Staging it

The first week of chemo has finally arrived. It seems to have been lurking in the background, an ever present but not quite tangible threat. Until now.

I had hoped to get this finished in the chemo suite on Thursday but ended up spending most of my time chatting to the nurses who were looking after me and my eventually very cold arm! So, since then I've put the rest of it together, bit by bit, in between feeling as if I've been reading the map in the car too long and high as a kite.

On Thursday I was finally hooked up to the machine receiving the first of six rounds of chemotherapy. If you want to imagine it, it's almost exactly the same as the ad except in my right hand and the chair was pink and the ward was bursting with other people all receiving treatment.

Back in June, the first meeting with the breast surgery team (actually just one member of the team, the handsome, softly spoken registrar, Dr Marios-Konstantinos Tasoulis) now seems a lifetime ago. I recorded it on my phone (with permission) and the woman I hear on the playback, insisting lightheartedly but with a rock solidly firm resolution, that she wasn't going to have all her lymph nodes removed, doesn't quite sound like me. I sound naive and far too sure of myself.

The reason I was only meeting one member of the team was because the results of my staging scans had not come back and nothing further could be decided until they knew if the Lump had managed to escape beyond my LLNs (Lumpy Lymph Nodes). I knew the results hadn't come back yet as I hadn't been for the scans. They were booked in for the following day. In two different hospitals.

Firstly the CT scan at Hammersmith Hospital (in East Acton) then, in the afternoon, the bone scan at Charing Cross Hospital (in Hammersmith!). Luckily there is a pretty reliable bus service from East Acton to Hammersmith as I only had a couple of hours to get from one to the other.

The CT scan was bizarre. They injected me with a substance which, within seconds sent a wave of not altogether unpleasant, tingling heat through my body. The large donut of the scanner passed over my body, where I lay, intermittently holding my breath (as I recall...). The whole thing took less than 5mins! It'd taken me longer to get changed into the hospital gown and work out which tape tied to which to prevent the entire waiting room getting a pre-lunch appetite suppressant in the form of my bare bum!

As the CT department had been running about half an hour late (one of their scanners was down and there was a jam packed waiting room, so I reckon half an hour was pretty good under the circumstances!) I now only had just over half an hour to get to Charing Cross hospital for my radioactive injection ready for the bone scan later that afternoon. The bus was great until we got on to the Shepherds Bush Road, where it ground to a halt in terrible traffic. Nothing left but to walk the mile and a half left to the hospital.

I made it with seconds to spare. I don't remember having to wait very long. They injected me with a radioactive isotope and then I had to go away for 3hrs while the radioactivity seeped into my bones... Ready Brek glow developing nicely, I decided the only thing for it was to do some retail therapy!

Back at the hospital and not too much lighter in the pocket, I was ushered into another changing room to struggle into another hospital gown. Then into a dimly lit room with a very narrow bed on tracks with a huge X-ray contraption at the foot. I lay down on the bed and was given a sling of canvas to place both arms in, which rested across my body and stopped my arms dangling down beside the bed. The radiographer asked me to keep very still and the machine was moved up to my head, lowered until my nose almost touched the screen and the scan began.

It took a lot longer than the CT scan. I had time to wonder, as the machine moved away from my head, slowly staggering and carefully scanning my skeleton, what these scans would reveal. Had the LLNs done their job and halted the progress of this insidious disease or would I find out that the Lump had escaped and colonised another area of my body with rogue breast cells...

As the scan drew to a slow halt over my feet, I asked the radiographer how long the results would take to arrive with the Breast Surgery team. "They should be with them tomorrow" was the very welcome reply. (I really don't like waiting for 'the unknown'. At all. One little bit. As a child, I always opened presents when I found them (very carefully of course, re-wrapping just as carefully to avoid detection!) And there was no way I could have gone through nine months of pregnancy without finding out both times whether the new person inside me was a boy or girl - it would've driven me to distraction!). So. This being a Tuesday and assuming I could find someone one on the Breast Surgery team willing to talk to me over the phone, I should have the results before the weekend.

Easier thought than done.

