Here Comes The Sun: A Perfect Excuse To Act Like A Total Sloaney!

The sun has been out in London Town today which has been an excellent excuse to sit in it and drink copious amounts of Pimm’s. The boyfriend called me a sloney for this, and I had to admit that I don’t live in South Kensington and was currently clad in white linen trousers for no reason. I hasten to add that I wasn’t drinking alone. I was at my friend’s nice new flat and sharing her excitement. I got slightly tipsy, realised I was and so moved onto Diet Coke. Sometimes my willpower with certain small things amazes me, I mean if I had got drunk at her house it wouldn’t have mattered, I could have possibly gone on to join the party on the Circle Line. It would have been simple considering I live on the Circle Line.

My willpower only stretches so far though when I had a realisation last night that I am still a drug addict. My Mum had rather unsuccessfully hidden the Oramorph which I was prescribed from A&E on Thursday night, and only supposed to take 10ml of on an as needed basis. I found it last night, I wasn’t particularly looking for it but when I found it I realised that a nice bit of morphine induced fuzziness was just what I needed and so took a big gulp of it. Maximum doses and recommended daily allowances didn’t come into it. I don’t know how much I took but I know that by the time I spoke with the boyfriend at 11pm my speech was very slurred, I was nearly falling asleep and my head felt like cotton wool.

He told me I needed help, particularly after I told him my little nugget of wisdom which surmised that I didn’t mind having cancer and could cope with having cancer if it meant I got supplies of morphine. Weird thinking again. I have decided I am going to speak with C (psych) next week about this dependency/tolerance/addiction; call it what you will. After all, I can’t go through chemo and cancer surgery and the subsequent pain relief knowing that I won’t be able to trust myself to only take the recommended daily dose, or to take them for the purpose they were prescribed. I don’t know what I expect her to do, in fact I would quite like her to just nod her head and give me some patronising comment and then just forget I ever said it.

Don’t think narcotic addiction works like that somehow!?!

Ruth

Procrastination, Avoidance, Memeing

I got tagged by Suzy over at her fantastically insightful blog, so I feel obliged to comply.

Here goes…

2 + 2: And The Coincidences Just Keep Adding Up

Some of you have already figured out who the boyfriend is, some of you will slowly be putting two and two together. Needless to say, he also writes a blog, a much better one than mine, and those of you who trawl over both our pages will immediately realise who we are.

I’m not a great believer in coincidence really. I firmly believe that things happen for a reason, and that other events can be a catalyst, but there is no such thing as a string of coincidences. OK, one coincidence I could possibly believe, but not lots and lots of them. This I think is how a lot of you have worked out who the boyfriend is, all you have to do is look at the subject of the posts for a few days – what are the odds that we are completely separate people?

I don’t want to spell it out completely. He says that he doesn’t care who knows, but then I think he must do. People only blog anonymously if they don’t want people to know who they are. Now we have both said the same thing here, if you know who I am in real life, and I happen to mention that I have a blog, then I think it would be quite hard to find me. Equally, if you read my blog and don’t know me in real life then it would be just as hard to find out exacty who I am, I think. However, if you stumble across my blog, and know my in real life then you could easily work out who I am. The boyfriend says the same thing about his blog, which is why I’m not going to scream out who he is from the rooftops. If you can work it out then all well and good, if you can’t then enjoy the mystery.

Another coincidence happened last night. My leg started hurting so, so much. I took some basic painkillers and tried to sleep, but nothing happened. So I took some stronger painkillers, and still nothing happened. Eventually after about 2 and a half hours of being in pain I took some ven stronger painkillers and waited for them to work. They didn’t. I don’t know if this pain was all in my head, particularly as before I was diagnosed I was completely symptom free, but it was unbearable. My Mum found me crawling to the bathroom to get a glass of water at about 1am, I was in so much pain I couldn’t stand, even with crutches, and decided it might be a good idea to get me checked out. She rang the ot of hours GP team, who told her that they didn’t deal with palliative care. She tried to explain that I had only just been diagnosed and therefore it wasn’t palliative. They still told her the best option was to go to A&E at the Chelsea and Westminster.

