Listen up, everyone with melanoma. You will be delighted to learn some breaking news. Skin cancer, it turns out, is "not real cancer". I have this on excellent authority from the new girl at work who is replacing me for six weeks. I met her today and I feel rather stupid. There was me thinking she was here as a temp to take over my project, when all along she is secretly the world's foremost cancer specialist, with knowledge that no other person has.
Within five minutes of meeting me, she was telling me she likes her boyfriend but hates that he's vegetarian (hi!). Within ten minutes, she told me that her mum, dad and grandma all have cancer. Her mum and gran have colon cancer, which is really serious and has made her gran quite unwell. Her, dad, on the other hand "only has skin cancer so it's not like it's real cancer or anything".
Phew. Aren't you relieved?
I can't wait to let the surgeon know when I go in on Monday for my lymphadenectomy. Those silly doctors. All this time, they have been treating people and doing operations when it turns out it's not real cancer. Doh!
Let me put it this way for anyone in doubt: if chemotherapy drugs worked on this type of cancer, I would be offered them. They would make me bald and sickly. Would that make you take it seriously?
Friday, 30 March 2012
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
CT Scan
I had my pre-op yesterday morning at Whiston then it was over to St Helens for the CT scan to check for any other metastasised tumours. Unlike TV medical shows, where they get the results there and then, it seems I will have to wait until at least next week and possibly two weeks for mine. The nurse and radiologist didn't give me any horrified looks as they released me so I don't imagine I am riddled with tumours or anything. Back to waiting.
Me being me, I like to know in advance what every procedure is for and what to expect. Part of the reason I started this blog is that most first-hand accounts of melanoma seem to be from America where the healthcare system and subsequently the treatments offered are different to those in the UK which are received on the NHS. When I queried why, I was told that the hospitals get by on billing huge amounts (e.g. thousands of dollars per scan) to the private health insurance companies so American patients are often given treatments as standard which in the UK would be considered either unnecessary or only offered as part of a clinical trial. An example of this is an immunotherapy drug called interferon which anyone researching melanoma will find pops up a lot. In the UK, it isn't offered as standard because the results are not conclusive enough to justify the cost.
Anyway, I digress. I looked into what would happen during the CT scan and came across some horror stories. I am not easily frightened so I paid them no attention, but some people might be worried so hopefully I can put their minds at ease by saying it was nothing at all to worry about there's nothing to it:
Prior to arriving, I had to fast for 4 hours and only drink clear liquids. Then 90 minutes before the scan I had to drink 2 pints of water as fast as possible to ensure the clearest view of my innards. On arrival, I was asked to drink another two glasses of water then change into the beautiful patterned robes that all hospitals seem to rock. I still haven't got the hang of tying them - I never seem to do it right and end up with either my backside hanging out or it all twisted up. After I got changed, I was taken into the scan room which is basically a room with the big CT machine in the middle similar to this (I couldn't take a photo because my phone was with my clothes):
The nurse put a cannula in my wrist:
It would normally go into the arm but my one good vein had been used that morning for a blood test. I won't lie and say it was painless - it hurt a fair bit more than usual although apparently either my "skin is like leather or the needle is blunt!". Either way, the pain doesn't last too long so if you hate needles, just don't look. I used to loathe them and got very jittery and nervous when I gave blood, but it's like anything - do it often enough and the fear dissipates.
Once the cannula was in, I was put through the machine a few times to set the scanner up to take images. As you go through it, an American voice tells you periodically to hold your breath. I was worried at first as I win the record for being the crappest person on earth at this. I have the lung capacity of an earthworm (yes, I know they don't have lungs!) and I think the record for holding my breath currently stands at 22 seconds - this was after I went into a public toilet where somebody had expelled their previous day's food in a very obvious and obnoxious manner.
Anyway, you only have to hold your breath for 10 seconds at a time and the scanner has a countdown plus an image either of someone smiling or puffing out their cheeks with a frown - presumably they'd been in the same disgusting toilet I had been in. Once you've been through a couple of times, a contrast liquid is injected through the cannula. The nurse will warn you in advance that it sends a hot flush through your body. It wasn't a pleasant sensation and some people apparently feel like they've wet themselves - the heat mimics warm urine. The worst part for me was the metallic taste I got in my mouth, which lasted for about an hour after. It's not unbearable by any means, just a bit like you've licked some old money. After that, you're immediately zipped forwards and backwards through the scanner again and then you're done. I had read it can take half an hour, and given that I was having a thorax, abdomen and pelvis scan I thought I'd be in there ages. But I was in and out within 10 minutes. Then, the cannula is taken out and you're done.