I gave them until Friday before I started phoning the hospital. I spoke to all sorts of different people who were all very pleasant and sympathetic but none of them were at liberty to give me results as they weren't medically trained. I tried getting through to the Breast Care nurses. But after I left a couple of messages, I was starting to feel like a stalker! I even called my long suffering GP and asked them to call the hospital... All to no avail. The closest I got was Mr Hadjiminas' secretary, the lovely and very patient (unlike me!) Marcia. She was going to try and get a member of the Breast Surgery team to call me on Monday.

EEK!

I was at work and beginning to slide into full 'fear of the unknown' meltdown. My imagination was going into overdrive and I was thinking the worst; hearing the pity in the voices of all the clerical staff I was bothering.

Eventually, one of the breast care nurses phoned me (unfortunately I don't remember which member of the team it was as I was a bit on the desperate side of rational by then.) She gave me the very welcome news that there were no signs of any metastasising cancerous Lumps anywhere else.

My lymph nodes had fulfilled their function and kept the Lump at bay. I thankfully only had stage one breast cancer.

Taking the Rough with the Smooth

Chemo #2 has so far been noticeably harder than #1. I can feel an uncharacteristic weakness in my limbs - not that I'm anywhere near the point if collapse - far from it. I'm still taking the stairs two at a time when there's an opportunity and am still walking whenever I can. It's just that little bit harder to coax my legs into it - to persuade my body that it will feel better for the exercise (and it really does feel better for making the effort). It's not like the tiredness I experience after a long walk - even after 100 miles. It's deeper than that. Not fatigue from the relentless one foot in front of the other, outside effort. But from within.

The other thing I've noticed is that, despite being given a stronger intravenous, pre-chemo, anti-sickness medication, the feelings of nausea are worse this time. I haven't actually been sick but then I'll do virtually anything to stop myself being sick, I hate throwing up SO much.

I was going to say that neither of these worsening symptoms has yet stopped me going to work or doing anything else I've wanted to do. But unfortunately that is not now the case. There is a limit (it turns out!) to what I can push, persuade & otherwise bully my poor old body into. (It probably hasn't helped that my period has turned up, four days late and twice as problematic as usual and that I also seem to have picked up a cold from somewhere). If there is a cumulative effect over the remaining four rounds (as I've been told there probably will be) then things are likely to get worse before they get better (although I'm pretty sure my ovaries are going to throw in the towel before then - poor old things! So I won't have that double whammy again - fingers crossed!)

But it's ok. It's ok for me to feel ill. It's ok for me to feel down. Because the drugs that are currently coursing through my system are doing their job. They are powerful, harsh chemical substances which are destroying any remaining rogue cancer cells. In the process they are causing damage (just temporarily) to the body they are healing. To the body they are cleaning. But I have faith that my system is strong and I have the advantage over most that I have taken part and successfully completed a few long distance endurance events.

There is a feeling of certainty I get before a long walk. Usually a couple of days before - sometimes (as in the most recent 50 mile walk) it only happens as I begin. It's a certainty, an absolute belief, that, barring major outside influences or accidents (and probably even including some of them!) I will finish the event. It passes over me as a calming, soothing assurance that within me I have the resources, the determination and the sheer bloody, stubborn grit, to finish successfully what I am about to or have just started. I have that now with this treatment.

The journey I am on now through chemo, is just as unknown as that first 100 mile walk was back in 2012. Oh, I can see the route, they've told me how many sessions I'm due to have and what the likely side-effects are. But I have no idea how my body will feel, how my individual, unique system (balanced or otherwise), will react at each new challenge which comes up. In the same way I just kept putting one foot in front of the other on that first 100 mile walk, secure in the knowledge that plenty of others had previously done just that and succeeded, I am taking each moment as it comes on this journey, taking heart from those who've already completed the challenge and keeping myself on the path (with a not inconsiderable amount of support from a lot of you).

(WARNING: the following three paragraphs contain details of a breast surgical nature - please don't read them if you're squeamish or found the mention of 'periods' offensive!)

It seems such a long time ago now, waiting to recover from that first operation back in July. Trying not to be impatient with my body (and mind) as I came out of the fug of the anaesthetic and endured the pain as the feeling returned to the site of the operation. Or I should say, sites - I couldn't see them yet as they were both carefully covered (mostly) with post op dressings but I had two distinct 'wounds': a slit of a few centimetres (couple of inches) under my left arm and a circular cut which ran the entire way around my left areole.

