First day of February
I found myself saying today, mid-offloading on this moving on course, that I couldn’t even offload on my blog because I didn’t want to cause unnecessary worry or fear among some who read this. Then it struck me - it’s my blog, it’s for my benefit BUT also, I don’t need to press the Publish button. So, until I have a better picture, this will remain unpublished.
Then of course, if I do publish it, I have to apologise for keeping certain people in the dark. Well, if it’s any consolation, for probably only the second time in our LONG relationship, I’ve chosen to keep my husband in the dark. It’s that or more vomiting. Phobia wins, hands down. So I’ll have to apologise for keeping Dennis in the dark and then will he trust me again? Who knows? He’s not one to forget, let alone forgive.
What’s all the fuss about? Yesterday I had an appointment at the eye clinic again. This time, the oculoplastic team so I saw someone different, a stunning young woman called M who introduced herself and then proceeded to say things that, in my book, were unnecessary and thoughtless. It was like seeing the worst kind of breast consultant when you have a lump. They hum and haa and drop in the word ‘cancer’ and ‘risk’ and triggering words that send you off convinced you have breast cancer when it turns out to be a simple fibroadenoma or cyst and requires minor surgery or no treatment. Dr M (I think she decided her Greek surname was incomprehensible) first informed me that breast cancer can move to the back of the eye and it can also spread in the eye socket. When I brightly informed her that both my MRIs showed no signs of cancer, she said “They can’t pick up everything.”
So I went from feeling inconvenienced and irritated about this eye business to mildly alarmed. Then she added that the fact that I said it was getting worse was a cause for concern. She was annoyed she couldn’t do all the tests because I was driving and couldn’t have the eye drops. Then she was annoyed that she couldn’t turn up my eyelid (it’s swollen, woman!! of course it won’t fold back) so she packed me off to have the backs of my eyes photographed. She’s already asked if I’d had this done before and I said I had it done annually at the opticians. “This is a hospital,” I was informed. Ooops.
Having your eyes photographed is not easy. You sit in front of a simple machine, put your chin on a rest (we’ve all been there!) and then adjust your head till your eye can see the whole image within. Simple? Where does your nose go?? I looked afterwards and it’s a completely flat machine. My poor nose took quite a battering just to get two simple shots.
Anyway, I decided that mentioning cancer would not be wise so D got a censored version of the conversation: basically they don’t know what they’re looking for until they look. I’m trying hard to hold onto that but it’s very hard now that she has linked the quite rapid deterioration with the possibility of cancer. I remember thinking Dr U was over the top in is suggestion my eye might be slightly protruding but... Sorry doctor.
M rang about an hour after we’d got home. They’d looked at the photographs and wanted me in for a biopsy as soon as possible (not a term one wants to hear in cancerworld unless it means the end of waiting, waiting, waiting...) It will be done under general anaesthetic because it’s very close to the main blood supply and there’s a possibility of bleeding (Do I need to know this? Just tell me it’s general anaesthetic and is a short procedure). Then she mentioned lesions and, since I’ve only heard the word in terms of cancer, my fears compounded. Henceforth, she became Dr Sensitivity in my head.
It got worse though. I was woken at 7.42 the next morning (I barely function before 10) with instructions for Wednesday 10th and the build-up to it. Clinic again Thursday for further photographs (I think of the cosmetic side of things - they can’t explain the discolouration) and then “go upstairs” for a pre-assessment. Then I must self-isolate from Sunday and go for a covid test on Monday. There’s a bit of a contradiction in self-isolating and then going for a test but that’s not the issue. That’s when Janet’s mini-meltdown began. A covid test requires a throat swab. I can’t do anything throat-related. I overreact when I doctor approaches me with a tongue suppressor, even though I know they won’t need to use it as my throat is ‘unusually large’ according to a GP years back. It is. You can see everything without my even saying Aaaah. You can see BUT YOU CAN’T TOUCH. It took some research by lovely Trina (should I just reference to her as Lovely Trina every time??) to establish that not all hospital covid tests have to involve a throat swab. Meltdown over, huge anxiety remaining.
1. Not even thinking about what they will be doing. I was so naive to think it would be approached from the outer eyelid.
2. I plucked up the courage to Google ‘lesion’ and discovered its meaning is not specific to cancer. It’s any injury to the tissue, by damage or by disease. Ugh, forget that last bit.
3. Cancer. As they say on Breast Cancer Now forums, no one has cancer until the specialist informs them they have it. There may be many other explanations.
4. If it is and the ‘undetermined mass’, which was there last year and has grown, is part of it, I shall not only be very scared but VERY ANGRY that it was ignored in last year’s MRI report.
5. There is no reason why it should be cancer. In 2017, I approached it from a position of ignorance, naïveté and optimism. I don’t have that luxury now. However, I was optimistic before. Just a few ill-chosen words have undermined it but that doesn’t mean I can’t reclaim it.
6. Nor do I seem able to pack it in a box and put it away for when I need to worry about it. FFS, it’s not even been diagnosed. It was the crass comments of an insensitive doctor. Damage done.
7. I have had close-to-panic-attacks (but fortunately not), have loose bowels, no appetite, surges of unwanted adrenaline and a strong element of what I know I mustn’t call self-pity.
8. Self-compassion is required. It’s hard to give way to your necessary emotions when you need to pretend everything is fine.
So basically, folks, I feel shit. I am pretty certain I will look back and laugh unkindly at my overreaction to an unusual eye problem. But right now, it’s not ‘pretty’ enough for me to dwell confidently on “It’ll be fine.” The doctor has taken that away from me.
I wish I could cry.
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