She drove me to A&E whilst I was still in my pyjamas, I was in so much pain I couldn’t have cared who saw me. The triage nurse was lovely and told me that the wait wasn’t that long so it shouldn’t be too bad and that she couldn’t give me anymore painkillers because of what I had already taken. I only sat in the waiting room for about half anf hour before I was seen by a lovely SHO who admitted that oncology wasn’t a speciality of his, but he had completed 4 months in anaesthetics so was over-qualified when it came to pain relief. He gave me some even stronger pain relief and let me sleep in the observation ward for a couple of hours to mae sure that the pain relief was working and the pain wouldn’t come back. He then gave my Mum a prescription for 2 week’s worth of the analgesic, but only to be taken on an as needed basis, and wished me all the best.

I got home at about 5am this morning, whereupon my Dad hadn’t even realised we’d been out. The leg feels better now and I feel so stupid for making such a fuss over some pain. I have realised that things have changed now though. When I went to A&E before I was immediately flagged as the “bipolar, borderline self-harmer” no matter what I was there for. Now that label has been replaced with “cancer patient”. I guess it shows how medics rank diagnoses in terms of importance. I have been told that the Chelsea & Westminster will contact the orthopaedic oncologist to let her know what happened and I have been advised to talk to the Macmillan Nurse about it all next week. Everyone took it so seriously, and yet a part of me is still utterly convinced that it was psychosomatic and not a coincidence at all.

Ruth

Roll The Dice: Gambling With Statistics

I cried last night for the first time since having the tests and being diagnosed with cancer. People had been telling me that it was alright to cry for a while, but I just hadn’t seen the point, or the need to cry. I thought “what will crying achieve?” and to an extent I’m still not sure what it has achieved. The tumour is still there, I still am daunted by the prospect of chemotherapy and losing my hair and constant sickness and fatigue, I will still have to undergo surgery to remove the tumour and in essence the tears have not taken the cancer away.

I go through stages of crying and not crying. I was certain that the cancer would be a ‘not crying’ event, but I was wrong. I cry frequently when I am depressed, not suicidally depressed; then I just sit and stare at the walls, but at that slightly miserable, feeling sorry for myself stage. Cancer is much, much worse than a bit of self-pitying, but then it feeds into that self-pitying nature. I have cancer therefore I can feel sorry for myself. No, I can’t, because there are people out there who have terminal cancer and are going to die from the rotten illness, I have a fighting chance of survival.

The odds for me look good. Chemo, followed by limb-sparing surgery, possibly followed by more chemo, and as the boyfriend pointed out last night, at the rate they are talking about treatment I could be in remission by the end of the year. There are options with my cancer. If 4 cycles of chemo don’t work, then they’ll complete more. If they can’t take the tumour out then they’ll amputate my leg below the knee. Amputation scares the hell out of me and a few weeks ago I was convinced that amputation would be worse the death because in my vanity obsessed eyes I would rather die than have to limp around with a prothestic leg. Then I discovered the Macmillan Share Boards, an online discussion forum run by the Macmillan Cancer Charity, and I sat and thought the statistics through. There is a topic thread on the share boards dedicated to memorials for those who have died from cancer, it kind of puts things into perspective.

Apparently, according to the NHS Direct website, 1 in 4 people in the UK will die from cancer. That is a very scary statistic. Next time you are on a bus, or the Tube, or a train, or even just walking down the road, look at 3 people around you; out of those 4 people, 1 of you will suffer from terminal cancer. Macmillan tells me that 1 in 3 people in their lifetime will be diagnosed with cancer, an even more shocking statistic. The same website says that 32% of people with cancer feel that their relationships are put under strain by the illness, and it is this statistic which bothers me the most at present.

The boyfriend has been incredibly supportive through my foot injury, subsequent operation, discovery of the tumour, biopsies, scans and the news that the treatment is chemo and surgery. However, I find out today that, quite obviously, he has been devastated by the news. I don’t blame him for this, I am currently sitting at home where I think my parents and close friends have reacted more badly to the news than I have. The problem I have with his reaction is that he hasn’t told me how much it has impacted on him. He keeps pretending that everything is OK, that he can cope and be supportive, whilst falling apart on the inside. He unfortunately was on holiday when I received the diagnosis, but was kind enough to spend what will probably be a small fortune texting me. I told him I was sorry and he told me to “fuck off with being sorry, it’s not your fault” (or words to that effect).