I wonder how much I've cost the NHS now?
Also, I am downloading TV series' in preparation for my boring recuperation.
Me being me, I like to know in advance what every procedure is for and what to expect. Part of the reason I started this blog is that most first-hand accounts of melanoma seem to be from America where the healthcare system and subsequently the treatments offered are different to those in the UK which are received on the NHS. When I queried why, I was told that the hospitals get by on billing huge amounts (e.g. thousands of dollars per scan) to the private health insurance companies so American patients are often given treatments as standard which in the UK would be considered either unnecessary or only offered as part of a clinical trial. An example of this is an immunotherapy drug called interferon which anyone researching melanoma will find pops up a lot. In the UK, it isn't offered as standard because the results are not conclusive enough to justify the cost.
Anyway, I digress. I looked into what would happen during the CT scan and came across some horror stories. I am not easily frightened so I paid them no attention, but some people might be worried so hopefully I can put their minds at ease by saying it was nothing at all to worry about there's nothing to it:
Prior to arriving, I had to fast for 4 hours and only drink clear liquids. Then 90 minutes before the scan I had to drink 2 pints of water as fast as possible to ensure the clearest view of my innards. On arrival, I was asked to drink another two glasses of water then change into the beautiful patterned robes that all hospitals seem to rock. I still haven't got the hang of tying them - I never seem to do it right and end up with either my backside hanging out or it all twisted up. After I got changed, I was taken into the scan room which is basically a room with the big CT machine in the middle similar to this (I couldn't take a photo because my phone was with my clothes):
The nurse put a cannula in my wrist:
It would normally go into the arm but my one good vein had been used that morning for a blood test. I won't lie and say it was painless - it hurt a fair bit more than usual although apparently either my "skin is like leather or the needle is blunt!". Either way, the pain doesn't last too long so if you hate needles, just don't look. I used to loathe them and got very jittery and nervous when I gave blood, but it's like anything - do it often enough and the fear dissipates.
Once the cannula was in, I was put through the machine a few times to set the scanner up to take images. As you go through it, an American voice tells you periodically to hold your breath. I was worried at first as I win the record for being the crappest person on earth at this. I have the lung capacity of an earthworm (yes, I know they don't have lungs!) and I think the record for holding my breath currently stands at 22 seconds - this was after I went into a public toilet where somebody had expelled their previous day's food in a very obvious and obnoxious manner.
Anyway, you only have to hold your breath for 10 seconds at a time and the scanner has a countdown plus an image either of someone smiling or puffing out their cheeks with a frown - presumably they'd been in the same disgusting toilet I had been in. Once you've been through a couple of times, a contrast liquid is injected through the cannula. The nurse will warn you in advance that it sends a hot flush through your body. It wasn't a pleasant sensation and some people apparently feel like they've wet themselves - the heat mimics warm urine. The worst part for me was the metallic taste I got in my mouth, which lasted for about an hour after. It's not unbearable by any means, just a bit like you've licked some old money. After that, you're immediately zipped forwards and backwards through the scanner again and then you're done. I had read it can take half an hour, and given that I was having a thorax, abdomen and pelvis scan I thought I'd be in there ages. But I was in and out within 10 minutes. Then, the cannula is taken out and you're done.
I wonder how much I've cost the NHS now?
Also, I am downloading TV series' in preparation for my boring recuperation.
Sunday, 25 March 2012
Nightmare on C Street
I am starting to fear bedtime because of what my head will throw at me. I've always had nightmares in times of stress and this is no different. Whilst I am coping fine consciously, my subconscious is clearly being left to deal with all the anxiety, worry and fear of future results and it seems to deal best in the form of nightmares. Not the sweating, tossing and turning type, just the sort that leave you feeling hugely grateful when you wake up and realise it was a dream.
I have just woken from a pleasant little episode where Armageddon struck. Huge floods were wiping out my loved ones and the rest of the world. Normal people turned into murderers and looters. I had to make it across town to save the animals that people had abandoned whilst people shot at me and tsunamis almost killed me. I started growing vines in my mouth out of my gums, thin green swaying vines filled with blood that I had to chew off before they choked me. Each time I chewed one my mouth filled with blood and my teeth came loose and broke apart.
