Getting even more real

Warning: This post contains factual descriptions of surgical scars and my interpretation of my oncologist's description of a medical device (I am not a medically trained person, merely reporting my own views using my limited knowledge). It's not an especially uplifting post either. If any of these disclaimers are likely to upset you, gross you out or depress you, I recommend you skip it.

I've spent the last few weeks recovering from liver surgery. The surgery removed a small secondary tumour related to the bowel cancer I was diagnosed with previously. The liver surgery was timed to take place four weeks after the initial surgery I had to remove the serious-sized tumour in my colon. Yuck. I guess there's no 'sexy' cancer but surely bowel cancer is the least sexy of them all.

Throughout and prior to the cancer diagnosis and treatments I have battled Meniere's Disease, an inner ear affliction which has effectively taken away my balance and coordination since July. It makes me dizzy and nauseous, gives me a ringing sensation in my left ear and at times has made me partially deaf. I have had difficulty getting around on my own two feet, and driving has been out of the question in the interests of the safety of other motorists. Here's a tip: if you ever get Meniere's Disease, don't have liver surgery as well. Every lurch and stagger exacerbates the wound pain and your stomach muscles which have never felt quite so wretched.

Anyway, over the past few days I have felt better than I have in over six months. The first sign of improvement that was really obvious to me was seeing the dirty bathroom, getting annoyed at it and then cleaning it. I haven't been able to clean any room of the house in months. It was such a satisfying feeling. The second hopeful sign was getting around without my walking stick for a whole day. It felt good to walk without having to hang onto the walls and furniture. Today I cleaned the entire kitchen and lounge room, the way I like it. Husbands are wonderful, and mine has done an extraordinary job over the journey of taking care of every domestic duty including cooking for me, but sometimes you just want something clean the way you would clean it, and that can only happen if you actually do it yourself. And who knew it could be so liberating! Perhaps it's just that illusion of control over something in your life, even if it is fleeting.

All of this is an excellent distraction from what lies ahead, which if you have read previous posts, I usually prefer not to dwell on. However, one has to face facts at some point, and I guess after two lots of surgery this is where my experience with cancer begins to get even more real. Tomorrow I am undergoing a procedure to insert a chemotherapy port into my chest.

By itself this doesn't seem that big a deal. A gadget the size of three ten-cent pieces stacked on top of each other will be inserted underneath my skin, and attached to a vein close to my heart. Next week chemotherapy drugs will be injected through the skin into the device, which will stay in place for the duration of my treatment (six months). I will have a pump attached to it that I will carry with me for 48 hours every fortnight. The insertion of the port enables my treating doctors and nurses to avoid using veins in my arms which are smaller and can become irritated from the drugs.

So, it all seems pretty straightforward. Until you're the one walking (and sometimes staggering) around with the train wreck of a torso that I have right now. Let's backtrack: surgery to remove my colon and its fabulous tumour left residual evidence including a horizontal scar 8cm long on my lower pelvis and an ileostomy (a bag attached to an opening made in my lower abdomen to remove waste). There are a couple of little laparoscopy scars too, in the interests of full disclosure, but these are very minor. In addition, the liver surgery left me with a vertical scar stretching 11cm from the base of my breast bone.

Perhaps this doesn't adequately explain it. Cancer has already left its mark on me, without permission, and without me being ready for it. The body I used to have is gone forever, and I'm having to grieve for it. I didn't value it at all. I didn't dislike my body, it had its moments of being quite cute in my eyes, but I certainly didn't appreciate it the way I should have. Just having skin without scars was beautiful, which is something I understand now that I no longer have it. Now, I dress to cover up the multitude of sins that is my disaster area underneath, and try to show the world a 'normal' facade.

This explains it better: "Cancer doesn't just ravage our insides, it frequently does a bang-up job maiming our exteriors. It takes breasts and limbs and flesh as payment for survival, then leaves us to quietly mourn our missing parts while we try to reassure the world that we're not defective freaks." (See reference below)

This chemo port is going to mess with my mind and attitude towards my body all over again. After the colon surgery I had to buy clothes that would be blousy around the waist to hide the ileostomy. Then after liver surgery I couldn't wear a bra, and had to choose draped, loose clothes in order to feel that my modesty was being maintained. The location of this port is going to have me reinvent the way I dress all over again. Is this the worst thing that can happen to me? No. But it is something that comes between you and interacting with the world the way you used to, the way you want to, and it's another thing that cancer takes away from you.

And that's before I even get the chemicals on board. Stay tuned. Reference: Mary Elizabeth Williams, "Ginger, interrupted". The Age Sunday Life Magazine, 16 January 2011. p19.