Have you heard the news? I fought cancer and won - for now. I'll take it. But actually, I don't feel like that statement is true. I didn't do anything. Very smart, kind, compassionate people knew what to do and treated my cancer, and made it go away. They deserve all the credit, and much more besides. I'm not sure if they know how much they matter, and I don't know how to tell them, so I'm expressing it here.
My chemo port was removed today at Cabrini Hospital. It was a day procedure, no big deal - a local anaesthetic, 30 minutes on the table with some awkward pushing and prodding and the thing was done. Of course it was, that's their job. However, with the number of people in and out of these rooms, you don't expect the staff to remember you from six months ago when the same doctor and nurses put the port in. Every one of them said to me, "I remember you!". Why should they? They're very busy people, but they take an interest and congratulated me on the successful completion of my treatment, wished me happy birthday for next week, and threatened to crash my husband's birthday party (which they would be most welcome to do!). They kept me talking so I didn't have to visualise the cut in my upper chest, the fishing around in there for the plastic contraption, the extraction of the tube from my vena cava, or the stitching up that followed. There was the ceremonial binning of the said power port, after allowing me a curious/fascinated inspection of the foreign body that has been lodged inside me for 7 months. And that was just the imaging staff, who I only saw twice. When you're freaking out a little bit, you really appreciate the sensible, rational and compassionate people who keep you tethered, no matter how tenuously, to reality.
I have been extremely fortunate to have a huge number of excellent health professionals taking care of me over the past year. In fact, I have had only one doctor who I felt let me down, and given the overwhelming number of carers who didn't, the stark comparison makes me value them even more.
I have vivid memories, despite a drugged haze, of two nurses who looked after me in the high dependency unit at Cabrini. This was straight after emergency surgery, general anesthesia and the most serious suggestion that what was wrong with me could be cancer. Panic, fear, anxiety, dread - you might think that these are just different words for the same emotional state, but when you're fresh out of an operating room with the "C" word hanging over your head like the Sword of Damocles, you know that they're different, and you're feeling each one keenly, like visceral, physical wounds. And despite all the people in your life who you know care about you, love you and support you, you're feeling so, so alone. Enter two fantastic nurses, one who gave me my first consumable in a week (the best apple juice I have ever tasted) and provided me with reassurance and kindness at every turn. The other sat with me while my surgeon told me it was cancer, and remained by me when I broke the news to my mum. She also followed up and visited me later in the ward, which she was by no means obligated to do. You can't fathom how important she was to me and I can't write it, because I get so overcome with emotion at the thought of it.
My stomal therapy nurse was pivotal to my ability to cope with my change in circumstances. Having a stoma is a very confronting experience, especially considering that my previous opinion of such a situation was pure horrified revulsion. Actually being thrown into the reality of the device created conflicting feelings: the willingness to regain control of the situation and the desperate desire to flee from it. Rebecca smoothed the way. She made it seem a matter of simple necessity, which of course is exactly what it was and is. The alternative, i.e. not being treated surgically, was a non-option. She used a mix of gentle humour and practicality, and made it all seem a bit more manageable.
I sent thankyou cards to both my surgeons after the liver and colon surgeries. I'm not sure whether that is the done thing, but I didn't know what else to do. First born child? No, I'd definitely keep that for myself. A bottle of wine seems just completely stupid in the scheme of things, so I just wrote, like I write here, to try and express my thanks. I hope my carefully selected words and agonisingly crafted sentences got the message through. I put my trust in them completely, and was not let down. How do you say thank you for being so committed that you went to school for a hundred years to learn everything you needed to know to fix my insides? There actually aren't words.
And then there are the chemo nurses. I miss them. Bright, bubbly, interested, focussed on life and living, not weighed down by the drudgery of delivering chemotherapy over and over again to a seemingly growing number of patients. Assisting us with the management of side effects, devices and implants, hair loss for those affected and all the rollercoaster emotions that accompany treatment. They displayed everything from a sterling sense of humour to the utmost in professional competence. They have not ceased to amaze me. They feel like family.
Then there's my oncologist. He prescribed and tweaked, listened and explained, monitored and communicated, and ultimately delivered me back to myself in the end. Cancer free. How does one even conceptualise the level of gratitude owed to a doctor like this? I'm completely lost on this one. It is a short paragraph because there simply is no language available for this.
This may well be my final blog. So to all healthcare professionals: nurses on the wards, in the theatres and behind the scenes, physiotherapists in the hospital and in their professional suites, my oncologist, colorectal surgeon, liver surgeon, outstanding GP and gastroenterologist, physicians, ENT (the second one, definitely not the first), haematologist, anaesthetists, radiologists and -ographers, ambulance officers, orderlies and admin staff. Your job is to care, and you deliver in spades. If you work in the health industry and you are reading this, please accept my deepest gratitude on behalf of all your patients. You can have my first born puppy.
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