When I woke up I could taste blood where I was biting my skin off as I slept, and my teeth ache as though I have been grinding them hard in my sleep.
I wish it was just a one-off but I've been having them for about two months, perhaps 5 times a week. Not always as bad as this one, which has prompted me to note it down, but severe enough that I feel permanently tired and unrested. Ah well.
Today we are off to see a local woodland burial ground that I found last week when I planned my funeral. Not because I think I'm about to die, although this has been a wake up call. It's just one of those things that I feel a lot better for doing, and it wasn't anywhere near as morbid as it sounds; in fact it was quite freeing to plan it the way I would like it. The burial ground is where I think I'd like to be laid in but I may as well go and check it out to be sure. It reminds me of an old lady I once saw in the Pere Lechaise cemetery in Paris. She was tending to (what I presume was) her husband's grave but the headstone had room for her on it. At the time, being in my early 20's and feeling invincible, I thought it was weird to know and even think about your funeral but as I've got older and more practical I have seen the benefits in being foreplanned.
The final thing to note is that I told my other best friend yesterday. He didn't take the news well, which reminded me why I haven't told people. I can't deal with their emotions as well as my own. He will hopefully come and see me in hospital and whilst I'm recuperating at home though so at least I won't be as bored.
I have just woken from a pleasant little episode where Armageddon struck. Huge floods were wiping out my loved ones and the rest of the world. Normal people turned into murderers and looters. I had to make it across town to save the animals that people had abandoned whilst people shot at me and tsunamis almost killed me. I started growing vines in my mouth out of my gums, thin green swaying vines filled with blood that I had to chew off before they choked me. Each time I chewed one my mouth filled with blood and my teeth came loose and broke apart.
When I woke up I could taste blood where I was biting my skin off as I slept, and my teeth ache as though I have been grinding them hard in my sleep.
I wish it was just a one-off but I've been having them for about two months, perhaps 5 times a week. Not always as bad as this one, which has prompted me to note it down, but severe enough that I feel permanently tired and unrested. Ah well.
Today we are off to see a local woodland burial ground that I found last week when I planned my funeral. Not because I think I'm about to die, although this has been a wake up call. It's just one of those things that I feel a lot better for doing, and it wasn't anywhere near as morbid as it sounds; in fact it was quite freeing to plan it the way I would like it. The burial ground is where I think I'd like to be laid in but I may as well go and check it out to be sure. It reminds me of an old lady I once saw in the Pere Lechaise cemetery in Paris. She was tending to (what I presume was) her husband's grave but the headstone had room for her on it. At the time, being in my early 20's and feeling invincible, I thought it was weird to know and even think about your funeral but as I've got older and more practical I have seen the benefits in being foreplanned.
The final thing to note is that I told my other best friend yesterday. He didn't take the news well, which reminded me why I haven't told people. I can't deal with their emotions as well as my own. He will hopefully come and see me in hospital and whilst I'm recuperating at home though so at least I won't be as bored.
Friday, 23 March 2012
All shall be well
Lately, for some reason, I keep seeing this quote:
All shall be well
and all shall be well
and all manner of thing shall be well.
Thanks Julian. I don't believe in fate or fortune so I am not reading anything into it. I think it's like when you buy a new car and suddenly you see them everywhere. My brain is simply looking for signs that all shall be well because bugger me if I'm not getting fed up with this now. I went to see my dermatologist, Dr Stewart, on Tuesday - really lovely lady - who had a good look at me and found three moles she thinks should be removed and biopsied because they have lost pigmentation in the middle. All on my legs, two on the left and one on the right about 2 inches below the wide local incision scar. Uh oh. They may be taken off during the lymphadenectomy but I semi-hope they do it at a later date so I have at least one good leg in use at all times. I wonder if this experience will ever be over.
In visiting the dermatologist at Leigh Infirmary (I am under the care of three hospitals currently) I stopped in to see my best friend who lives very close to it. He asked me outright why I was in the area on a school day and, not wanting to lie to him, ended up telling the truth. The look on his face was confirmation that I don't want to tell anyone else. I wish I could take it back and untell him. I don't want people I love to feel sad on my behalf and I don't want this to be the way they see me. He did say he'd come and see me in hospital though, so that's one good thing to come out of it.