It isn’t my fault. It is no one’s fault. As he so eloquently put it, I played a game of statistics and lost. I am  gambler in life. Everything to me is a competition or a game. I like playing the odds, it gives me a bit of a thrill… will I win, will I lose? I will bet on anything I can, not in monetary terms, save a few flutters on horses when I went to the races, but almost an internal bet in my head. However, these statistics I don’t like and I can’t make a jovial bet out of them.

I went through the statistic initially of there only being a 1 in 10 chance that the tumour was cancerous, and I clung onto the 90% hope of benignity. Then I was told that there was a 1 in 4 chance that the tumour wasn’t cancerous, and I ignored that 1 in 4 chance of malignancy. In essence, I was stupid with the statistics. As soon as there was a 75% chance I had cancer, then I should have started to realise that the odds were slightly against me. I decided to stick my head in the sand and ignore the fact that all the tests and scans were for cancer. I sat looking at the name badge on the Macmillan Nurse thinking “I’ve never even given money to Macmillan before”. I had never thought that cancer would directly affect me.

I have known people with cancer. The mother of one of my best friends at school had breast cancer. As did my music teacher in the 6th form. Hell, even my grandmother had cancer. The problem was, all these people died. Maybe not from the cancer; my friends Mum had a pulmonary embolism, my grandmother died from massive blood poisoning and I don’t know what my music teacher died from, but I know it was cancer related. I don’t know any cancer ‘survivors’ and I hate that word. You can survive anything if you want to fit yourself into that mould.

Personally, I don’t particularly like that whole ‘victim’ and ‘survivor’ mould and I have never wanted to be either. I my eyes I am a cancer patient, and when I cease being a patient I will have recovered, end of. However, there are stories of cancer survivors and they grace the pages of glossy magazines, or trashy newspapers frequently. Just look at this one I saw yesterday where TV amateur agony aunt Trisha Goddard has cut off her trademark brunette bob and dyed her hair a very shocking shade of peroxide prior to undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer. If that is her way of dealing with it then good for her, I am sure that there are many people who change their hair colour before chemo. I even mentioned to the boyfriend on Monday night that I was thinking of having my hair cut prior to my chemo starting, but this is merely for practical reasons. I moult like nothing on Earth anyway. I brush my hand through my hair and I lose about 7 hairs. I wash my hair and a whole clump comes out. I am used to losing my hair when I brush it or wash it. I am used to waking up in the morning and having hairs stuck to the pillow. In this respect chemo doesn’t bother me as I shed my hair rather frequently. What does bother me is that it has taken 5 years for me to grow my hair back down to chin level from having it all cut off in a fit of anger when I had my breakdown in the first year of uni. 5 years because my hair doesn’t grow fast and I have no persistance in life. I’m not sure if I can see that all drop out, so the jury is still out on the haircut. However, I do need a fringe trim before I look like a Highland Cow!

This morning I am feeling more pragmatic again. My leg is hurting and aching, particularly at night so I debating tootling off to see the GP for some advice on this. I have numerous appointments next week. The Macmillan Nurse, the psychiatrist, the psychologist and the phlebotomist (aka vampire) to make sure I can undergo chemo. I also have a job to go back to. In this respect apparently I am dealing with cancer more like a man, and burying myself in my ‘normal’ life. Again, that is a term I hate. My life isn’t normal at the moment, I have cancer and nothing is going to change that and it doesn wreck normality. However, I can continue as best I can because the moment I start to give into this illness is the moment I have given into life.

Some people have emailed me and left comments telling me I am brave. I am not brave. Bravery is much more that having to get through cancer treatment. Bravery goes beyond have a great supportive network of friends and relations. Bravery is when you have people dependent on you, like children. Bravery is knowing that nothing can be done anf yet still living life to the full. Bravery is not accepting an illness and going through the recommended course of treatment. I am not brave, as the boyfriend said “I just played a game of statistics, and lost”.

