This Too Shall Pass

My appointment to see a breast surgeon duly arrived through the post a couple of days later. 

This time, my husband took me to the clinic on the Monday morning and we listened together as, the breast surgeon explained that my “poached quail’s egg” was in fact a 30mm grade 3 invasive ductal carcinoma that was triple-positive (HER2-positive, oestrogen receptor-positive and progesterone receptor-positive).  Lots of words I sort of recognised, but definitely not in that order.

She explained carefully what these words actually meant, but I’m not sure the information sank in at that point.  I think I remember her outlining a treatment plan of chemotherapy to shrink the tumour and reduce the chance of it returning before surgery, followed by five years of hospital follow-up.

Seated on a chair opposite us, just to the right of the consultant’s desk, was a young woman in uniform.  She hadn’t been introduced, and I had assumed she was a student in training.  The consultant then explained she was a Macmillan Nurse, who would take us into the next room to give us more information.

Once next door, she sat behind a desk and we sat opposite as she explained what each factor in the diagnosis actually meant.  She gave us a green and white information pack and a certificate for six-months free carparking onsite.  “Oh,” I said to myself, “that’s a bit serious then.”

I would receive an appointment in due course to meet with an oncology consultant, and more tests would be required before a treatment plan could be confirmed.

The rest of the consultation is a little hazy, but I remember noticing she had another two of the green and white info packs on her desk and realised she was going to have to tell another two unfortunate women a similar diagnosis before her day was finished.

As we left the hospital, I assumed it would be another couple of weeks until the tests and oncology appointment were confirmed, so I was delighted we could still go to France as planned later that week for the Le Mans 24-hour motor race at the weekend as that would be a nice distraction.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Within hours, the appointments began to arrive, including an MRI scan on Saturday, scheduled for ten minutes after the start of the race, and a meeting with the oncologist on the Monday, when we had booked an overnight stay in a château for a bit of a treat. 

I rang my husband at work feeling deeply upset that we couldn’t go away after all. Looking back, I think I was probably more distressed about cancelling our trip than I was about the diagnosis itself. It sounds irrational now, but I suspect it was simply the first tangible reminder that life wasn’t going to carry on as we’d planned.