Here is an update on the wound progress for those who are wondering. They've healed very well and are just a bit lumpy. Slight pain in cancer leg's calf where it got infected and still has a scab on it but other than that, all well and good:
WLE:
In other news I am doing a new battery hen rescue at the end of the month. Hooray! I deliberately asked for the surgery to be after this date so I can get those little lives saved. That means more to me than anything. This is my little Angel. She was hanging onto life by a thread when she was rescued and I didn't think she'd make it. She really is a brave little girl and I don't have the words to fully express the strength of love and protection I feel for this cheerful little chicken who has been so abused:
All shall be well
and all shall be well
and all manner of thing shall be well.
Thanks Julian. I don't believe in fate or fortune so I am not reading anything into it. I think it's like when you buy a new car and suddenly you see them everywhere. My brain is simply looking for signs that all shall be well because bugger me if I'm not getting fed up with this now. I went to see my dermatologist, Dr Stewart, on Tuesday - really lovely lady - who had a good look at me and found three moles she thinks should be removed and biopsied because they have lost pigmentation in the middle. All on my legs, two on the left and one on the right about 2 inches below the wide local incision scar. Uh oh. They may be taken off during the lymphadenectomy but I semi-hope they do it at a later date so I have at least one good leg in use at all times. I wonder if this experience will ever be over.
In visiting the dermatologist at Leigh Infirmary (I am under the care of three hospitals currently) I stopped in to see my best friend who lives very close to it. He asked me outright why I was in the area on a school day and, not wanting to lie to him, ended up telling the truth. The look on his face was confirmation that I don't want to tell anyone else. I wish I could take it back and untell him. I don't want people I love to feel sad on my behalf and I don't want this to be the way they see me. He did say he'd come and see me in hospital though, so that's one good thing to come out of it.
Here is an update on the wound progress for those who are wondering. They've healed very well and are just a bit lumpy. Slight pain in cancer leg's calf where it got infected and still has a scab on it but other than that, all well and good:
WLE:
Lymph node removal:
In other news I am doing a new battery hen rescue at the end of the month. Hooray! I deliberately asked for the surgery to be after this date so I can get those little lives saved. That means more to me than anything. This is my little Angel. She was hanging onto life by a thread when she was rescued and I didn't think she'd make it. She really is a brave little girl and I don't have the words to fully express the strength of love and protection I feel for this cheerful little chicken who has been so abused:
Thursday, 15 March 2012
A spanner in the works?
Whilst I was trying to map out where on my leg the scar will be, I found a small lump in my groin. I'm certain it's an enlarged lymph node; the question is what is making it enlarged. Whilst I am fairly optimistic and laid-back about all this cancer malarky, even I will admit that I am getting worried now. It's about the size of a lentil, solid but moveable and in the crease where cancer leg meets my body. It doesn't hurt. I emailed Rachel, the Macmillan nurse, and she phoned me back the next day. She spoke with Mr Brackley and they've agreed it should be looked at when I go in for the pre-op. Either way it will be coming out but I am terrified that it will break off and go joyriding round my body, merrily planting its cancery cells wherever it sees fit. This is the first time I have felt actually afraid since all of this began.
I now have dates for things too. The CT is March 27th and the operation is April 2nd. I had a letter this morning asking me to book my 3-month check up with the dermatologist so she can have a look at all the other moles. Please let there be no more cancerous ones...
Saturday, 10 March 2012
Feelings and all that.
I'm a lot better dealing with facts and information than with feelings. That's why I am finding it hard to say how I feel, because in all honestly I don't really know myself. I think today is the first time I have properly felt down about all of this.
Anybody who knows me can testify that I am not prone to self-pity, and I don't allow things like illness to affect me. I've been known to work a 16-hour day with occasional bathroom breaks to vomit when I've had food poisoning. So my emotions today have taken me by surprise.
When the results came through on Tuesday, I was a little bit tearful but I went out that night with friends to watch a Derren Brown show and had a great time. Today is the first day since then that I've not had work or social things to distract me. And I feel really depressed and a little bit angry and tired of other people. I've just got back from having lunch with my best friend; usually a great pick-me-up. But I didn't enjoy it and left as soon as I could. It doesn't help everybody seems to be complaining about trivial things. My friend's shoe was rubbing him and he has a blister. My husband (currently in Austria for two weeks) has a cold and feels rotten. Every shitting person on Facebook is at it too: tree pollen gives me headaches, my ears are blocked, wah wah wah.