I mentioned in a previous post that what Mr Hadjiminas had proposed (and now carried out) was the equivalent of a plastic surgery procedure to reduce and lift my breast. Because the Lump had been so close to the surface and relatively close to my areole (it was never going to be very far away to be honest as my boobs aren't what anyone would describe as large!), Mr H was able to cut all the way round the areole and get to the Lump from there. He then closed the gap in the breast tissue under the skin, made by the offending article, removed a small amount of ordinary skin all the way round, then lifted and 'gathered' (actually don't think I need to use inverted commas as he must've literally done just that - for me as a sometime seamstress, it was fascinating!) the skin and stitched it, very neatly back together all the way round...

But all I could see of my left areole at this point was the tip of my nipple through the dressing. Some kind assistant in the operating theatre had very carefully cut out a 'peephole' for it - like it might need to breathe or see what was going on...

I thought I'd be going back in for the results the following week. As it turned out I had to wait 10 days. Luckily there was a lot going on outside of breast cancer and it's relentless treatment, to keep me busy and my mind off things. Henry was just about to leave St Mark's Primary School and his year six 'Leavers' Do' was fast approaching. I'd already agreed to do the cake and wanted to honour my commitment (as much as a V's up to the cancer as anything else). It became a family project with my Sister, Niece and Mum all hugely contributing to its success! And it really helped to keep my head straight and off the looming results.

So with Henry's end-of-an-era (and at one point seemingly endless) year six leavers' events all attended and Arthur now finishing his reception year, on the very last day of term, Mike and myself turned up at the Breast Services department to hear the outcome of the operation.

It was good and bad.

We sat down in the consulting room with the Registrar (a new one who I may or may not have met when under the influence of 'the poppy', 10 days before - he looked vaguely familiar...) and Vanessa (my lovely breast care nurse). The wide local excision of the original cancerous Lump had been totally successful. The margins of healthy tissue taken (hence the 'wide' part of the procedure name) were all completely clear of cancer. Phew.

All four of the lymph nodes taken in the sample were completely buggered. (Sorry, cancerous.)

The Registrar broke the news that I would need to have a total axillary clearance after all. I burst into tears like a disappointed four year old and started to protest. But common sense and the gentle persuasion of husband, nurse and doctor won me over relatively quickly in the end. By the end of the consultation I'd agreed to a second operation. And now it was 'the sooner the better' as it was going to delay the next and important stage of the treatment: chemotherapy...

Strangely although both operations now feel quite distant that consultation, where I finally, (emotionally at least) let go of my remaining, brave, little lymph nodes could have been yesterday.

Then came the wait for the date of the second (and hopefully) final operation...

Walking it off...

My feet hurt. But I'm strangely happy about it. I'm happy because I managed to complete the LDWA (Long Distance Walkers Association) Surrey Tops 50 mile challenge walk last weekend.

Most people reading will already know about this mad obsession I now have with long distance walking. I love it. Quite simply it sorts out my head. This most recent challenge has completely wrecked my toes and the balls of my feet and I'm very tired but my head is straight (and bald - of this more later!).

I think it's probably my own personal version of a mid-life crisis but I've been told by every department at Charing Cross Hospital with which I've had dealings so far, that I MUST continue to walk. Keeping active and in particular walking in the fresh air, reduces the incidence of cancer reoccurring by 50%. I probably don't need to walk 50 miles to gain this benefit and won't be walking that far again until February. But I will continue to walk shorter distances throughout the rest of the chemo treatment and subsequent radiotherapy. And it is amazing how much better a walk makes me feel.

I know one of the reasons my feet are suffering so much after this last event (nowadays I rarely have the full set of 10 but I think I'm going to lose a record number of toenails in the coming weeks!!) is down to the lack of any training at all of any distance, since the 100mile walk in May. The other reason (I'm pretty sure) is that my skin has already started reacting to the chemotherapy and gone a bit soft and super sensitive on me. One of many side effects I've noticed over the last three weeks.

