Providing an outlet for better mental healthThe stress doesn’t go away when the cancer goes away. 15 years after my initial diagnosis, I have experienced this first hand. And it all started with what I thought was just the flu.
“I’ve been working too hard, taking on too much,” I tell Mick when he looks at me with that knowing look he does so well. But my body? It’s telling me – in no uncertain terms – that I need to slow down, or it will make me.
Next week, I tell myself. It’s almost Christmas. I have a couple more things to do, and then I’ll … cough cough cough … take some time off … sneeze.
True to its word, my body finally says “NO!!” and I find myself sleeping the days away on the couch, listening to my old time radio plays, because I don’t have the energy to even watch TV.
“Do you think you need to go see a doctor”, Mick asks.
But I flash back to the stubborn, sick me, and give him that evil eye. “I’ll be fine”
Now that I’m resting my body will do its thing. But it doesn’t. I’m up all night struggling to breathe. Sleeping in a sitting up position, using the inhaler, and taking steam baths.
Finally I relent. Showing no sign of improvement – in fact I’m getting worse – I let Mick bundle me off to Urgent Care. I’m not the only one coughing up a lung, but sadly the only one who has the decency to wear a mask. (But don’t even get me started on that subject.)
After a chest xray, I lie in my own cubicle listening to one patient after another being diagnosed with pneumonia. Only a few weeks ago my own bestie was in hospital with it herself.
“I’m going to prescribe you with some heavy duty antibiotics, and you will need to rest. But I also want to show you something on your x-ray,” the lovely emergency doctor says. “Which side was your breast cancer?”
That question that makes my heart skip, and my stomach sink.
“I’ve spotted something that doesn’t look like the pneumonia on your right lung,” he adds, pointing out a very clear shape on the screen.
I no longer hear the coughing of other patients or the chatter of nurses. It’s like the world has closed in on me again.
It’s amazing what antibiotics can do. Within days I’m feeling better, even if that cough still lingers. But as my body recovers, my mind can’t let go of one nagging thought … what if that cough is a sign of something more sinister?
So, when Mick asks if I want to cancel our planned racing in a couple of weeks, I know it’s just not an option.
I’m not going to say it out loud but … What if this is one of the last times I get to race?
And so we raced.
Photo Credit: Always An Adventure Photography
Honestly, I probably shouldn’t have been there. Just walking to the scrutineering shed left me out of breath – but being there sure felt good. The team knew what I was dealing with, and they understood. It was about showing up and enjoying the moment. We didn’t break any records, set any PBs or even win any races. But we all left with smiles on our faces, just knowing that if this was actually the last time, it would be a good memory.
Even after the joy and distraction of race day, reality finally crept back in. While everyone rested, I found myself lying on the couch – physically and mentally exhausted – caught between the euphoria of race day and that damn CT report.
Reading the medical reports a week before you see the doctor is definitely not a great idea, because then it just plays on your mind even more. What was I thinking?
But they didn’t mean much to me – or even to Dr Mark – when I finally got to see him. There was too much pneumonia to be sure of anything. But … there was something there.
“I want you to wait a couple of months and do another CT,” Dr Mark explained
Waiting. Urgh. I remember this unpleasant game of trying to live life normally, while way back in your mind that unknown factor still influences every decision.
Suddenly long term plans become more of a maybe, and instead, you focus purely on the here and now. You want to explain to people why you’re acting the way you are, but you can’t – because you don’t know the answer yourself.
The here and now is exactly where I put my energy. Pushing the people around me to try and keep up – as if there was some invisible deadline. My main focus was to race my car in its new livery at the Western Nationals and then shift into passenger mode. I was really looking forward to creating all those smiles.
It’s easy for people to say ‘stay positive’, but it comes down to the kind of person you are. I’m a planner. In every situation, I plan for every possible outcome and how I’ll react. And months of waiting for the next scan? The unknown also makes you question every ache, every itch, every cough. It’s simply exhausting.
Then came the follow-up. The kind that makes time slow to a crawl. And just when I thought I was settling into the waiting game …
“The good news is the CT shows the pneumonia has cleared up.” But Dr Mark is still in serious mode. “But I’m going to give you a referral to a lung specialist.”
So months after my original visit to Urgent Care, I’m still hanging there in the unknown. And to make my brain over-react even further, instead of waiting months for an appointment – I get a call the next day.
That appointment came quicker than expected. Too quick for comfort. But this time, I wasn’t going in alone. I knew better. Always take someone with you when you’re going to be bombarded with information. And having a friend who is willing to drop everything, be chauffeur, notes taker, and then head to the pub after for a debrief? That’s more than anyone can ask for.
“The lung function test resulted in normal,” I share with Mel, returning to the specialist waiting room after spending the last half hour sitting in the cone of silence, hooked up to a breathing hose and being asked to perform a series of odd breathing exercises.
But the positivity is short-lived.
“The good news is that it doesn’t look metastatic,” Dr KP says. “Instead it looks like another primary cancer.”
I raise my eyebrows. That’s good news?
So, once again, the plan moves back into the unknown. More scans and a biopsy.
But while my head is still swimming with the possibility of heading down the cancer road again, I’m called in to see the lung specialist at Charlies. I remember this from my first time around. If you see a private specialist first and are then transferred to the public system, they like to re-consult and re-test you. So I’m prepared … or so I thought.
“It looks like radiation scarring to me.”
OK, now I’m relieved. But I’m also unsure, who do I believe?
“We’ll still do the biopsy to be sure though.”
Even though I’m still in the unknown, I can’t help but feel the weight lift. And boy, do I sleep well for the first time in months. But relief is such a fleeting thing. One moment you’re singing in the car on the way home, and the next you’re bracing for yet another test.
Lung Biopsies aren’t fun, especially when they have to go in through the back shoulder muscle. Laying on my front, wired up to monitors, in one of those big donut scanners and being told to “just relax”. It’s a long and exhausting process, but certainly another experience I can chalk up on my list.
The memory of my breast biopsy comes flashing back when I hear that huge staple gun again, and feel the pressure of it deep down inside my chest. The documentation might say “needle biopsy”, but I’m sure that’s just so they don’t freak you out by saying it’s a staple gun retraction.
But I recover from the experience and go back to creating smiles with some amazing passenger rides. Even though it’s going to be nearly two weeks waiting for results, my mind stays in “this is just a formality” mode. I’ve chosen to accept the second doctor’s prognosis – this is likely just scaring from the radiation. Just another box to tick.
But I’m ticking these boxes in pencil. Nothing is for sure.
“The doctor would like you to head over for a chest xray before she sees you,” the nurse lets me know when I check in for my results at Charlies.
My sunny day suddenly turns overcast.
“We did slightly puncture your lung during the biopsy, so I wanted to see if it was healing well.” I actually sigh in relief.
Dr Jessica then brings the sunshine back out with the final words I remember hearing
“we didn’t find any cancer”.
So now?
Now I breathe again. There’s still another follow-up CT in six months, but I feel like I am living again, and not just waiting.