Part of me wants to yell, boo hoo, I sodding well wish a blister or a cold or tree pollen was the only thing I have to worry about. Even when the infection had set into my burst stitches and my leg wouldn't stop bleeding and I was in so much pain I had to go downstairs on my arse, even then I didn't moan the way some people do. But, I will not be that person who always brings cancer up and makes people feel bad about it. I resent myself for even writing this whiny crap but I promised myself when I started this blog that I wouldn't edit out the bits I didn't like, or edit it to put myself in a favourable light. My feelings are my problem and I need to find a way to get over them without putting them onto other people.
To make myself feel better, ironically, I started working out some statistics but they ended up just made me feel worse because it was there in black and white what crappy luck I have had so far:
(Stats from various sources)
11,000 melanoma cases are diagnosed each year in the UK. Of those, around 5,000 are intermediate-depth (1-3mm thick) and suitable for sentinel lymph node biopsy. Of those 5,000, around 850 will come back positive for cancer cells in the lymph node. I am one of those 850 people. In a country of 62 million people, that is some pretty shitty luck. I've never even sunbathed. There is no reason for this to be happening other than just being one of those things. I have nothing to blame.
On the bright side, there is a 5% chance that any of the other lymph nodes contain cancer, and I feel fine physically. I am not ill, don't feel ill, don't look ill. To many cancer patients, I AM the person with the blister or the cold so I need to stop feeling down and start counting my blessings. I've been so far away in my head today that my usually excellent driving has been atrocious. I realised at one point I was doing 105mph on the motorway without noticing. I need to pull myself together.
Cancer is a problem that needs to be fixed so I can move on to the next thing, that is all.
Anybody who knows me can testify that I am not prone to self-pity, and I don't allow things like illness to affect me. I've been known to work a 16-hour day with occasional bathroom breaks to vomit when I've had food poisoning. So my emotions today have taken me by surprise.
When the results came through on Tuesday, I was a little bit tearful but I went out that night with friends to watch a Derren Brown show and had a great time. Today is the first day since then that I've not had work or social things to distract me. And I feel really depressed and a little bit angry and tired of other people. I've just got back from having lunch with my best friend; usually a great pick-me-up. But I didn't enjoy it and left as soon as I could. It doesn't help everybody seems to be complaining about trivial things. My friend's shoe was rubbing him and he has a blister. My husband (currently in Austria for two weeks) has a cold and feels rotten. Every shitting person on Facebook is at it too: tree pollen gives me headaches, my ears are blocked, wah wah wah.
Part of me wants to yell, boo hoo, I sodding well wish a blister or a cold or tree pollen was the only thing I have to worry about. Even when the infection had set into my burst stitches and my leg wouldn't stop bleeding and I was in so much pain I had to go downstairs on my arse, even then I didn't moan the way some people do. But, I will not be that person who always brings cancer up and makes people feel bad about it. I resent myself for even writing this whiny crap but I promised myself when I started this blog that I wouldn't edit out the bits I didn't like, or edit it to put myself in a favourable light. My feelings are my problem and I need to find a way to get over them without putting them onto other people.
To make myself feel better, ironically, I started working out some statistics but they ended up just made me feel worse because it was there in black and white what crappy luck I have had so far:
(Stats from various sources)
11,000 melanoma cases are diagnosed each year in the UK. Of those, around 5,000 are intermediate-depth (1-3mm thick) and suitable for sentinel lymph node biopsy. Of those 5,000, around 850 will come back positive for cancer cells in the lymph node. I am one of those 850 people. In a country of 62 million people, that is some pretty shitty luck. I've never even sunbathed. There is no reason for this to be happening other than just being one of those things. I have nothing to blame.
On the bright side, there is a 5% chance that any of the other lymph nodes contain cancer, and I feel fine physically. I am not ill, don't feel ill, don't look ill. To many cancer patients, I AM the person with the blister or the cold so I need to stop feeling down and start counting my blessings. I've been so far away in my head today that my usually excellent driving has been atrocious. I realised at one point I was doing 105mph on the motorway without noticing. I need to pull myself together.