The other main and most noticeable side effect is the hair loss. It got so bad after the walk last weekend (it was coming out in great handfuls and I came out of the post-walk shower so plastered in loose hair, I looked like the yeti!) that I decided to shave it all off and am now sporting an ever more patchy five o'clock shadow... But I've had a very good example set to me from a young age of how to go bald gracefully and even proudly. Most of the men in my family are bald and none of them have ever tried to hide it. They are (or were, in the case of my maternal Grandfather, who passed away 23 years ago - still miss you, Poppa!) all handsome men with fine shaped heads that look none the worse for a lack of hair. So I'm taking my menfolk's lead and wearing my new look with pride. Invoking the spirits of Sigourney Weaver as Ripley, Sinead O'Conner (alas without the voice! But perhaps with slightly more of sense of humour?!) and with a smattering of Dr Evil (from Austin Powers) just for the fun of it!

I realise I've been wittering on about hair loss & walking and haven't yet got round to what happened back in June, when I woke up after the Lumpectomy... There's not a small amount of procrastination involved in the delay as I'm just a little bit ashamed of my behaviour when I (eventually) woke up.

I'm not a happy person when I come round from general anaesthetics at the best of times. But unfortunately it turns out morphine makes it a LOT worse. All I can say is that I'd be a rubbish heroine addict - god that stuff made me feel dreadful! And behave even worse...

It's all a little unclear now - I vaguely remember Mr Hadjiminas and his very young, handsome registrar coming round to see me and telling me something about something - I dread to think what I said to them - I really hope it wasn't too inappropriate or rude...! I kept feeling horribly nauseous, so the lovely and long-suffering nurses gave me one of those grey cardboard party hats to be sick in. I told them quite loudly and in no uncertain terms (which I expect they heard in the next ward) that I HATED being sick and wasn't going to be if I could possibly help it. I believe I repeated this statement at a similar volume, several times.

I eventually called Mike (my husband) to come and pick me up - after politely (I hope) declining the offer of a bed in the overnight ward. He seemed to take AGES to get there and in the meantime everyone else on the ward was leaving; my lovely new friend, a devout Catholic who lent me one of her precious and beautiful icons to help me feel better and who's name now entirely escapes me; the other two ladies, who'd both been through surgery quietly and with a dignity I had entirely abandoned. Even the staff started to leave! I knew I'd outstayed my welcome when the remaining two nurses came to me and politely but firmly told me I had

to get dressed now and wait out in the visitors lounge reception as they had to lock up.

Mike turned up just as I managed to lump my backpack into the lounge. I was driven home to a wonderful (if brief) welcome from my two beautiful sons. Then, after half an hour or so of ineffectually making sure I'd packed everything I'd need (which basically involved taking loads of stuff I didn't!), Mum and Dad put me in the car and took me back to their house in Thame for a few days of recuperation.

And a week to find out the results. A whole week before I knew if they'd managed to remove all the cancer...

(I think that might have been one of the things Mr H had been trying to tell me...)

Telling Times

So I now know when my chemotherapy will start, what cocktail they're going try (unfortunately not the little paper umbrella and slice of pineapple kind!) and how many rounds they're proposing to give me. The knowledge is making me feel dizzy and a bit sick and I haven't even started it yet! (I reckon it's that old psychosomatic tendency again mixed in with a good dollop of nervous tension - fear of the unknown).

I'm being a bit of a baby if I'm honest - the urge to do a walking version of the Forrest Gump run is almost too strong to resist. I just want to turn my face into the wind and keep walking forever, away from this situation I'm in. Away from the treatment. And, strangely perhaps, away from all the love and support which has been pouring towards me in many forms and from so many people. It's not that I'm ungrateful, completely the reverse - I know I wouldn't have stayed this strong and positive without such caring, loving support. It's just that, I think. I don't want to be in the position of needing the support. Hmm it's feeling a bit like a stroppy teenager, 'independence' thing... Or the coward in me... But it turns out that I am actually quite brave and strong, and I am NOT a quitter (thank gawd for the three 100 mile challenges I've completed!) so I will face the coming treatment with as much PMA (positive mental attitude) laughter and good grace as I can muster (look out for my stand-up debut some time in October!!).

But so far (even now, after two surgical procedures and the looming spectre of chemotherapy) the hardest part of this whole thing has been telling people that I have cancer. Reactions to the news have varied from gentle and loving concern to abject horror. It has been especially difficult telling the people I love and care for the most.  

I told my husband, Mike, over the phone as I left the hospital. He was shaken, I can remember hearing it in his voice, though I don't now remember the conversation or exactly what was said.

