Acupuncture, tennis, a haircut and going back to work

Good things are happening.

The biggest thing to report on the physical front – and this is massive – is that the peripheral neuropathy in my feet that was caused by the chemotherapy drug paclitaxel has improved dramatically over the past month.

Don’t get me wrong; that painful throbbing and numbness in the balls of my feet and toes is still there, but to a much, much lesser degree. It’s nowhere near as painful as it was and it’s now only very rarely so bad that I have to sit down and rub my feet to try and ease the discomfort. I used to have to do that pretty regularly. It no longer wakes me up at night. In fact sometimes it’s not even there when I wake up. This is still slightly disconcerting as I’d got so used to it; I wake up and lie there wondering what’s wrong and then I remember and savour the fact that it’s no longer there. It’s a lovely (non)feeling.

Now here’s the thing. This easing off of the chemo-induced peripheral neuropathy has coincided with my starting acupuncture. I know those of you who know me well will do a double take on reading that but, yes, I’ve had three sessions to date and I absolutely love it. Regardless of whether or not that has anything at all to do with the improvement in the nerve damage in my feet, I have to say I have never in my life felt as relaxed as I feel during those sessions. I have them through a lovely charity, The Haven. I did wonder what I’d let myself in for when in one of the sessions I felt a needle being placed in the middle of my forehead right where a “third eye” might be if we had one (think Cyclops), but by then it was far too late. It was half-way through a session and, anyway, I was so relaxed by that point that I really almost didn’t care.

Ironically, the peripheral neuropathy is now at its worst when I’m running. The last five minutes of this Saturday’s 5k Parkrun were a bit of a struggle.

There’s plenty more good news. I’ve been back on the tennis courts twice now, albeit playing with the soft balls children play with when they’re learning. You won’t be surprised to hear that it felt really, really, really – I could go on – good. It was fine in terms of my arm and shoulder and abdomen (where the big scar is), both when I was playing and in the following days. On a related matter, the cording in my chest and arm is really loosening up. While certain stretches are still painful, I’ve more or less regained full mobility in my arm and shoulder.

I’d asked the consultant who’s in charge of managing my lymphoedema when I met her a couple of weeks ago whether I should play. The swelling is currently only in the reconstructed boob and surrounding area (Looking forward to a “much more symmetrical overall shape”). If it develops in your arm, the consultant said, it’s as likely to be caused by (over)reaching for a tennis ball as it is from lifting a too-heavy shopping bag. Her advice then? “Do what you enjoy.” That was just the encouragement I needed. It basically confirmed what the consultant on the radiotherapy side of things had said a few months ago (Should I play tennis? “Yes, just don’t play Federer.”). A few days later, I enlisted my lovely doubles partner to knock up with me and the following week the rest of the stalwarts of the ladies doubles team I used to play for also obliged. (Thanks, Mary M, Mary P, Monica and Julie, and thanks to coach Steve who suggested the soft balls! Hopefully it won’t be too long before I’m whacking those hard yellow balls again and back playing in the team.)

There’s more. Five months on from finishing chemo, I need a haircut. That’s happening later today. And this last one is really huge… I start back at work tomorrow. It’s time.

That’s about it on the physical front. What about emotionally? Well, thoughts of recurrence are no longer always the first thing that pop into my head when I wake up in the morning. When they do, I tell them to sod off. Sometimes it works. That’s a big improvement.

 

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“…3, 2, 1 and relax. Congratulations!”

I’d heard the radiographers count down from three then tell me to relax dozens of times during the 15 sessions of radiotherapy that I’d already had.

I’d to hold my breath seven times during each session as the radiation was delivered (A very strange position to be in (Radiotherapy Part 1)).  “3, 2, 1… and relax” was what the radiographers said through the intercom at the end of each hold to let me know I could start breathing normally again.

This time was different. It was Friday 26th February and it was a big day. It was my 16th and final radiotherapy session and it marked the end of the hospital-based phase of my breast cancer treatment. That’s why the radiographer guiding me through that session added “congratulations” after his final instruction to relax. Now for all I know they say that to everyone at the end of their last session. Regardless, I really appreciated the gesture. The moment deserved to be acknowledged. I’d been preparing for, having or recovering from treatment for seven months. Since last July, I’d had chemotherapy, major surgery involving a mastectomy, immediate breast reconstruction and axillary lymph node clearance, and finally, radiotherapy. Less than a month after I’d had surgery, my dad died. His funeral was in Glasgow on 1st February, I came back home to London on the 3rd and started radiotherapy on the 4th.

The day of that final session was an emotional one. I’d been in tears within seconds of waking up, from relief at having got to this point. I’d been expecting to burst into tears the second my last radiotherapy session was over but I was distracted by the radiographers chatting to me about how I felt the sessions had gone, asking about my plans for the rest of the day, getting me to sign the treatment completion form, warning me that the side effects from radiotherapy can continue to happen for another couple of weeks and giving me a leaflet about finishing treatment. My composure didn’t last long, though. I’d to have dressings reapplied to where my skin had reacted badly to the radiotherapy and I started to lose it as I walked from the radiotherapy suite over to the treatment room. Once inside, I sat down on the nearest chair and out it came. The tears only lasted a minute or two and I think I can be forgiven for feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the occasion. The radiography assistant who applied the dressings was very understanding. I guess they’re used to it.

There were more tears throughout the day when the enormity of what I’d gone through would hit me or I’d think of how different the day would have been if my dad had been around to share it.

I’m glad I waited a while to write this. I look back now and recall a lovely day. Cycling back from my appointment in the sunshine later that morning (Bike 8 – Car 7. Victory is mine.), I remember feeling immense gratitude towards everyone involved in my treatment. Just as I got back home I bumped into a neighbour I hadn’t seen for a while and we’d a bit of a chat. I got a massive hug from our cleaning lady. I had lunch with my tennis buddies, tea later in the afternoon with some good friends and lots of people got in touch to say congratulations. Andy, the boys and I finished the day off with our traditional celebratory family meal. You know the one (More good news)… lasagna, garlic bread and salad. This time the champagne was better than usual. We toasted ourselves and we toasted my dad.

In the end it was a day of huge relief and quiet celebration. It’s a day I won’t easily forget.