Cancer is a problem that needs to be fixed so I can move on to the next thing, that is all.
Friday, 9 March 2012
Here Comes the Science (or why chemo won't work for me)
When people talk about finding the cure for cancer, it's a bit of a misnomer. Cancer is not one illness; rather it is a collection of illnesses which are all different, with the common factor that they involve unwanted and damaging cell growth, starting with one cell that has gone 'wrong'. That one cell divides into two cells and then four and then eight and so on, resulting in a collection of cells called a tumour. Each cancer is different and people tend to think their common name simply describes the part of the body on which it occurs - lung cancer, skin cancer, brain cancer and so on. But what people don't realise is that each type of cancer has its own cells, all of which have their own unique structure and behaviour. The differences between them determine the type of treatment.
Take chemotherapy. It works by impairing cell division so it has the biggest effect on cells which divide fast. These include testicular cancer cells, leukaemia cancer cells, cervical cancer cells and lymphoma cells (interestingly this is why chemo makes people lose their hair - hair cells divide quickly). Melanoma cells, on the other hand, are not quick dividers so won't respond well to chemotherapy drugs. For this reason, chemo is not considered a suitable treatment for melanoma (although many clinical trials are underway which use chemo, radiotherapy, immunotherapy, other treatments and combinations thereof).
What is a good treatment, then? At the moment, the best option for stage 3 melanoma is good old-fashioned surgery. Cut it out with wide margins of skin, and hope it doesn't come back. If it's metastasised to the lymph nodes, cut them out too.
When melanoma cells break off, travel through the body and set up in, say, the lungs, it is not lung cancer. It is secondary melanoma - that is, the cells that are now growing in the lung are melanoma cells. They behave and respond the same way all melanoma cells do, regardless of where they are. So secondary melanoma in the lungs cannot be treated with chemo, even though lung cancer can be.
This is why melanoma metastasis tumours are classed as untreatable. It is why so many people die of melanoma.
And this is why saying "it's just a mole, it's just a skin cancer, thank goodness it's not one of the serious cancers" is woefully ignorant.
Take chemotherapy. It works by impairing cell division so it has the biggest effect on cells which divide fast. These include testicular cancer cells, leukaemia cancer cells, cervical cancer cells and lymphoma cells (interestingly this is why chemo makes people lose their hair - hair cells divide quickly). Melanoma cells, on the other hand, are not quick dividers so won't respond well to chemotherapy drugs. For this reason, chemo is not considered a suitable treatment for melanoma (although many clinical trials are underway which use chemo, radiotherapy, immunotherapy, other treatments and combinations thereof).
What is a good treatment, then? At the moment, the best option for stage 3 melanoma is good old-fashioned surgery. Cut it out with wide margins of skin, and hope it doesn't come back. If it's metastasised to the lymph nodes, cut them out too.
When melanoma cells break off, travel through the body and set up in, say, the lungs, it is not lung cancer. It is secondary melanoma - that is, the cells that are now growing in the lung are melanoma cells. They behave and respond the same way all melanoma cells do, regardless of where they are. So secondary melanoma in the lungs cannot be treated with chemo, even though lung cancer can be.
This is why melanoma metastasis tumours are classed as untreatable. It is why so many people die of melanoma.
And this is why saying "it's just a mole, it's just a skin cancer, thank goodness it's not one of the serious cancers" is woefully ignorant.
Wednesday, 7 March 2012
Lymph Node Biopsy results
The results are in. A small amount of cancer was found in the removed sentinel lymph node. This post will be purely informative for anybody seeking information. Feelings will come in a later post.
The recommended route now is a lymphadenectomy of my groin whereby all the lymph nodes - 15 or so - in my right groin area will be removed. Prior to the operation, I will have a full body CT scan to look for secondary metastasis, and I will have a pre-op as per last time - bloods, urine sample, blood pressure and so on.
The operation will be performed within the government's 31-day target. It is performed under general anaesthetic and will last for approximately 3 hours. I will need to stay in hospital for 2-3 days and will have a drainage tube attached for 2-3 weeks. The tube will be stitched in to prevent it falling out, and its purpose is to essentially do the job of the nodes and drain lymph fluid out of my leg. As it heals, my body will create new lymph channels. When the tube is removed, there is a risk of lymphoedema, and there are no statistics on this as every case is different.