Miranda, my lovely little sister was the next person to know after Mike. They both knew I'd been in for tests but, after a discussion with my sister we'd decided not to worry Mum & Dad by telling them I'd found a Lump - after all it was probably nothing...

I told my Mum the following day, after we'd been for a pamper morning at a little place just outside Beaconsfield. It was part of her birthday celebrations and (although I knew it would probably ruin the day in retrospect) I decided to wait until we were eating lunch so she could enjoy the massage and manicure we were booked in for. Poor Mum. What a horrible thing to hear. She was very brave and hardly cried at all. Together, we phoned Dad, who was at home - which probably wasn't the best way for him to hear the news, but is there really a good way to hear that someone you love has cancer? Poor Dad.

We told our two sons just over a week after I received the diagnosis. The reason for the delay was to let Henry (our 11 year old) enjoy his year 6 adventure holiday with the school. We felt that he'd have been too worried about things to have fun and he'd been looking forward to the trip since he'd started at the school in Nursery! I knew that keeping it from them indefinitely was out of the question. Both of them are intelligent and in very different ways, sensitive children and I knew with what I was going to be facing, honesty was the the best way forward. Also, the ad was still doing the rounds (more of that another time!).

Mike and I sat them both down on the sofa and announced it as gently as that sort of information can be imparted. It went something like, "Mummy found a little Lump in her left bosom and when the hospital tested it, it turned out that it was breast cancer. I'm going to have to have an operation to remove it and then some treatment called chemotherapy..."

Henry immediately broke down into great wracking sobs. He'd had a nightmare one night, while away with the school, in which I'd died (I suspect that, despite trying very hard to hide it from them, both boys had picked up on our sky high anxiety levels) and the news that I had cancer was, in his head, that nightmare evolving into reality. "Are you going to die?" Was his first question. To which my reply was, "Yes, of course! Everybody's going to die but I have no idea when!" That might sound a bit harsh but we've always been honest about the life/death cycle (well since they started asking about death and dying, which occurred at around four years old for both of them!). I hadn't had the staging tests then, which would tell me if the cancer had escaped and spread to other parts of my body so had no idea of the prognosis and didn't want to tell them I was going to be fine if I was going to have to turn round in a couple of weeks and tell them I wasn't. It's a trust thing.

Arthur was very quiet. Despite only being 5 (and a half!), he already had a pretty firm grasp of what cancer was all about because of the Macmillan's ad. An inquisitive and thoughtful child, interested in how bodies work, he'd asked lots of questions at the time the ad came out and had particularly identified with the boy playing my son. After we told him, Arthur was very quiet for about 30 seconds. Then without saying a word or shedding a tear (though his face betrayed the struggle he was having to stop his eyes leaking), he came over to where I was sitting, wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tightly.

It hasn't got any easier telling people. Broaching it is awkward. Saying the words "I've got breast cancer", now sound like a a bit of a lie as the actual cancerous Lump has been removed along with all 11 (eventually) infected Lumpy Lymph Nodes (LLNs) and their 13 healthy fellows... I suppose I should now say something like, "I'm recovering from breast cancer and being treated just in case my LLNs didn't manage to stop all the cancer which was trying to escape" (a job which I happen to believe they attempted valiantly). One of my friends, who was diagnosed and treated for breast cancer last year, described chemotherapy as "putting bleach through the pipes" to ensure that there aren't any tiny, microscopic pockets of cancer hiding away ready to start another Lump somewhere else... Which is I think, a very clear and succinct analogy.

So round one of six chemotherapy cycles starts this Thursday, 4th September. Each cycle is 3 weeks, so with any luck and a following wind, the last cycle should be over before the New Year. I'm on the FEC-T combination (which is probably how I'll be feeling for at least some of the time during the next 16 weeks!!). On Facebook, for each of the cycles, I'm setting challenges for myself and some brave friends in the 'Chemo Countdown to Christmas'. I'm hoping it'll be a fun way to keep me focused, positive and out of too much trouble...

Right, that's quite enough for now! So, to quote a favourite playwright of mine, "Once more unto the breach dear friends, once more..."