Ruth

Good News, Bad News… News Which Still Hasn’t Sunk In Yet

I went up to see the orthopaedic oncologist in Newcastle yesterday and her team. I flew up from Heathrow which was very exciting as the last time I flew out of Terminal 5 it was utter, utter chaos so it was nice to meander round and be able to look at things properly. It is a bit of a pompous terminal though, with everything slightly ‘luxe’ so you get the impression you are walking down Bond Street. Plus, the shop assistants are as snotty as the one’s on Bond Street who sneer and glare at you as soon as you dare to walk into their pristine designer boutique, which of course you wouldn’t be able to afford anything in! Given my recent financial straits, I can barely afford the air that I breathe so the snotty cow was right when she gave me a ‘in your dreams’ look when I saw a very, very nice pair of perfectly impractical shoes that I like for in excess of £200.

I arrived in Newcastle and got the Metro into the city centre where I walked straight to the hospital as I was a bit pushed for time and I thought I was going to be late to arrive and discover that the appointments were running about 20 minutes late. I wandered outside, had a couple of cigarettes, mooched down to the flat (which is less than 5 minutes away from the hospital) to check the post, sauntered back up, had a few more cigarettes, went back inside and magicaly it was my turn.

I had a full body CT scan which shows that the there is no evidence of any cancerous or abnormal cells anywhere else in my body. I also had some radioactive dye injected into my leg to see the extent of the bone damage. As they suspected, the tumour has stayed within the confines of the bone and therefore hasn’t spread into the soft tissue. This is all very good news as it means that the only issue to deal with is the tumour in the leg and there are no complications.

The bad news is that I will need chemotherapy to shrink the tumour before they can operate. They reckon 3 or 4 intensive cycles should be enough but the chemotherapy for osteosarcoma is incredibly aggressive and intensive and can wipe you out so much that it is completed as an inpatient session, not as an outpatient. My first question to having chemo was “does this mean I will lose weight?”, which the oncologist just replied “it’s a probable possible, but you don’t need to and I don’t think it should be your first concern”. Apparently that isn’t the question most people ask when faced with the prospect of chemo, they usually ask about hair loss, or nausea and vomiting, or fatigue, or their future fertility, not weight loss. I always have said that my brain works in a funny way.

I’ve been researching the chemo drugs I’m going to be having as part of my regime; cisplatin, doxorubicin and methotrexate. They are sound quite high powered and so I will have to have folinic acid during the methotrexate stage of treatment and IV fluids to flush the cisplatin out of my system. No wonder you stay as an inpatient. A cycle of chemo is 5 weeks though, so if they do manage to shrink it within 4 cycles, that’s only 20 weeks (plus recovery time) from start of chemo to surgery.

I think I’m being quite pragmatic and realistic about it all. I am getting fed up with people being overly sympathetic and telling me that although it appears awful, that I will get through it. No shit, I mean I have no option but to get through it. The boyfriend said last night that if he could undergo the chemo for me, then he would, until I pointed out that it would be fairly pointless as the tumour would still exist in my leg. I also met the Macmillan Nurse yesterday who is an absolute love and I have an appointment to see her specifically to talk things through in the middle of next week.

Despite all of this though, the news hasn’t really sunk in. I said this to the boyfriend and he asked me how long it took me to realise and accept I am bipolar or have BPD. I said I didn’t know but it was quite suddenly as I was glad there were reasons behind my behaviour. He said that if I could accept and realise a mental illness where it is all in my head and nothing physically to show for it, then in time I will accept the cancer as there are physical elements of it. I guess he is right.

Ruth

Bank Holiday Blues

Have started already, and it’s only 09:20.

This doesn’t mark a good start to the day, alongside the fact that it is absolutely chucking it down outside and cold inside because the parents have turned the heating off.

I think I may go back to bed.

Ruth

Edit: 6:15pm and I have just dragged myself out of bed for the second time since writing that post. The first one was for some happy, family lunch thing with all the family (who live in this country – I hate my sister at times for living in Gibraltar). So there we were, my parents, me, my brother, my sister-in-law (whom I adore) and my little niece and nephew and the conversation turns to me… as it always does. Debbie (my sister-in-law) asks me what my plans for September are. I tell her that I have an interview at the end of the week for a Secondary Science PGCE at the Institute of Education. Kit (my brother) kicks in and asks me if that’s wise and gives Debbie the look that was clearly meant to read “she’s just been diagnosed with cancer, she’s got to put her plans on hold, don’t encourage her”. I replied saying “I know that I may not be able to start the course in September but the IoE run a modular system of completing 3 terms so I could start in January or April 2009 if needs be”.

