I had my first lumpectomy on September the 11th last year. I joked at the time that the worst thing that could already happen had happened, and I was right.
Here I am, still, nearly a year later.
And having read my last blog – not a lot has changed in the four months that bring me to 12 months post-op.
My centre of my boob is still greenish, my squared off breast still outlined with a tan. My nipple, you’ll be keen to hear, is more or less back to normal size, just a few weird bumps on one side. The tats that I had for radiotherapy are still visible – three annoying blue dots, like someone’s scribbled on me with a biro. I genuinely don’t understand why they have to tattoo you – why they can’t just use a sharpie. It’s an every day ‘you had cancer’ reminder that I’ve considered getting tattooed over, just because it makes me narky when I see it.
The nork is less reliable for telling the weather these days, but definitely has weeks where it’s more alert and present. I also still get days when it aches, with a feeling like my ribs on the right hand side are bruised. When I do my exercises of a morning, lying on my back, arms up above my head, 12 minutes past still hurts enough to make me grimace. I am proud of the fact that I can lie with my hands behind my head, flat on the floor. I remember when I couldn’t.
My cycle this last time was 48 days, the longest yet. I’m just having marmite, nothing significant, but the newest symptom to add to the long list of shit things to deal with, that are not that bad but are nonetheless no fun at all, is what I like to term ‘spicy fanny’.
Officially, it’s vaginal dryness caused by the Tamoxifen killing off my oestrogen. But spicy fanny sums it up better. It’s like being on the verge of cystitis or thrush, but not. So if I seem like I’m squirming in my seat and a bit distracted then it’s probably that. Yuck, eh? In summary: it’s slightly burny pee and a bit of a sore vag like I did too much shagging.
But that’s the other thing. Mostly the thought of making the sweet love is a bit….meh. Don’t tell my husband, I made him get a vasectomy, as I can’t go back on the pill. Hopefully once his swimmers are proven invalid we’ll get right back on it. Incidentally, that’s a bloody long wait: 16 weeks and 20 wanks! We’ll be lucky if there’s any spark left at all.
What else to add? Still slight dizziness at times, getting some lush night sweats, though nothing like post-Covid, more just a damp coldness like a chilly pony.
My face looks like I’ve applied blusher in the dark – as I have some cracking ‘melasma’ on my cheeks. Known as the ‘mask of pregnancy’ I did indeed have it with number three and now it’s back with a vengeance. Won’t go, apparently. Also my ‘angel hairs’ as my husband affectionately called them once upon a time, are coming in thick and fast on my chin and cheeks. Luckily, my eyes are also getting worse, so until I get better glasses that my Poundland specials, I can’t see nuffink.
So plenty of things to add to the list of arsery that’s making me feel old. The final thing is the weight gain. Look, don’t get me wrong, again, it’s nothing horrendous, but I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been ‘in peacetime’. I imagine Tamoxifen can also take the blame for this. I just feel kind of ‘thick’ round the middle. It means that those skirts I’ve been saving since 1999 just because might finally have to go in the bin.
So, thanks for reading. I’m off to watch some telly and count myself lucky.
If you feel like donating, it’s coming up to breast cancer awareness month – there are some great charities out there. And don’t forget – check your bits, and get life and critical illness cover. You might as well get paid to get sick, eh?
Narky Mum Rants 