21/08/2014

Catching up

After over two months of knowing that I have one of the biggest killers of women in this country, I am finally catching up. The lag I was experiencing is becoming less frequent and I now intellectually and emotionally know this is happening to me, now...

Back at the beginning of June, after he'd told me I had breast cancer, Mr Gordon (the consultant breast surgeon) had suggested that it was probably a big shock and that I'd be bound to have lots of questions. He outlined the proposed treatment - a wide local excision (lumpectomy) and total axillary clearance, followed by approximately five months of chemotherapy, up to six weeks of radiotherapy and then (as my particular type of cancer was very responsive to oestrogen) a long course of hormone therapy. What?!

Sorry.

Was he talking to me?

All I could think about was how foolish I felt, having done that advert, to now actually have cancer. I had cancer. Me? No hang on... But if I'm honest it wasn't really a surprise, the truth of the situation had been dawning on me in incremental stages since I'd discovered The Lump in the shower in Pontypool.

I told Mr Gordon & Vanessa (my breast care nurse who was also in the consultation) as much, saying that it was a shock to finally hear the words but not really a surprise. Then I mentioned how ironic it was that I played the cancer patient in the current Macmillan ad...

Trying very hard to get my thoughts together, I attempted to ask some intelligent questions;

Me: How long before the op?

Mr G: About four weeks - we have to operate within 30 days - government guide lines.

Me: What does 'total axillary node clearance' mean?

Mr G: All the lymph nodes from your left armpit up to your collarbone would be removed to avoid any residual cancer escaping into the rest of your body (this isn't exactly word for word but the gist of what he said)

Me: Oh. (I'm pretty sure that's exactly what I said)

He then explained that Vanessa would take me to another room and talk through any questions I may have.

The "Why me?" question would have probably been an obvious one but perhaps strangely, even now that question only pops up as a secondary or even tertiary, passing thought when dealing with other more practical and useful queries (I don't like any question which starts with why - it's a cop out and I won't even let my five year old use it if we can come up with a better way of framing the question). Mine were things like, "how am I going to cope with... (Insert relevant subject here!)?" So far: telling people I love & care about, telling my new employers, dealing with surgery, dealing with inactivity, being a good patient, being patient and good, being looked after, having no lymph nodes in my left arm... The list goes on and the latest one is, "how am I going to cope with chemo?"

I'm writing this, sitting in the Maggie's centre (a wonderful, tranquil place in the grounds of Charing Cross Hospital). This morning I was signed off by the breast surgery team for five months and this afternoon I will meet an Oncologist to pass on to the next phase of the treatment. Chemotherapy. Ho hum!

Meanwhile, back in June, Vanessa took me in to a room which on closer inspection was stacked, floor to ceiling with boxes of post mastectomy, prosthetic bras. They were fascinating and a little bit distracting so I can't clearly remember what exactly was said... I know I cried a bit. And we went through leaflets about various aspects of my particular type of breast cancer and what it meant in terms of treatment. By the time I left I was loaded with information, full of further questions which hadn't quite surfaced yet and slightly dazed. I also had my next appointment, to meet the breast surgery team.

So I hadn't been wasting their time. It was real. I had breast cancer. But I felt absolutely fine!

Two operations later and I'm not feeling quite so well now. A combination of two general anaesthetics in one month and all the surgery side effects have taken their toll on the poor old bod. And I have a feeling it's going to get worse before it gets better but...

BRING IT ON!

Lag

Since finding 'the Lump' I've been experiencing the opposite of 'living in the moment' or Mindfulness as it now appears to be called; which (after my Mum, my Niece & I tried out and rejected a lot of new (mainly made up) words and expressions to describe the phenomenon over breakfast this morning) I've ended up describing as 'lag'. I'm mostly at least a month behind what's going on right now. This has meant that my experience of having cancer has so far been almost totally surreal.

I don't think it helped that I found the Lump straight after completing the most difficult physical challenge I've ever undertaken (including giving birth twice with no pain relief). Or that I hadn't, at the point I uttered those immortal words,

"Ooh, that's not good" (see previous instalment) had any sleep at all for approximately 52 hours (not counting the couple of times I nodded off briefly whilst walking along the canal section).