This is a link to a video of the operation. The end of this video gives an idea of how the scar will initially look and where the drainage tube will sit.
After I am discharged, I will be allowed home and will be put on bed rest with my leg elevated to assist with drainage. The Macmillan nurse, Rachel, thought I would feel pretty crappy for a couple of weeks and would be in too much pain and discomfort to work from home. She anticipates it will be 4-6 weeks before I am ready to go back to work in the office. Whilst I have the tube attached at home, a nurse will come by and empty/change/check it. I haven't asked yet whether I can do this myself. Rachel has also given me a prescription dispensation form for me to fill in, so basically all prescribed medication for the next 5 years are free. I will likely be on a combination of pain relief and anti-inflammatories for a few weeks post-op.
The pathology lab will test the lymph nodes that are removed for signs of cancer. The registrar felt that, given such a tiny amount was found in the first, there is a 5% or less chance that they will find anything. On the 5% chance that cancer is found in any of the nodes then the next step will be radiotherapy to my leg.
I am now waiting for a date for the scan and the operation. So currently, I have stage 3a Melanoma.
The recommended route now is a lymphadenectomy of my groin whereby all the lymph nodes - 15 or so - in my right groin area will be removed. Prior to the operation, I will have a full body CT scan to look for secondary metastasis, and I will have a pre-op as per last time - bloods, urine sample, blood pressure and so on.
The operation will be performed within the government's 31-day target. It is performed under general anaesthetic and will last for approximately 3 hours. I will need to stay in hospital for 2-3 days and will have a drainage tube attached for 2-3 weeks. The tube will be stitched in to prevent it falling out, and its purpose is to essentially do the job of the nodes and drain lymph fluid out of my leg. As it heals, my body will create new lymph channels. When the tube is removed, there is a risk of lymphoedema, and there are no statistics on this as every case is different.
This is a link to a video of the operation. The end of this video gives an idea of how the scar will initially look and where the drainage tube will sit.
After I am discharged, I will be allowed home and will be put on bed rest with my leg elevated to assist with drainage. The Macmillan nurse, Rachel, thought I would feel pretty crappy for a couple of weeks and would be in too much pain and discomfort to work from home. She anticipates it will be 4-6 weeks before I am ready to go back to work in the office. Whilst I have the tube attached at home, a nurse will come by and empty/change/check it. I haven't asked yet whether I can do this myself. Rachel has also given me a prescription dispensation form for me to fill in, so basically all prescribed medication for the next 5 years are free. I will likely be on a combination of pain relief and anti-inflammatories for a few weeks post-op.
The pathology lab will test the lymph nodes that are removed for signs of cancer. The registrar felt that, given such a tiny amount was found in the first, there is a 5% or less chance that they will find anything. On the 5% chance that cancer is found in any of the nodes then the next step will be radiotherapy to my leg.
I am now waiting for a date for the scan and the operation. So currently, I have stage 3a Melanoma.
Saturday, 3 March 2012
Cancer Leg goes on tour!
Hey, cancer fans. I've not written anything for a while because a) there's nothing to say and b) I've been on a brilliant holiday to Rome and Pompeii, courtesy of my lovely husband who organised it as an anniversary/birthday/Christmas present.
Unlike my best half, I absolutely love travelling. I would honestly go anywhere in the world. Even a crappy place broadens the mind and offers new knowledge. I particularly love experiencing different cultures so you can imagine my delight at the huge disparity between ancient and modern day Rome (modern Rome being largely rude and self-absorbed)! Ancient Rome is absolutely fascinating to me. I didn't do history beyond the third year of Secondary School, largely due to a monotonous and begrudging teacher called Mr Hurst whose aim seemed to be making history as boring and academic as possible. It's only as an adult that I have become interested in it, and even then it's only living history - that is to say, history about how people lived and behaved.
