Chapter 4

The night before my appointment it felt like I did not sleep a wink.

We went along to the appointment. I had taken two ‘Thank you’ cards and two boxes of Quality Street for the surgeons and the nurses on the ward. They called us through to a small room and gave us both a chair. The Gynaecology Consultant looked me in the eyes, and she started with the words, ‘I am so sorry…’ I could feel tears sting my eyes, and I was squeezing Wes’ hand like my life depended on it. As she continued, she told me she had got a third opinion because she had been so shocked at the results, but I had ‘cancer stage 4b’ (meaning that it had spread to further areas). Although I was a general nurse myself, I did not fully understand the ramifications of the words I had just been told…. In technical terms, I have primary cervical gastric-type adenocarcinoma, a rare cancer with metastatic disease within both ovaries, left parametrium and omentum, not the typical HPV (Human Papilloma Virus)

The consultant said I would need a CT chest scan, and that this would be organised as soon as possible; I would also be discussed at an MDT and referred to a Consultant Clinical Oncologist. I remember telling her I had some cards and chocolates that I’d left in the car, and I would go and collect them for the staff. The nurse then took us into a separate room to go through it all again. I have no idea what she said to me other than the fact they would not give up on me!

My head was spinning. How was I going to tell Chaz, my parents, Wes’ parents and all my friends? It felt like a nightmare, and that maybe I would wake up at any moment. Wes’ little man kept us smiling and somehow we kept ourselves together. Chaz had told us before we went that if it was good news, we should bring him a KFC, but if it was bad news, a McDonald’s (and he wonders why his trousers do not fit), so we went with it. I cannot remember the drive home, I was totally broken and yet unsure how I was still calm and breathing.

I took Chaz his McDonald’s to his bedroom. He was up and awake in seconds, and I had that horrible job of telling him this totally shit news. He did not say too much and played with Wes’ little one. He said he did not want to talk about it unless any of us really needed to. I know he spoke to Kelly and his Dad and Wes, but not to me (I totally understood this), and they were all very supportive.

I had to text mum and ask her to call on her way home. She knew by that text it was not good news. I rang my Dad and told him too. He was very quiet. I then rang my friends and Wes’ parents; these were probably the hardest and most emotional things I have ever had to do.

I kept strong even when friends and family cried at this devastating news.
My mum called in and I told her the news I had been given. This was the worst thing in the world. I had to ring and tell work, but my close friend Alina was at work so I wanted to make sure she knew first-hand off me.  This was another difficult conversation, as Alina had lost a lot of close people, including her sister, in the last twelve months, so she has a fear of getting close to people.  I did not sleep properly for nights.

The following days passed in a blur. I had numerous bouquets of flowers – the front room was like a florist’s

I had a call to go and see the Oncology Consultant on the Friday. Mum and Wes came with me to this appointment. They made me laugh – Wes with his tiny notebook, Mum with her A4 notebook. We sat waiting to be called through by the consultant. I looked around the waiting room. Everyone seemed to be older than me but I suppose this disease is indiscriminate. This was when we came up with the name ‘Cuntcer’, probably the only one time my family did not mind me using the Cbomb!

They called me through. The consultant stood and shook our hands and introduced himself. He seemed a really nice friendly gentleman. He was accompanied by the clinical nurse specialist whom I had previously met at my last appointment. The consultant asked me what I had understood by the diagnosis. I said that I had been diagnosed with stage 4b cancer and that they wanted to check it had not gone to my lungs. The consultant asked me if I understood that the cancer was not curable and the best that they could hope for was to put me in remission.

I don’t know if I had previously realised this or if I had simply chosen not to believe it. So many thoughts were now rushing through my mind. I had only just met Wes and had never felt love like this – how could this possibly be happening? I wanted to see Chaz grow into a man, and Wes’ little man develop. I wanted to see all my friends’ children grow up. I have goddaughters and sons; I was supposed to be here to guide them… How could I go from feeling so happy and carefree just a few months ago to this cancer taking over my body? It made no sense. Had they got my histology confused with somebody else’s? (I suppose that’s a question that most people would hope the answer would be ‘yes’).

