me upright and in a positive frame of mind this week. Today was no exception. I can’t think of any better way to keep my mind firmly lodged into that worry-free state than a snowy cycle up to the disused reservoir with the girls. Cancer, and my impending dread of the results tomorrow were the furthest things from my mind today.
this is what keeps me happy, sane and alive….
Belinda, your face says it all
there’s no cancer in those hills
So, doing exactly the opposite as the sick me would have been doing not long ago, is my big, fat, juicy, sisters-are-doing-for-themselves f*@k you to cancer for another year. And if that doesn’t work, at least we can start the process of beating the crap out of it again. Tomorrow holds the answer.
Thank you, dearest pals, you all know who you are. How could one person be so lucky?
a pre-result selfie
It makes me very happy to have had to blow the dust and cobwebs off my blog as no news usually means good news. Today, I have neutral news to give so I thought it would be a good idea to update you all (if you’re still out there).
After a year of injecting monthly implants into my tummy to keep my ovaries from producing oestrogen, my oncologist finally agreed that it was time for them to go (here’s a photo of me just before my surgery, saying goodbye to some of my injections). My little walnut-sized organs that gave me Abbie and Tate, but also fed my cancer, are now gone, along with one fallopian tube (it was easier to remove than the other one so he just left it, according to my surgeon – hmmmm). Now I’m asymmetrical down below. Alan said that I wouldn’t be able to ride my bike without always pulling to the right and suggested I tape some stringy cheese to my left side when I ride to help keep me balanced.
It was an easy surgery for me (I was fast asleep and the last voice I heard was the anesthesiologist’s telling me that my gin and tonic had just been injected and that was the end of that). All went well, apart from needing fluids to get my blood-pressure back up and I was sent home that night which was very, very good.
Now I have three holes in my tummy, one in my belly button (ouch) and two on either side which are a little sore.
I hope this surgery gives me a better chance of keeping the cancer at bay. I have my annual scan mid-January which I’m pretty anxious about. I’ll let you know what the results are then.
Here’s what an oophorectomy looks like (what’s up with the lack of pubes?) which helps explain why my belly button is sore and my stomach is bloated – they pump it up with air so they can see what they’re doing.
I really hope I can bring good news to you in January, lovely friends and family. Until then, have a Happy Christmas and New Year.
Bye-Bye, Ovaries x
Ali and Isobel – you rock my world. Thank you for walking the Moonwalk when I wasn’t yet able to do it myself, for getting down to your bra in public and walking your little, cute asses off through the night. I am more than proud of you both.
And all this was done to raise money for breast cancer research who can’t function without people like YOU who donated so generously to our page. I can’t tell you how much every penny was appreciated. I tentatively raised our final goal from £300 to £3000 and we’ve passed that by £68.30. I’m so grateful. You are all fabulous!
Thank you, a million times, to each and every one of you.
Krissy x
Hello, lovely readers – are you all still there?
I’m here to ask you to help me squeeze cancer’s balls a little bit harder than I did last year by donating some of your money to my Moonwalk page. Two of my besties, Ali and Isobel are taking themselves and their boobies to the pavements of London on 10th May to raise money which will help a lot of girls like me live longer (and I want to live longer).
Here’s the link:
https://moonwalklondon2014.everydayhero.com/uk/team-ali-and-isobel-blogaboutaboob
and I won’t say anymore that my blog hasn’t already except:
Thank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank youThank you
Thank you. x
This month I had the first of many scans to come. It was good news. No new scars were found anywhere on my bones, which we were warned may be the case, so we know the cancer hasn’t spread past my neck bone. Fabulous news.
It’s been a year since I was first diagnosed and I’ve now had time to reflect, however painful it is, on what we’ve been through. I’m pretty raw and could easily cry if I delve too deep into memories of the past 12 months. I’m not sure which mental stage I’m in right now. Denial? Anger? Disbelief? I’m definitely grieving over something lost but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I love this image – she’s got my figure.