My Mum then tried to change the subject when Harry (my nephew) said “Daddy said you might die”. Now I laughed at this. Mainly because what father tells his little kid that their Aunt might die? Surely the whole, Ruth’s not very well and she’s going to have to have some nasty treatment and then an operation, would work better. My Dad then told me off for laughing and said that it was true. That he’d been looking on the Internet and bone cancer is very aggressive and can have a high mortality rate. I said I didn’t want to think about it and my Mum changed the subject again.

Then my Dad chipped in and said that I would have to think about it because it wasn’t the sort of thing I could stick my head in the sand and forget about. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was aware of that, that it was my leg which ached and that it would be my hair loss, my nausea, my vomiting, my fatigue and my knackered immune system that would cope with it and knowing him he would take no interest in me, as per usual, and it would be left to my Mum to pick up the pieces everytime I had chemo or felt rough.

I then left the table and Debbie followed me. She offered to bring me some food to eat in the kitchen but I said I wasn’t very hungry anyway. She apologised for asking a probing question, and I had to tell her that asking about my future plans wasn’t probing. Since then I came back upstairs and went back to bed. Faith (my niece) and Debbie came up to say goodbye and my Mum came up with a cup of fruit tea about an hour ago but I think people have realised that this lunchtime just crosses the line.

I didn’t mean to be all melodramatic and argumentative. It just happened. Like I didn’t mean to put my finger in the lighter flame for that nanosecond too long. It just happened. No lasting damage though, just a bit of an “ouch” moment at the time. I don’t mean to hurt and upset people and cause chaos in family situations. Maybe I should just avoid al social contact for a while until I settle down.

Tonight’s plans involved listening to the Kaiser Chiefs, live from Leeds, at 8pm on Radio 2 and then watching Walk The Line which I recorded last night, or if I still can’t face going downstairs I’ll download it onto 4 On Demand and watch it in bed. Both of these tasks will be conducted with the remainder of my bottle of wine from lunch and a few gin and somethings (probably cranberry juice or orange – undecided as yet).

What an exciting life I lead.

Ruth (x2)

When Your Worst Fears Are Confirmed

I have cancer.

It’s very easy to type, it’s very easy to say to people, in fact it’s very easy to text to people. However, it’s not so easy to believe. And I think this is why I am sitting in in a state of semi-disbelief, semi-denial, semi-pragmatism and semi-fear. I don’t know what I should feel. I am scared, I am angry, I am questioning why it had to happen to me. Most of all though, I’m just unsure.

I have a grade 2A osteosarcoma of my left tibia. They think they’ll need to complete a few cycles of chemotherapy to shrink the tumour before they can complete limb-sparing surgery. Those 3 words meant so much to me as ever since this kicked off I have been terrified of an amputation. At the moment they aren’t sure if they could operate without chemo, which would be their preferred option as it doesn’t mean I’ll be bombarded with cytotoxic substances that knacker up my DNA and immune system. I’ve got to go back to the hospital on Tuesday to have a full body CT scan to see if the cancer has spread, whereupon they’re also going to inject a radioactive dye into my leg to see the true extent of the diseased bone and it’s constraints. They are 99% certain that the tumour has remained within the bone cavity, which is good as it means it hasn’t spread to the soft tissue.

I’m at home in London for half term, so I’m having to fly up to Newcastle on Tuesday. I’m uncertain what to do at the moment, thereis a part of me which wants to move back home and have my care transferred to  London, but then I have a job, which I can keep doing for a while, and a flat, which I am renting until the end of August, in Newcastle. I guess I’ll have to wait and see what they say.

Otherwise, the foot is feeling a lot better. The scar is pathetic for all the pain I was in but I am gaining more movement. I feel like a little old lady when I first step out of bed in the morning because it has stiffened up but throughout the day it starts to move more and by the end of the day I can move it quite freely. It still hurts and I’m trying to use the crutches less as I don’t want to be dependent on them. However, given the most recent news I think crutches are going to become a constant companion of mine for a while to come.

