4) D day (Diagnosis)After spending my last seven days in the sweep of normal life, I felt oddly relieved to be back in between the calm pastel walls of the Breast Centre. I could see Nick's mind was elsewhere as he was uncharacteristically fixated on the the screen above, spouting out the usual breakfast television rubbish. I could feel his hand brushing on the top of my knee as my legs bounced up and down anxiously, as I glanced at each individual slowly disappearing down the coral corridor, wondering what their fate would be and if we would meet again in the 'square' apprehensive waiting room. "Tassia Haines?" I looked up to see the grey haired, heart shaped face, nurse smiling in my direction, then up to the clock on the wall and distinctively remembering we were being called in ten minutes early. I couldn't help but grin under what I assumed was fates way of displaying me with some sick irony, I could never recall ever being called in early at the doctors for anything. Nick shuffled nervously behind as I got up and briskly disappeared down the coral corridor after the older nurse. We were lead into a another cream consolation room, where we were left to wait alone for the potentially life changing news from the consultant. "Remember Tass, its only one in ten cases that come back as cancerous", Nick whispered with half hearted encouragement, I can remember seeing the worried look in his eyes as he tried to cover it with an overly obvious transparent smile, which admittedly, just made me more nervous. The top half of the south side of the room was covered in lovely light glass pains, boasting a promising early March day, flooding into the office. The light bounced enthusiastically from a small light watercolour picture, hung slightly crookedly, of a lake under a bright blue sky and a loosely figurative tree. "Hello Tassia!" squeaked Julie the cancer nurse, as she walked in, followed promptly by Miss Davies, the consultant from the Biopsy day. The consultant sat down next to me and Julie was sat on the recliner opposite. I was beginning to feel very claustrophobic towards my future news. Miss Davies looked steadily into my eyes and asked "How was your week been?"' to which I could only reply a half hearted "It was ok... Had better, to be honest", as I let out a characteristically nervous laugh, the consultant held my gaze for a moment longer. I was looking at the way her blonde half fringe sat perfectly on the edge of her black rimmed spectacles as she gingerly ushered the words "I am sorry to have to tell you this, but you have Breast Cancer". Looking back up towards the small crooked water colour, I quickly wondered if the artist ever intended their work to be witness to so many life changing moments. I laughed out loud and shouted "Jesus Christ... No way", looking over towards Nick to see him struggling to hold back the little tears running down the side of his red face and onto his trimmed dark beard. Miss Davies waited not a second later to explain to me that they did not know what type of cancer it was at this point... and I would have to wait a week for the news to sink in... and to return to discuss a treatment plan...and to return to find out the receptors (how the cancer responds). She drew out a little diagram of my breast and showed me exactly where the cancer was, I had the primary tumour in my left breast and the lump under my arm was the result of the cancer that had spread to some of my lymph-nodes. I was then booked into have an MRI scan for the following ten days. Diagram completed by the Consultant that day. March 4 2016.
Before I could fully grasp the reality of my situation, I was handed another one of those awkward 'tie at the front' hospital gowns again and asked if I would endure a Mammogram, to which I certainly obliged. Nick made his way back to the waiting room and I followed the older nurse from earlier into a small changing room. I believe I was in there for no more than five seconds when I had to come back out to ask the nurse where the nearest toilet was. The all too familiar feeling of apparent shock had completely submerged me, as I found myself holding my long red ponytail behind my shoulders, my stomach contracted and I heaved uncontrollably as I sat sitting on the cold tiled floor, my white knuckles gripped to the back of the toilet seat from the other hand. I quickly pulled myself back together. I wiped my mouth, fixed my hair and got changed into the god awful awkward gown and emerged from behind the door, to where I could see a nervous Julie clutching some paperwork, "Are you ok my darling?". I remember thinking, "No, seriously" as I hid my pain and waited my turn for my scan. Altogether, I ended up having the infected breast uncomfortably squeezed and clamped down for three scans and another two for the opposite unaffected breast. The nurse doing the scan looked around my age and was incredibly sensitive and sweet, "Please tell me when you can't have it squeezed anymore", she would say before squeezing it harder after I would squeak "thats enough". I was oddly calm and serene through the whole experience, and started to notice the majority of water colour prints hung up around the rooms were indeed all ever so slightly hung crooked. I got changed quickly, left the white scan room and was reunited with Nick in another consultation room. Here, I was greeted by Julie and we talked briefly over the technicalities of how I was going to break the news to my nearest and dearest, I was particularly anxious about breaking this news to my mother. I mean, it is not something you expect your 24 year old daughter to come out with. The next couple of minutes were filled with vague questions and answers about chemotherapy, I recall asking if I would loose my hair and then am I going to die. Julie handled my questions like the true sensitive professional that she is and within minutes I was dumbfoundedly unleashed back into the 'normal world'. Standing back in that awful pastel waiting room with stacks of paperwork and appointment sheets perched onto my hands. Just before I left, a girl I vaguely recognised from the week before emerged from the coral corridor, she was beaming from ear to ear as I evolved to thinking, you lucky bitch. |
A ' no holds' page about my life with incurable advanced Breast Cancer, in the hope it will give a realistic, detailed account to other young women going through the unfortunate illness.
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