I’m avoiding thinking about the next scan in July when I’ll be pushed to jump to the next stepping stone, knowing yet another visual invasion of my insides is to come which may or may not bring bad news.
I’m trying to live in the moment, live better, slower, happier and braver. An integral part of this healing process has been riding my bike. Cycling gives my poor brain relief from the worry and black thoughts of my mortality. Although I’ve always enjoyed it, it now seems a pure necessity to keep my head above water. Every small technical accomplishment on a trail is a little F-YOU to cancer, every hill peddled up huffing and puffing is a step further away from my former chemo saturated self. I can’t thank my cycling girls enough for all the laughs and the time spent on our bikes. Ali (my riding partner since day one who will listen to me yap until her ears bleed), Dee (who has come out of nowhere on to the biking scene with balls of steel – the champagne was a stroke of genius – love you), Susan (who will happily ride whenever and wherever, whatever the weather and always with a big smile on her face) and Emma and Tracy (truly inspirational riders and great friends). So, girls, thank you for keeping me on two wheels, my mind on better things and the champagne flowing.
We’ve made it.
With the love, support and laughter from our incredible friends and family, we were able to put 2013 behind us.
It would have been impossible to end this year this healthy if it weren’t for my two oncologists, my fabulous oncology nurses, the radiotherapy nurses, my surgeon and the very much appreciated but unkown blood donors who made sure I was able to continue my chemotherapy (you wonderful, wonderful people).
This New Year’s celebrations proved incredibly therapeutic thanks to Dee and Dave’s bonfire where I was given the chance to burn this little black box that represented my cancer and the turbulent ride we’ve endured over the past year. Inside it I had placed some images of my tumour, a big scream (I shut it very quickly after so it couldn’t escape) and a list of things Abbie also wanted to forget from the year we’ve just put behind us. Thank you so much to the Hollingsbee family – you are incredibly special to us.
Life after treatment has been about living. I can’t say its been easy all the time, but all things considered, we’ve given it a good go and I’ve managed to have moments where I’m my old self again, I momentarily stop worrying about the cancer coming back and I speak to my friends without the subject of cancer popping up.
Other times it’s difficult. I’m hypersensititve to anything cancer or death related, sad stories, sad songs, our future, my girls’ future, and other people dying from cancer (I feel the need to know every single depressing detail so I can calculate and compare my own prognosis to theirs which is an impossible task and not helpful in the slightest). It’s tiring and stressful. I’ve tried group counselling but I quit after one session. Every person there seemed so negative that I became angry because, on paper, they weren’t as ‘sick’ as me. I wanted to throttle them out of jealousy and slap them for being such whiners. I know it’s not fair to judge others and their situations but when I listened to someone in the group complain that he couldn’t face moving on after having a malignant mole removed from his back it was all I could do not stand up and tell them to all get an f-ing grip.
So, that was that for group therapy.
I should be feeling nothing but happiness and relief now. I’ve lost the scaffolding of my treatment (however miserable, it was almost guaranteed the cancer was under control at that moment in time) but I’m now in free-fall, not knowing when and where the cancer will return. I have time to reflect on what happened, whereas before I was on survival mode auto-pilot.
Everything has changed. I have to adjust to the new me. I’ll never have the luxury of not having cancer. It’s always going to be part of me. I’m going to have to learn to live with uncertainty and that’s hard to accept.
So, in light of this, we have begun to live life again starting with my very dearest friend Damon visiting us from California (thank you for coming to Scotland again and your never-ending support), a trip to New York in December (which was brillant and I had my hair bleached while there – one step closer to the old me), Alan has designed a studio/shed for me which will be complete in a few weeks so I can start painting again, I’m back on my bike and getting physically stronger and I’m surrounding myself with people I love. These are my first steps back from a life-changing year.