I had barely caught up with my sleep when I turned up at the GPs three days later, in a bit of a haze, hoping that she'd have a quick feel and tell me I was worrying about nothing. When she handed me the referral form with 'suspected cancer' written in the notes, she said that it was just so they knew what to look for. When she felt under my armpit for signs of 'palpable' lymph nodes, there was nothing there.

Two days later there was.

The 'palpable lymph node' was probably the next "Ooh, that's not good" moment. I'd accepted the doctor's explanation of the 'suspected cancer' note on the referral form to Charing Cross Hospital - of course they needed to know what to look for... But the Lumpy Lymph Node was my body's way of telling me something was wrong and that it was putting up a fight.

My date came through very quickly for an appointment at the Charing Cross Breast Care Outpatients department. I was going to be seen exactly two weeks after the GP had referred me. But the Lumpy Lymph Node had frightened me and after speaking to the GP for her advice, I decided to see if they could fit me in earlier on a cancellation.

The staff at the booking office and in the outpatients department were all very patient and lovely and after a couple of anxious calls (I was trying to remain calm as it's never a good idea to let yourself panic in these or any other situations - it was quite hard not to by this stage. I have a very active imagination and a slight tendency towards hypochondria if I'm not careful. Give me a list of symptoms and by the time I've finished reading it I've invariable got most of them!) Very quickly they managed to fit me in, on the Thursday, a whole week before my initial appointment.

I turned up in the right waiting room (eventually) and took a seat. I'd brought a pair of trousers I was altering for Henry's book day costume which I'd almost completely finished by the time I was called in... (There'd been a delay waiting for my notes to turn up). The gentle, slightly distant, consultant, Mr Gordon, ushered me in to the room and again I waited (slightly less hopefully this time) for him to have a feel and tell me it was just a fatty lump and nothing to worry about. He didn't. He sent me for a mammogram.

Ouch! I wasn't endowed with a pair of whoppers (far from it!) and trying to get my poor, sulky little boobs into the X-ray squasher was more than a trifle uncomfortable. Then it was on to the breast care ultrasound department for a scan and biopsies of both the lump and the lymph node. But all this still wasn't happening to me!

As I walked into the darkened ultrasound room the X-ray pictures of my breasts were displayed on the lightbox in the corner. The two semi-circular, 'top views' were displayed side by side and I remember thinking they looked like a black & white photo of the moon... Lying in the semi-darkness, left boob smeared in KY Jelly, the delightfully cheerful sonographer breezed in and reassured me with, "there's nothing very exciting going on in the mammogram! Which is good, isn't it?!"

Then he started looking at the lump with his machine and (though he did a valiant job at covering it up) his demeanour subtly changed.

He took biopsies from the Lump and (eventually once he'd managed to chase it round my armpit for a bit) the Lumpy Lymph Node.

I think I went back to see Mr Gordon after that although I'm not sure why and can't remember what was said. On the way out I agreed with the receptionist that we would use my original appointment the following Thursday to come back for the results. I still felt like I was probably wasting everyone's time.

It was a HORRIBLE week. I was working as a receptionist at UK Sport. I'd been made redundant but had agreed to work there until the office move (a whole other story there...!). But I'd applied for, been offered and accepted a job as receptionist at the British Olympic Association. Blithely trusting that old assumption that 'cancer always happens to someone else' (well this still wasn't really happening to me, was it?) I went in and signed my new contract at the BOA. Then I broke a mirror... I'm not really superstitious but it was like a cork released from a bottle, it just tipped me over the edge and I cried & cried. And cried. Two of my colleagues tried to reassure me with the statistics - only one in nine lumps are cancerous - the chances were, I'd be fine. This was one of my more lucid moments when I knew it was happening to me. Horrible.

One of the longest weeks of my life ended with all sorts of confusion over the follow up appointment to find out my results. Unfortunately the appointment had been cancelled by mistake and I ended up sitting alone, (I hadn't brought anyone with me - I wasn't expecting to need support) in Outpatients for over an hour, getting into more and more of a tangle in my head...

The (internal) dialogue went something like,

"Well I can't have cancer if they've cancelled my appointment!"

"But wouldn't they'd have called me if the results were all clear and I didn't need to come in?"

"They could've sent a letter which has just been delayed in the post...?"

"If the results were all clear why couldn't they just tell you at reception?"

"Right, yes, let's go and ask at reception!"

