204. Progress

First the good news. I received my mammogram letter today - all clear. I just put it to one side. I knew that, had there been anything amiss, I’d have had a recall phone call early on. But Dennis kind of collapsed in a heap and said that had been one of the longest two hours in his life (I was doing my online writing course so the letter was left for me to find when I finished). I’ve tried to rationalise it with him but, ever the pessimist, he gets eaten up with worry. I was still surprised and feel terribly sad that I cause him this grief. Then he went and spoilt it by saying he has no faith in mammograms after they failed to show anything wrong in the first place. Yes, thanks, I need reminding of that. I’m holding onto Dr S, the last oncologist, saying it’s ‘most unlikely’ I’ll develop breast cancer in my other breast. Erm, my mum had two different kinds of breast cancer in different breasts, 20 years apart. Oh, let’s tuck it away in its box in my head. I got the all-clear. No more thinking.

But actually, thinking about it, why aren’t I examining my healthy breast while I know it’s healthy? Have I learnt no lesson? There’s no point declaring publicly I will do it because I won’t. It will remain the cursory swipe, gentle probe in the shower. NOT GOOD ENOUGH, JAN. 

Second, more good news. I saw my first REAL live, breathing consultant yesterday. It got off to a bad start. The walk (waddle? plod?) from the car park, through the best part of a whole hospital to Rheumatology Outpatients left me panting for breath (oh the shame of it) and I was summoned by a very abrupt nurse to be weighed (in a chair!) and have my blood pressure taken. My blood pressure shocked me since I’ve always tended towards the low end but, as I don’t understand what the figures mean and the doctor didn’t mention it, I’ll assume it was adversely affected by the effort expended finding the damn place. But, horror upon horrors, I heard my weight read out in kilos and I’ve never heard anything above the 40s before. THAT was one hell of a shock till it was converted to stones and then it sounded right, a bit more than I’d like but still within the healthy range.

Eventually I saw Dr W, the same rheumatologist who gave me a phone consultation. I came away a happyish bunny. Happy in that I’d been seen, everything that concerned me had been explained and put into context and that I have a good range of movement and there are good signs that, with exercise and time, I may well revert to how I was. Of course, I’ll be 4 years older but we can’t have everything. I have a baker’s cyst behind one knee, I have bursitis, I have osteoarthritis, but no more than she would expect in a woman of my age. I was happy too because we agreed that, despite all the pain, I can’t point to any single joint that might benefit from a steroid injection and also she agreed with me that a general slow-release steroid injection wouldn’t be a good idea right now. It would affect my immunity (I’m officially Clinically Extremely Vulnerable, with all the benefits that brings!) but it also would disguise my symptoms IF, by any remote chance, I am seen by the frailty clinic or Neurology, So, I’m happy with that, happy to be discharged and happy to plonk myself down in the socially distanced waiting room and fill in a form for her professional appraisal - what next?? No wonder she was so nice lol. I just wish I could hold a pen and write neatly again.

It helped too that she suggested I might be CEV because I was registered with Rheumatology and everyone automatically is considered CEV even when they aren’t. I’d received my email the night before and, to my surprise, I felt upset and a bit anxious. Maybe because I didn’t know what it is that makes me more vulnerable than the next person. 

Basically it just said keep to the general rules, so you can do x,y and z, but don’t because you’re CEV. I just love the communication skills of this administration. The best thing was that it wasn’t signed so I didn’t get infuriated by Matt signing a letter to me. I choose my friends much more carefully.

Meantime, I’m trying my best with my exercises (Dr W says I have “excellent thighs”). I eventually found my physio programme in Junk 4 days later and it looks so easy. It bloody isn’t. My thighs are on fire. That means the following day, I can’t do any of them. More about the hilarity of exercising on the toilet seat and doing The Bridge on my bed, cos I can’t get up again if I manage to get to the floor. All I can say is, she better be right and, with exercise and time, I’ll get better. Right now, I can’t find any muscle beyond my head that doesn't hurt in some way. It doesn't help to know this is “unusual”.

I’m whingeing again, aren’t I? Maybe I should talk about the utterly compelling American election, which I’m beginning to understand and beginning to appreciate the joys of being British as a result. Brexit next. And no mention of Covid-19. Yet.