The next milestone will be a scan this month. No date yet but I’m already freaked. The oncologist has mentioned that they may find more spots on my bones where the cancer was too small to show up before but has now developed into scar tissue from the chemo. This worries me as it will give us an idea of how much it may have spread beyond my 7th vertebrae. Let’s hope for a clear scan. I know it wil help me in the process of moving on.
I’ll definitely continue to update my blog when I have scans (which will be every 6 months) but no news is good news so if you don’t hear from me it means I’m busy doing anything and everything non-cancer related.
Here are a few photos of me living and loving….
Hello, lovely readers. I’m back from a much needed break from blogging (maybe you needed it too) and still have no real news as radiotherapy has been much kinder to me than the chemo so I’ve had no exciting, hideous, horrifying, vomit fueled stories to tell.
Burnie has done exactly as he promised – burnt my skin nicely. Under my boob and on my chest have been hit the hardest but it’s not bad – just itchy and red. I’ve got one slightly tanned nipple which is interesting. I’ve taken a photo of my chest (I’ve spared you the money shot) but the redness hardly shows up on it. Today was my last day of the general boob, chest radiotherapy.
Tomorrow I start the ‘booster’ week which involves another machine that only targets the tumour bed so my chest will be spared. I thought I would be finished this Friday but I will have treatment next week as well due to the machine having a day off so the physicists can check it’s working properly. This is annoying as I’m planning on a weekend away with my girls this Friday to properly celebrate the end of an f-ing bull honkey few months of treatment. Now I’ll have to crawl back to that depressing cancer centre a couple more times than I had expected. Hopefully I’ll be going back with a proper post-celebratory hang-over.
A few people have mentioned how quickly the past 4+ weeks have gone by – not for me. I’m counting down the days and drawing a line through each session I’ve completed on the appointment card that hangs on the fridge. There’s something very satisfying in that simple, therapeutic action.
Feeling tired is another symptom of radiotherapy and I’m no exception. It hit me week two (as warned) and it will continue up to 6 weeks after the treatment ends. I’m still trying to ride my bike but easily duck out when I’m feeling not-so-energetic. I’m assured that this too shall pass.
My hair continues to grow and my worst fear, that in a cruel twist of fate the cold cap doesn’t really work and I lose it all, hasn’t come to fruition. Here are photos taken today and I’m going to openly admit that it looks fabulous. I’m always the first to criticise my physical self but I can’t find anything but pure gorgeousness in this head of hair. After being bald, having any length of hair equals just plain happiness. My chemo curls (yes, there is an official name for it) will one day go but for now, I’m enjoying having curls for once in my life.
Unfortunately my eyelashes and eyebrows are taking a little longer to grow back to their original fullness than they did last time. I’m wondering why and hoping they pick up the pace soon.
That’s all my cancer-related news. Thanks for reading theblogaboutaboob. I’m very lucky to have so many nice people who care enough to continue to read about my burnt nipples, scars, burns, baldness, puking, feeling low, feeling high and being pissed off about the things life has thrown at my family and me this year. Let’s hope, beyond all hope, that next year gives us a much deserved break and that those 10 blasts of chemo, a life-time of various drugs, 25 zaps of radiotherapy, positive attitude and the incredible support from Alan (officially the best husband, person, father, friend I could ask for), and my family and friends will help keep this awful disease away for as long as possible.
Here are some random photos from last week…
Tate absolutely rocking the cancer chic look
halloween
dear little Badger
Day one of radiotherapy is complete. A major milestone getting this far. I can’t believe we’ve finally made it to this point.
Today, I lay on a mechanical bed with my arms up, being shuffled about by three radiographers while they read out lots of measurements and tickled me (again) with pens and cold hands. I was left alone in the room to be cooked a little by a very impressive machine while ‘Fever’ by Peggy Lee played, keeping me company. Strange. The tiredness and burnt skin are in the post but I’m not worried, I know I’ve been through the worst with chemo.
