Time for a new ‘do

It’s been a week of frustration and fear, relief and realisation, mayhem and madness.  SO I decided it was time for a new ‘do.  A do-over; I declare that 2015 officially starts here, now, today.  Happy Friday everyone xx

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TUESDAY: I’m (trying) to buy a house by the sea.  A retreat from the crazy-wonderful city I live in.  It’s not about a permanent move but about having a space to write, to be calm, to spend with friends and family.  It’s about walking on the beach, swimming in the ocean and (importantly) enjoying sundowners in one of the best sundowner spots I’ve ever come across.  It’s about the deal I made with myself last July: I spent a few days post-surgery with a five-year life expectancy hanging over me; I was told to anticipate a stage 2 ovarian cancer diagnosis.  I was very fortunate: I did not have typical ovarian cancer but a borderline ovarian tumour (BOT) – something I was told that there was only around a 10% chance of being diagnosed with. BOTs have an excellent prognosis – normally life expectancy is not affected once treated.  Once my BOT diagnosis came through, and that terrifying, life-limiting prognosis was no longer, I made a silent pact with myself: to ensure that my next five years involve doing a bunch of things I’ve always wanted to do, the kinds of weird things I spent those long, confusing days worrying I’d never have the chance to do.  It’s about a recognition of my own (and all of our) mortality and about celebrating life.  A retreat by the sea – in some formulation – was one of these fantastical things.  And 2015 was (is) the year to make this happen.

In January I found The House, I had my offer accepted, I was granted a bond (mortgage).  A condition on my bond is life insurance.  This week I was denied life insurance on the basis of my BOT diagnosis from last year.  Without being dramatic, this hit me hard – very, very hard; I think it hit me harder than my diagnosis last July, harder than the surgery and was – strangely – far scarier than the days I spent thinking I may not make my 40th birthday.  This was a real slap in the face.  A kick in the teeth.  A punch in my tumour-free abdomen.  I was being told by an anonymous underwriter that I had never met that I was too high risk for my life to be insured.  This sent me into a spin.  I had (have) worked so hard to own and to understand (as best I can) this confusing diagnosis.  I know it’s a misunderstood diagnosis and one that causes confusion but to be basically told that you are too high-risk to insure is pretty hard to swallow.  Fortunately, a second underwriter has now agreed to insure me (different company).  I have to pay higher premiums but it means I can move forward with my bond, with my house, with my retreat.  And my sundowning.

WEDNESDAY:  I had an appointment with a wonderful Johannesburg-based gynae oncologisy consultant (my original consultant is based in London, UK where I was at the time of diagnosis, so I’d been wanting to get someone local). We had a great chat, and she was saying how important it is to be sure to check re. breast cancer as part of my follow-up as there are some linkages (as we all know) with ovarian cancer (OC) etc. Anyway, she gives me full exam and the transvaginal ultrasound is (still) clear so that’s excellent.  She admired my scar, seemed suitably impressed at the skill of my London-Consultant and his surgical decisions (she actually called him “brave”… not sure how I feel about that?!).  She gave be a boob exam and wasn’t happy with my left breast (remember that damn left ovary that started this whole thing off?!?!). So, I went off and had a mammogram and a breast ultrasound (fantastic male sonographer who has specialised solely in breasts for over 20 years). Turns out that there is a lump, it’s over 3cm BUT it’s a benign tumour and NOT cancer-related at all. FFS. Really? Is this really necessary!

It’s what’s called a fibroadenoma so it will need to be removed surgically at some point but no rush. My dear expert-breast-surgeon-friend and soon-to-be-friendly-expert-breast-surgeon said that as I’ve had surgery so recently, we will (as advised by the sonographer) re-scan in 6 months. If it has stayed same size or shrunk we just keep monitoring. If it’s grown, we remove it. Removal is about preventing discomfort/distortion/etc. I do check my breasts and I couldn’t/can’t feel it. I heart my gynae oncologist here for doing the exam and sending me straight off for the mammogram and US.  I’m going to be seeing her every 3 months (rather than the 6 months my London Dude recommended). We’ll do TV US and CA125 (blood test) every 3 months and CT scan – including chest – every 6 months initially. I was quite surprised at how I was able to take the events of Wednesday in my stride: I was obviously concerned but somehow, with all I’ve been through/continue to go through, I felt powerful. I had no problem asking questions and asking for further clarification, etc. So the silver lining for all of us having gone/going through a BOT diagnosis (or any other diagnosis) is that we’re better patients for it.

FRIDAY (today): I flew to the UK last night; I have meetings in London next week.  I arrived tired.  Exhausted from all that had happened earlier in the week, and still drained from the emotions of finding a (albeit benign) tumour in my left breast.  I was looking forward to a weekend chilling out with my parents by the sea.  I picked my suitcase off the carousel to discover it had been broken into; the lock broken and zips wrecked.  I went off to fill in the requisite forms at the less-than-helpful baggage desk.  I got messed around but forms filled, I headed out through customs and straight into the nearest coffee-provider for a fix.  As I paid for my coffee, I was looking for my rucksack – full of my laptop and the like – and realised I had left it at the less-than-helpful baggage desk.  A frustrated, tired, angry self then attempted to be reunited with said rucksack; this was no easy endeavour.  A hysteria fuelled, security-screening, bomb-&-drug-test-swabbing while later I managed to get back into the baggage hall to reclaim my bag and out of the airport, onto the tube, into the train and onwards to sunny Suffolk where I was met by my Mum, drank a bloody mary and got a new ‘do.