I am pleased with myself though. Given the news I found out on Friday and the thought of all that goes with it, I haven’t cut myself or overdosed or self-harmed at all. I have wanted to, god I have, but I’ve been restrained and realising that it won’t help or solve anything. This isn’t to say that it will stay like this, it just means that this is my current thinking, which has a fair amount of logic attached to it. Trouble is, I have a bad habit of ditching logical thinking when I want to and going back to irrational thoughts, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Everything at the moment is step by step, I honestly think I wouldn’t be able to cope if I didn’t take it like that.

Ruth

False Evidence Appearing Real: The Fear Of The Unknown

Hello again all. I’ve been absent for a little too long. Mind you, I’ve been absent in my head as well.

I had the appointment with the bone/tissue tumour people on Wednesday and my consultant is lovely. She told me some quite bad news – the tumour that they were once 90% certain was benign, they are now 75% certain is malignant, and she was quite abrupt telling me this but she has since redeemed herself.

I had an open biopsy yesterday. Went under general anaesthetic, they cut my leg open, took some tumourous bone out and some healthy bone and have sent both samples off to histology. I should get the results in 10 days or so. Apparently, I will feel a ‘bit out of sorts’ until I get the results according to the nurse specialist. What a bloody understatement.

I feel shit. I keep bursting into tears and simultaneously biting everyone’s head off. I am neurotic and paranoid that the boyfriend will leave me because he won’t want the hassle. I want to run away from all of this, until it was pointed out to me that what I would be running from I would actually be running away on (i.e. my leg). I’m not sure how you cope and deal with the bleak, uncertain 10 days of waiting to be told whether you have a sarcoma or not. It’s difficult and there is no rule book. I keep saying I can’t do it, and yet everyone tells me I either can or I have no option or I’ll learn. I’m sure they’re all right, I just can’t quite get it sorted in my own head.

On Wednesday after the hospital appointment I got dropped back at school but instead I crossed the road and went into Asda where I bought blades and tablets. I sat in the toilets making cuts on my leg and crying over a pack of co-codamol and a bottle of water. I only didn’t do anything worse because my Mum sent me a text asking if I was OK, whereupon I realised that I should be back at work and not conducting such silliness.

On Thursday I left work at lunchtime after being told to go home because I was dangerous. I couldn’t concentrate or stop crying and was about to mix 2 chemicals together for a lesson that would have killed the entire class if heated. Before I left I cut my leg again and then went home. My Mum realised what I had done and took me to A&E where a lovely doctor sutured me up but insisted on getting the crisis team out who told me that they shouldn’t be seeing me as they don’t accept referrals from people with BPD. Mind you, Newcastle A&E aren’t especially effective at dealing with self-harm/depression/suicide.

Now, I feel stupid. I’m getting myself worked up about something that still has a 1 in 4 chance of being nothing. And 1 in 4 odds have worked for me before (1 in 4 people having a mental health problem).

I just feel neurotic, but then for once in my life I think I am entitled to be.

Ruth

Too Busy For My Own Liking

Sorry that the updates for this blog are getting further and further apart. This is the curse of not having the internet at home and although I have been issued with a laptop at work I am still not sure what sites I can an cannot access via it. Also I don’t think updating my blog with all it’s secrets about me at work would be a very good idea.

On the whole I am loving my job. It is nice to have something to do. At first it was hard and I felt as if I was being ganged up on a bit by the rest of the technicians but I seem now to have proved myself and proved that I can do this job. I do seem to keep having all the extra crap (laminating, colour printing, rearranging computer resources etc) dumped on me which I am sure is outside the remit of a school science lab technician but I keep doing it to please everyone else, even if this does measn that I’m still cutting, glueing and printing well into the early hours of the morning.

I am enjoying it so much that I have applied to complete a Post Graduate Certificate in Education (PGCE) for Secondary level general science starting in September at the Institute of Education and Goldsmiths College, both in London. I’m not sure if I really want to live back at home but Newcastle doesn’t have any vacancies anymore as I have left it really late to apply, and it is only a year course so I’m sure that I’ll manage.