Here’s my machine. I’m nicknaming it ‘Burnie’. It moves around me coming close, moving away, turning on its side, almost touching me while white, plastic pads slide in and out from somewhere below (I couldn’t move to see exactly where or why they appeared). It took 10 minutes and I was done.
I’m feeling brilliant. I’ve been out on my road bike, mountain bike and in the forest running (slowly). I’ve missed feeling sore the day after exercising and have embraced the aching legs and tiredness (from physical activity, rather than toxic drugs).
19 more visits to Burnie and we will be celebrating the end of a long year of treatment and successfully making cancer my bitch. I’m still smiling (most of the time), I’ve still got my boob, my hair, my sense of humour is still intact and my body has proved itself to be completely awesome. I have a new respect for it now that I’ve seen how it coped with such an onslaught of treatment over the last few months.
I have a feeling there won’t be much to report over the next few weeks but I may expose you to a photo or two of my burns when they make an appearance (aren’t you excited?). I’d then like to close this chapter of my life and the blog and forget about it for awhile- taking a well deserved cancer holiday.
I’m still taking it all in. I’m trying to absorb the fact that I’m finished with chemo or, at the very least, I’ve earned my chemo holiday. It’s all about healing from here on out. I won’t be jabbed with a cannula or popping steroids next week. Getting back in shape, eating better (ending my sugar addiction) and trying to focus on living and looking forward, rather than hugging my knees in a corner, waiting for the cancer to return.
I will admit that its not been an easy ride this month. Feeling blue, fed up, pissed off and sick have been the focus of my attention. I could not have got through it without my friends who have really pulled out the stops for this last one. The acts of kindness and support have been countless. I allowed myself to accept the support that I continually tried to refuse throughout my treatment. Some of this was due to the fact that Alan was in China for my last chemo but mostly because I had to let go of the reins out of sheer mental and physical exhaustion. What amazing things happen when you let go and allow friends to take over. I pushed aside the habitual feelings of guilt and enjoyed the fact that I’m lucky enough to know and love these people. Debra – the Cocoa Black cake was fabulous and I couldn’t have said it better myself….
10 was full of mixed emotions. Feelings of being out of control of the situation forced me to do things like insist to my friend Dee, who was my support system for this one, that I drive my own car to the hospital. Weird, I know, but it made me feel better that I was driving myself and because Dee is the best, she went along with it. My friend, Elodie, spent the night to make sure I was okay (thank you) and Susan and Charlotte were there to continually check in on me over the next two days (and make me laugh, cook nice things for me, drop off magazines and be generally wonderful) and Vanessa, who spent an entire day helping me unpack boxes (thank you) until Alan arrived back home – and what a sight for sore eyes he was.
You all know the drill – the rest of the week was spent feeling shit, talking to Badger like a crazy person in an empty house and looking pale. And here I am, for hopefully the last time, having the usual post-chemo cuddle – I’m sure you’ve seen enough of these, but they illustrate the chemo fog/man’s best friend moments so accurately that I feel the need to include them.
Two days ago I went to the hospital to be set up for my radiotherapy which will start on the 7th October. I was scanned, marked with red pens, tickled on my ribs and sent home. I have three cute pink pin-prick tattoos which I’ll wear with pride (more imperfections to add to my collection) – one on my sternum and one on either side of my ribcage which will will help the radiotherapist line me up to the machine each day. I’m looking forward to this next phase of treatment. My Christmas present to myself this year will be The Year 2013, put inside a box, wrapped in black paper and topped with a black satin ribbon. I’ll take that box and ceremoniously toss it into the wintery North Sea and say goodbye to the worst and best year of our lives. We’re almost there, the end is in sight.
Tonight I meet my oncologist. I always hate these appointments but I have to go. My latest fear is that she’ll tell me they’ve found something when they scanned me for the radiotherapy but, as my friend Lindsay explained, “You’re so pumped full of chemo right now it would be impossible to have any cancer growing in there.” Thank you – I’m sure you’re right.
theblogaboutaboob 