I had to ask the consultant to repeat the last five minutes of the conversation as I had not heard what he had said. He told me he wanted to send me for a PET scan (Positron-Emission Tomography), which would help further with the diagnosis of the disease. He explained that this kind of scan helped to show what they described as ‘hot spots’ that a CT did not always show, by injecting me with a radiotracer. He gave a very good explanation that has stuck with me. He said it was like when you plant seeds in the garden; you would not know they were there unless someone told you or they grew.

He explained that he would have to discuss the suggestion of a PET scan at the next MDT as he had to have permission to send me for this (‘politics’, I believe they call it). He said that either way I would have to have two types of chemotherapy, Carboplatin and Paxtel, unless the outcome of the scan showed it was too far gone (something I could not allow myself to think about). He explained all the side effects, but the one that was the hardest to accept was that I would lose my hair. I told him I had a trip booked to Spain, and I wanted to go as I felt this would get me mentally ready to face the challenges ahead.

The nurse gave me a voucher for a wig, and various leaflets containing information.

I made an appointment to see the ‘wig lady’ the week after. I tried several wigs on and finally came away with one. I was not overly enthusiastic and felt a little ungrateful even though I had been able to obtain this on the NHS. This was a bad day for Mum; she found it a very emotional time, and took a few days to come back up to the positive stage.

I told myself I was going to be positive and fight this cancer. I decided I was going to have a party with friends and family, charge them an entrance fee, sell raffle tickets and that way raise some money for the local Cancer Centre, with the help of friends (especially Stacey begging for raffle prizes). I secured a date at the local football club, arranged a friend of Mum’s to do a disco, and then sent invites out. Organising this kept me and my mind busy. The invites asked people to donate into an honesty box.

I had an appointment with a nurse from the chemo centre to talk to me through what I would be facing over the following months, and to show me around the day centre. She did not allow Wes to come into the consultation room with me; I should have been more forceful about this. Those of you that know me would be surprised that I wasn’t, but I just was not myself. I felt like I was watching another version of me go through this nightmare whilst still recovering from major surgery. The nurse was very ‘matter of fact’, and not very empathetic, especially on the subject of losing my hair.

We had a night out with friends that afternoon/evening. The first drink was ‘palma violet prosecco’ (I can hear those of you who know me saying, ‘Oh nooo!’, as I am the world’s worst drinker). This day saw one of the best responses I have had to telling people I had cancer; one of Wes’ friend’s reaction was, “Fuck off!” This made me cry with laughter. We had a fantastic night and forgot about everything, Wes and I having a dance to ‘Simply the Best’, and probably over-doing it for Post-Surgery, but we had so much fun and it was a dance we often perform at home.

We received a letter in the post reiterating what had been said in clinic, but the one phrase that stuck out was ‘palliative chemotherapy.’ Wes and I both being in the health care profession immediately thought the same – ‘palliative’ means ‘end of life,’ Wes rang the nurse specialist to get her to explain the letter as I could not face the phone call. The nurse explained they called it ‘palliative chemo’ as it was not going to cure me but hopefully put me in remission. We both had a cry as reality set in; I felt like a ticking time bomb! Life was going to be taken away from me but with no idea when, and yeah, I guess we are all going to reach the same destination but being told that your destination was getting nearer was a very strange and difficult thing to accept.

The specialist nurse called me back the next day to see if I had been informed that I was starting chemotherapy in a couple of days’ time. Obviously I had no idea, and I was set to go to Spain. She knew I had mentioned I was going to Spain, hence her calling me back when she had read my notes. I also hadn’t had the results from the PET scan as yet. She said the consultant wanted to get me started on chemo as soon as possible. To my mind, I had already waited for four months, so I couldn’t see what difference another week would make. So, against best advice, I decided I was going to Spain.

A nurse from the chemo unit rang and also tried to persuade me to go in, but I declined. They felt it would be better for me to go and watch a DVD with other cancer patients. But I felt this was of no benefit to me as I was on my own ‘journey’, not on a train of cancer patients. My family agreed with my decision and with my reasoning for delaying the chemo.

Chaz took us to the airport and we had the obligatory pint. Meeting Wes’ parents was a little bit strange. I had previously met his mum, Gail, and although I hadn’t met his dad, Simon, we had chatted loads on Facetime, so I felt like I knew them really well. We had a fantastic break, making pizzas and cooking ‘calcots’ (onions) on the fire, watching the world go by over a ‘cortado’, and having plenty of time on the beach. It was a sad farewell after a lovely break.

We knew the journey ahead was a road to hell.