This dialogue went round and round with various minor adjustments but in the end, Mr Gordon himself, came to get me from Outpatients, apologising for the mix up. I followed him, slightly bewildered that the consultant had come to collect me in person. I went to follow him into his consultation room but he asked me to sit and wait outside while he went to fetch someone else. I did as I was told. He returned with a nurse, went into his room with her and closed the door. I continued to wait but had just experienced another "Ooh, that's not good" moment - probably the strongest thus far.

About five minutes later (or was it a couple of hours? Time dragged and warped at this point and it felt like forever; but not nearly long enough), Mr Gordon popped his head round the door and asked me to come in.

As I sat down with a herd of elephants (the butterflies had long since metamorphosed...) stampeding around my stomach, he introduced me to Vanessa. I can't remember now if he said "This is Vanessa, your breast care nurse" or just "Vanessa, a breast care nurse" anyway...

We all sat down and he said,

"It's not good news I'm afraid, you've got breast cancer"

"Ooh, that's NOT good"...

I'm finally starting my blog. (Despite what the date says at the top there, I can assure you it is 9th August 2014!) This is meant to be about my career; Annabel the actress and I suppose in some ways it is...

At the beginning of this year (2014) I filmed an ad for Macmillan Cancer Care. I played a cancer patient receiving chemotherapy on an empty ward, surrounded by my thoughts - thank you's to all the people who had helped on my journey so far.

At the end of May, over the bank holiday weekend, I walked 100miles. I have done the Long Distance Walker's Association annual 100 mile challenge twice before this year. The aim is to walk the 100 mile route (run by a different group and in a different area of the country every year) within 48 hours. There are checkpoints every 5-10 miles run by volunteers from all over the country and stocked with delicious things to keep the 500 or so walkers (and some runners!) fully energised for the challenge.

I'm a two night walker. Some of the runners and faster walkers get finished in under 36 hours. But I just keep walking at a steady 2.5 mph and through two nights and get it finished in just under the 48 hour deadline.

This year the walk was in Wales. The Welsh Valleys to be exact. And it was wet. Very, very wet! It rained almost continuously for the first 26 hours. Then intermittently but torrentially for the next six or so hours. Everything was wet. None of the so called waterproof clothing was. The ground was boggy. The puddles were knee deep. Hardened LDWA 100 walkers were dropping out. Friends who had completed the challenge on many previous occasions were being timed out at checkpoints. The small band I had been walking with was whittled down to just two - with three checkpoints to go, Aaron and I were only 15 minutes ahead of the sweeper (the person responsible for

'Sweeping up' the walkers who weren't going fast enough to finish in 48 hours). By the time we got back to Pontypool we were just over half an hour ahead, finishing in 47 hours 28 minutes.

Eventually after I got back to the hotel I plucked up the courage to get in the shower and get wet again.

And that's when I found it.

A small, lozenge shaped lump on the left side of my left breast.

"Ooh, that's not good!" Were my exact words at the time.

I went to the GP three days later and was seen by Charing Cross a week after that. Mammogramed, ultra-sound scanned and biopsied, both from the lump and from a now palpable lymph node under my left arm, I was sent away to wait for a week for the results to come back.

It was breast cancer.

I was booked in for a lumpectomy and total axillary clearance. But I wanted to hold on to most of my lymph nodes if I possibly could and so persuaded the lovely Mr Hadjiminas (Consultant Breast Surgeon) to only take the lump and a few lymph nodes. That was on 10th July.

Twelve days later I went back for the biopsy results from that surgery. The margins around the lump were all clear. But all four of the lymph nodes they took were cancerous. A second operation was booked for a total axillary clearance. All the lymph nodes from my left armpit up to my collar bone were removed on Thursday 7th August.

I am writing this sitting on my hospital bed, waiting for my prescription from the pharmacy. I have a drain from the wound site which consists of a transparent plastic tube, stitched in to a neat little hole in my side. The tube runs from inside my armpit to a bottle which I will be carrying with me until it is removed on Friday. Yesterday it was the colour and consistency of raspberry smoothy; today it is a cheeky little rosé. Tomorrow I'm hoping for Chardonay as that will mean I'm healing inside.

So I am now lymph node-less on my left arm. But I am also (fingers crossed) cancer free too.

Chemo here I come...