I’m not sure if I should be making any plans for September yet. I got my plaster cast off on Tuesday which is lovely because as the weather now turns warmer I am not stuck with a fibreglass heat enduring thing round my leg. However, now that the cast is off and the foot appears to be healing, even if the orthopaedic surgeon did have a bit of a go at me over the fact that the scar wasn’t as neat as he thought it should be (not my fault – for once I couldn’t pick and stratch and interfere with it as it was in a cast) we have to turn to the more pressing nature of the fact that the tumour is still in my tibia. They took another x-ray on Tuesday and compared it with the pre-op and post-op x-rays and with the MRI scan I had back in February. The tumour has grown, quite significantly and they are now concerned about it.

A few months ago they told me that they were 90% certain that it was benign, although as the boyfriend said, that always left a 1 in 10 chance. They did a biopsy which showed an abnormality so they did another one which proved inconclusive, because of this they decided to watch and wait and treat the injury first. Now it has grown quite significantly they are worried that it is quite aggressive.

They even mentioned the C word and were talking about possible treatment options. These range from amputation, through to removed the tumour and completing a bone graft or inserting a metal rod to support the bone (the tumour is now occupying about 35% of the bone space in my tibia), through to drug treatment if it does turn out to be malignant, through to watching and waiting. I’m not good at coping with the unknown and this is one of the biggest unknowns I have ever had to face.

I have an appointment with the North of England Bone and Soft Tissue Tumour Service people on Wednesday. There I will see a nurse specialist and another orthopaedic surgeon to see what is the best way to progress. I will have some more tests, including a bone scan and be booked in for another biopsy, possibly an open biopsy, and undergo another MRI scan. As the boyfriend said earlier in the week, it never rains but it pours!

Otherwise things are OK. I have been preoccupied and nearly on the verge of tears with the above and on Wednesday morning I nearly didn’t go into work, but I did eventually, but then went to A&E straight afterwards after cutting myself. The doctor who treated me tried to be kind and sympathetic but acknowledged it was a stressful and worrying time for me and if I needed to cut then I should get angry with myself for doing it. She gave me the basic talk on harm minimisation and then steri-stripped me up, stuck some dermabond on top and let me go. She did ask if I wanted to see the Deliberate Self Harm Team but I said there wasn’t any point and she agreed saying that they probably wouldn’t see me as there is a clear stressor for the event. I also saw C (my psychiatrist) on Friday who said she was glad that I was panicking because if I was calm then she would have been worried and that it is a great improvement on a few months ago that I actually care about my life and my future.

It’s been glorious weather and I actually braved Newcastle city centre in a t-shirt and knee length skirt yesterday. I got some odd looks and some stares but I don’t care anymore. I also went for a mooch round Leazes Park where I bumped into one of my named nurses from when I was on the section and her little girl who were feeding ducks. I also got told that I was ‘well cool’ by a group of wannabe emos who were sitting and smoking. One of them made me sad as she stared at my scars and told me that she was ‘well impressed with them’, as I looked at her she had faint lines all over her arms. I really wish self-harm wasn’t seen as the cool thing to do, it makes me angry and sad and scared that people are doing it to fit in. Of course it is a topic that makes me agry and sad and scared anyway, but the idea of teenagers damaging their body permanently just to fit into a social circle distresses me somewhat.

Ruth

5 x 5 meme

Sorry this has talen me so long… but better late than never

I got tagged.

5 Things Found In Your Bag

1. My mobile phone which is far too old and the battery life is failing rapidly but I love it. I will however, be trying to get a new old this summer when I am due an upgrade.
2. My Radley purse which was a birthday present from my sister last year.
3. A nail file just in case I break a nail or something.
4. My lip balm.
5. A pack of Marlboro Menthols and a lighter

5 Favorite Things In Your Room

1. Dougal, my white sugar cube shaped laptop with the attitude of his namesake.
2. My hair straighteners.
3. My bed.
4. My fairy lights that are strung from the ceiling. 
5. My filofax.

5 Things You Have Always Wanted To Do

1. Learn to dance the tango in Buenos Aires.
2. Have a PhD degree.
3. Learn to speak Spanish fluently.
4. Travel every mainland US state by Greyhound bus.
5. This is cliched but learn to be happy and comfortable in my own skin.

5 Things You Are Currently Into

1. Fondant Fancies.
2. Fruit tea.
3. Waking The Dead.
4. The boyfriend.
5. My Pandora bracelet.

5 People You Want To Tag

I’m so late doing this that I’m not going to bother tagging anyone as I think everyone has done it.