We saw our fair share of marble busts in Italy (the statue type, not the girly type) and it held very little interest for me. You see one, you've seen them all. What really got my imagination firing was our visit to Pompeii and other places of historic importance. To sit alone in a 2000-year old, desolate and well-preserved amphitheatre, looking at the spot where gladiators used to slay each other...it was both eerie and peculiarly peaceful. Sitting in silence on the same slabs of concrete that the masses shared, it was hard to imagine the roar of the crowd and the bloodied, bloodthirsty atmosphere. I'd like to imagine, pacifist that I am, that had I lived back then, my compassion would have been as it is now and I would have refrained from joining the crowds at the amphitheatre. It's easy to make the assumption that they were a dim people who didn't know better, but the evidence is quite to the contrary. Some of their inventions and systems were on a par with those we use today. So why would people get their kicks from watching others be forced to kill or be killed? Horrifyingly I suspect that if gladiatorial fights existed today, the crowds would flock to them just as they do to public executions in the Middle East. The way humans behave to other living creatures - it makes me feel I was born too soon. Although who's to say things will be better 2000 years from now?
Anyway, I would highly recommend a visit to both Pompeii and the Colossium (although I would skip both audio tours as they are very much lacking on information). The Colossium was also really fascinating but a lot more crowded and in a far worse state of repair:
Colossium:
You'll notice you can't see me properly in the photos because I still haven't told anyone about Cancer Leg, as it's now affectionately known. I'm back on Tuesday for the dressing clinic and I have managed to get my results appointment moved to Tuesday too. Should it prove positive for spread of cancer cells and requiring further treatment, I may have to tell those close to me but for now I will remain anonymous. It makes me seem slightly more interesting than I actually am (although, I am aware, somewhat more pretentious too!).
On the subject of Cancer Leg, we did a hell of a lot of walking in those six days and my marvellous husband insisted on cleaning the wound and changing my dressings every other night. The good news is that I have no limp at all now, but the bad news is it doesn't seem to be healing where the stitches burst. You can still see through to the muscle (I want to touch it but have refrained so far - not many people can say they've touched their own muscle!), and each bandage change would reveal strings of yellow fat adhered to the dressing. Here are the photos of how it's healing:
Calf:
Thigh:
Unlike my best half, I absolutely love travelling. I would honestly go anywhere in the world. Even a crappy place broadens the mind and offers new knowledge. I particularly love experiencing different cultures so you can imagine my delight at the huge disparity between ancient and modern day Rome (modern Rome being largely rude and self-absorbed)! Ancient Rome is absolutely fascinating to me. I didn't do history beyond the third year of Secondary School, largely due to a monotonous and begrudging teacher called Mr Hurst whose aim seemed to be making history as boring and academic as possible. It's only as an adult that I have become interested in it, and even then it's only living history - that is to say, history about how people lived and behaved.
We saw our fair share of marble busts in Italy (the statue type, not the girly type) and it held very little interest for me. You see one, you've seen them all. What really got my imagination firing was our visit to Pompeii and other places of historic importance. To sit alone in a 2000-year old, desolate and well-preserved amphitheatre, looking at the spot where gladiators used to slay each other...it was both eerie and peculiarly peaceful. Sitting in silence on the same slabs of concrete that the masses shared, it was hard to imagine the roar of the crowd and the bloodied, bloodthirsty atmosphere. I'd like to imagine, pacifist that I am, that had I lived back then, my compassion would have been as it is now and I would have refrained from joining the crowds at the amphitheatre. It's easy to make the assumption that they were a dim people who didn't know better, but the evidence is quite to the contrary. Some of their inventions and systems were on a par with those we use today. So why would people get their kicks from watching others be forced to kill or be killed? Horrifyingly I suspect that if gladiatorial fights existed today, the crowds would flock to them just as they do to public executions in the Middle East. The way humans behave to other living creatures - it makes me feel I was born too soon. Although who's to say things will be better 2000 years from now?
Anyway, I would highly recommend a visit to both Pompeii and the Colossium (although I would skip both audio tours as they are very much lacking on information). The Colossium was also really fascinating but a lot more crowded and in a far worse state of repair:
Colossium:
Pompeii Amphitheatre:
My deliciously thin Marinara pizza; many were eaten, diet is now underway:
On the subject of Cancer Leg, we did a hell of a lot of walking in those six days and my marvellous husband insisted on cleaning the wound and changing my dressings every other night. The good news is that I have no limp at all now, but the bad news is it doesn't seem to be healing where the stitches burst. You can still see through to the muscle (I want to touch it but have refrained so far - not many people can say they've touched their own muscle!), and each bandage change would reveal strings of yellow fat adhered to the dressing. Here are the photos of how it's healing:
Calf:
Thigh:
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