133. Space

In the good old days of teaching PSHE, or SPC as we’d been calling it for decades (Social, Personal and Careers, the new head being so ahead of the times), I used to teach pupils about personal space and how important it is to respect people’s personal space. We’d do the exercise where you stand face to face about 3 yards apart and then I’d chat away to the girl who volunteered and keep taking a step forward until she leant or stepped back away from me in horror. Invariably the result fitted the ‘keeping someone at arm’s length’ theory. Apart from this being entertaining for all but the poor volunteer, it served an important purpose for me - I’d taught 13 to 18 year olds and, in 1992, Leeds scrapped middle school and we had an influx of 11 year olds who’d come straight from primary schools where they received hugs from the teacher and would run up to the teacher in the playground and take their hand. Imagine how it was for me, a person with the personal armour of an armadillo, having to deal with these little creatures who would bring their work up to my desk and press themselves against my chair or my arm for reassurance. Hang their needs, I wanted to swot them away like annoying gnats.

Hence the lessons on personal space. I think the only person I allowed into my space was Dennis (wow, I allowed him?? Rephrase that). The only person who was part of my personal space was Dennis. I never hugged my friends. When they did a goodbye hug, I stepped away and left them all to it. I’m not sure when it changed - probably when I moved to work for Education Leeds’ Health team and became more confident, more sure of who I was and what my role was. People hugged, I hugged back. I learnt about social hugging and emotional hugging and learnt to feel at ease with it. Of course, it left me in a dilemma - I had colleagues I hugged, yet friends I didn’t hug. It took a long, slow process to move me into the hugging my friends mode of thinking and I still have friends I wouldn’t dream of hugging. Maybe they too belong to the Arm’s Length Brigade.

This is taking a LONG time to get to the point. I went to the hospital yesterday for 2 appointments, 12pm with C, the breast care nurse, and 1pm with D, the rehabilitation physio. So simple but, as usual, not to be. We got home at 4! Anyway, in the long wait sitting in the wrong breast clinic, I spied T, my adjuvant oncology nurse, at the reception desk checking her next appointments, so I sprung up and hovered till she was free. Then I thanked her for getting me through what had felt impossible at the start, all the support and encouragement she’d given me and the validation when I felt so awful. Yes, we ended with a big and meaningful hug which I initiated (!!) but, at the beginning, as soon as she recognised me, she exclaimed “Look at you!” and immediately started stroking my hair, ruffling it and exclaiming over how lovely it was, how she’d let herself go grey if she could be sure it would be my colour. I returned to my seat, Dennis grinning and me feeling like I’d had a bit of closure but feeling completely natural, no invasion of space at all. I guess I’ve been through a lot with T so it all felt right.

Maybe a slight exaggeration but close :) 

Then I had physio (OUCH). D got me stretching beyond the pain; she even massaged my noob - but I was so glad she didn’t discharge me - she’s not written me off. (Actually, it looks like she needs clients to keep her in work - I’ve never seen anyone waiting to see her!). After all this, we began the long mystery tour to find C, who was certainly in a breast clinic, only not that one. St James’s is a maze. We should have asked for directions but no, I knew roughly how to get there so we ended up in lifts, dirty stairways and dashing through the pouring rain to eventually settle for a cardio clinic (my heart was beating so fast I might well have become a patient) where the receptionist kindly told us exactly where to head. There’s actually a short bridge across on the floor above, which we used on my midnight tour of the hospital in February but I forgot. C was ready and waiting. We had quite a long session with me asking a load of questions that I’ve long put off. As we parted, she repeated how proud she was of my achievement (yes, probably said to all patients but it still means a lot) and then said “Is it ok for a hug?” So again I was wrapped in the warm embrace of another of my life-savers, this time the one who’d convinced me that I could manage chemo, maybe take a risk and definitely do it at St James’s.

Later, Lisa came round, all fired up about the building that’s going on and the probable cock-up by the planning department that may mean Miller Homes have to revise their layout. She wants me to go  with her to her meeting with the Chief Planning Officer next week (or soon) for moral support. Once I would have done a lot of anxious mental calculations before agreeing but nowadays I’m finding it easier to take ‘risks.’ As she left, another giant hug. That’s a lot of physical contact for someone like me and it felt a little overwhelming afterwards, in a positive but slightly puzzling way.

I then ruined the day. I left C feeling reassured, having got the answers to all my questions. It didn’t seem to matter that most answers were of necessity vague - statistics prove very little in the end. You could have a 98% chance of dying but be in the 2% who keep going. You might have a 98% survival rate but find yourself in the unlucky 2%. It made complete sense to me, in my let’s-brush-the-fear-aside way of thinking. Then, in the early hours of the morning, when my judgment was poor, I again broke my rule and I googled. As we’d looked through my diagnosis after surgery, I’d asked what NPI stood for. Nottingham Prognostic Index she said - and moved on. I didn’t ask what my score meant. It nagged at me so I googled. I wanted to cry so I googled some more and it was infinitely better but my mind keeps harking back to the first thing I read. My score = poor prognosis over 5 years. It’s not surprising I switched off from cancer and just got on with chemo. How can you deal with an emotional assault as well as a physical assault? Well, people do but I softened the edges a bit by blocking out the emotional bit. As someone said, never mind the hurricane; focus on riding it out and rebuilding afterwards. Spot on. In case you’re now anxious about me, further reading on the Royal College of Surgeons site and another equally reliable source (I’m not that daft) explained that the score relates to the position after surgery and you then have to factor in the impact of each treatment, of which I have four. So my odds become good.

Why do I hold onto the scary bit? Today I feel much like I must have felt when told I’d need to have chemotherapy. I can’t recall how I felt. It involved some numbness and a lot of fear about my phobias. Just how stupid can you get, ignoring sound advice you yourself give to others to ignore Dr Google? I’ll ring the Breast Cancer Care nurses on Monday I think. Just for reassurance. Hopefully the slightly sick feeling and the urge to cry will have passed by then.