When it comes to my illness, I am constantly on hyper alert for bad things happening. It’s not really an alert, I now expect bad things to happen. It did not used to be this way, except if you count the time I went to the doctor because I had a cough that I thought was lung cancer, which subsequently turned out to be myeloma. That old chestnut.
These days though, if I experience any change to my body, I fear the worst. I easily convince myself that the worst is coming. My favourite fear, is the thrice weekly belief that the pain I get in my head when I lean to the left is a brain tumour. Let us rue the day somebody said the words ‘secondary cancer’ to me.
The paranoia usually starts from the simplest of things and then, over a period of time, it will slowly spiral out of control to the point where it is all I can think about, am reunited with insomnia and have the constant sensation of needing a poo. I have a perfect example of this mania, which I am going to share with you now, because I am sitting on a train and I have the time and inclination to do so. Enjoy.
I experience a slow and steady increase in back pain, though torso pain may be more accurate, because that covers my rib area and collarbone as well as my stupid spine.
Thursday 7 November 2013
I share my the tales of my pain with the Medically Trained People and I am told that that does not match my biopsy results, which as you should all know where ‘good’, and thus, I am booked in for a MRI scan. I was rather pleased about this.
Sunday 1 December 2013
I had my scan, which was very painful. You might know this already because I wrote a blog about it, though I am not entirely sure if I published it, because that seems to be the way things are going at the moment. Anyway, I am digressing. It was extremely painful. I found, upon my arrival and after donning the hospital gown, the staff to be dismissive and uncaring when they put me on the slab. I was just told to lie down and shoved right in there; I was not treated like when I came out of the tube. Why was that though? Oh Em Gee, what did they see on the scan? They were definitely taking pity on my, whilst being thankful for their lives even though they were working on a Sunday. The pain would not have been that bad if nothing was wrong, would it? I was informed that the results would be sent to my ‘Doctor’ (fools, everybody knows I have several of them) in a week.
The Following Week In December 2013
Washing the dishes and in my mind, like a big neon sign, was the word ‘TUMOUR’. Then, whilst I was in the bath, a little nursery rhyme appeared in my brain telling me that my L4 was about to snap. I was on the bus and there I thought that it had snapped along with all the other lesions on my spine. Get the picture? The bad thoughts were there and I did not like them.
Wednesday 4 December 2013
In the middle of my imaginative nightmare, I decided to send a casual email about my scan to the Medically Trained People and in the response I was told that the results would be looked at at the Monday morning meeting, and they would be discussed with me the next day when I came in for my velcade. At this precise point, when I was visiting Mamma Jones in hospital after an operation, my paranoia went up a step and then for the next six days, I counted down the minutes until I arrived on the Second Floor for my injection of Cilit Bang.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, something bad was going to happen, tick, tock. Appreciate budding flowers and a clear sky. Tick tock.
Tuesday 10 December 2013
I arrived at the hospital with a slightly sweaty right armpit, which is pretty normal when I am nervous. As soon as I was sitting down in a grey reclining chair, I asked the nurse treating me to make contact with my other nurse, so she knew I was in. Unfortunately, the nurse treating me did not know who I was talking about, so I had to whip my phone out and provide the contact details. I waited. I popped my big toes. Sometime later, I was informed that my nurse was at lunch, but she would call me later to discuss the results. For this reason and this reason only, I turned the ringer on my phone on. And do you know what happened? I did not not receive a call. That evening, the paranoia switched to delusional, with a rather healthy spluttering of swear words, as I imagined the worst whilst being unable to hold my arm steady because of the nerves. I sought advice from the Support Network, who all told me to ring the next day. I then had a few alcoholic drinks to take the edge off.
Wednesday 11 December 2013
I did not call. I did not call because I was due a clinic appointment the following day and aware of my growing mental situation, I decided that as I was definitely going to be told that they could not discuss my results with me on the phone, which is why I had not received a call the previous day, I was best to enjoy my final day of ignorance, before I came crashing down to the reality of terminal cancer. Of course, this did not mean that I did not think about it. I did attempt to bring forward my appointment time, but to no avail. More waiting.
I went out that evening and somebody made inappropriate sexual advances again, and still, all I could think about was the fact that my MRI scan results were going to be catastrophic. Yep, by this point, I was facing a catastrophe. I had a few alcoholic beverages to take the edge off. I did not sleep very well.
Thursday 12 December 2013
Results Day! I arrived at the hospital, but this time, it was not just my right armpit that had a sweat on. I was moist and not in a good way. I made my way to the Fourth Floor and all I could think was, ‘do not give me the Big, Tall Senior Medically Trained Person’ for he is always my bearer of bad news. I’m sure he is lovely, but by default, he’s my nemesis right from the point I met him on 22 August 2012. It was a stuck record in my head. I waited, and this clinic was running particularly late, so I waited some more, watching people go in before me. I cursed the fact that I was there by myself, it was going to be the sequel to Bad News Day, I calculated which friends could get there the quickest. I filled the 50 minutes by taking photographs. They were not very good.
See? I needed the toilet, I didn’t go. Instead, I spilt my tea all over my dogtooth jumper from Marks and Spencer; it left a stain. In the time I spent waiting, I noted that the Big Tall Senior Medically Trained Person was not there, so imagine how I felt when my name was called and it was by the person who sits above him on the Myeloma Department’s headed paper. I was going to talk gibberish, I knew I was going to talk gibberish, because at this point, I was a dead, stylish, lady walking.
I sat on the pink seat and looked at the Very Senior Medically Person, whilst I attempted to hide my shaking.
And then, the best thing happened, she asked me to remind her of my case, not only that, but she looked at the computer screen a great deal as she caught up on the latest EJ news. That meant one thing, the news was not bad. Phew.
From that moment, I do not really have much recollection of what I said for the rest of the appointment, for I was part relieved, part cursing my stupidity.
As it turned out, the scan results were good. My bones are improving, apparently my spine looks like there is a halo around it. I never consider good news. The increase in pain, I was told, is most probably muscular. I left the room, exhaled and broadcast the results to the nearest and dearest.
So, there you have it. A mighty fine example of my paranoia. A very similar thing happened last week when I was told I had asthma and a chest infection that required an X-ray. It took a week for me to work up the courage to have said x-ray. I think that was fine too.
The moral of this story is simple. I hate myeloma.