Shit Got Different...

Sorry for the language, but yeah… Shit got different.

When I’m working, chances are things are going to change – the agency is going to reject our recommend for the lead actor, the director is going to decide he wants to shoot in a studio rather than a location, the catering company we really, really want aren’t available… That kind of thing. And when I’m working with Sally and Patrick and these things happen, whoever is breaking the news to the other two will shrug when they ask why, and simply say “shit got different”. Because sometimes you don’t necessarily need to know the whys and the wherefores and the reasoning. Sometimes all that matters is figuring out what you have to do to solve the problem.

Three months ago, I had my scans and my update with Dr S and things were looking downright rosy. My bones were healing nicely, the lesions in my liver were shrinking, the fluid on my lung was practically non-existent and the world was a happy place.

This time, shit got different.

About 5 weeks ago, I went in to see her for my check up. The first thing that set the alarm bells ringing was the presence of Lucy – my breast care nurse. Now, don’t get me wrong, Lucy is lovely (obviously – good name), but she is used as something of an emotional force-field for Dr S. So if she’s in the room and you’re waiting for news, chances are it’s not going to be amazing, and then when you inevitably end up as a bit of a snotty mess, she’s there to offer tea and sympathy and a cuddle. If she could get past Ma B, obv…

The second thing that kind of suggested things weren’t all well was a piece of paper on top of my notes in Dr S’ hand-writing saying “evidence of more lesions on the liver”.

Right then.

And so she started talking. About how she hadn’t personally seen the scan and she wanted to see the scan and sometimes the radiologists got a bit overzealous with the scan and thought there was progression when maybe it was not as advanced as an oncologist would maybe think it was. BUT, that there was evidence of more cancer in the liver, and that we needed to get it checked out. That the scan as a whole was a bit up and down – the bones were looking good, the liver wasn’t. That there was a bit more fluid around the lung. That we shouldn’t move too hastily because once you move from one drug to the next you can’t go back. And if the liver hadn’t progressed terribly far, then maybe we could cling on to the Herceptin and Pertuzumab for a bit and eke them right out for as long as possible.

But, if the liver had progressed as the radiologists thought, and the Herceptin and Pertuzumab were losing their efficacy, then we have to move onwards. To a new drug. Kadcyla.

Kadcyla is basically Herceptin, but with a bit of chemotherapy attached to it. So it enters the cancer cell in the same way as Herceptin does, but instead of just stopping the cells from replicating, it actively kills the little buggers. It’s targeted, in that it only works on cancer cells, but that’s not to say there might not be side effects if it inadvertently enters somewhere else. Not the hideous side effects of full on chemo – the hair loss, the nausea, the diarrhea and constipation - but as treatment progresses the likelihood is that there will be some build up of fatigue.

So the plan was for her to go and look at the scan with the radiologists. Crossing our fingers that they had been overzealous and we could keep pottering along nicely thank you very much.

Crossing your fingers is somewhat useless when it comes to cancer.

Back to Dr S the following Wednesday after a dreaded week of the unknown. When you have to distract yourself with everything that comes your way because you would drive yourself bloody mental if you spent all day every day thinking about the possibilities of what might be coming. So, with Ma and Pa in tow, on that hideously hot day a few weeks ago that the Daily Mail no doubt screamed was hotter than the Sahara, we went back in to learn our fate.

And lo and behold the radiologists weren’t being overzealous. Of the five lobes in my liver, one of them is in a bit of a pickle. And much as Dr S would like to postpone moving me along the line another step for as long as possible, if we delayed changing the drugs much longer, chances are my liver would start to fail. And then we’re in a whole world of pain.

The thing about this whole situation, and the thing I HATE, is not what the cancer is doing to me. I can deal with the drugs, and the rubbish days and the feeling horrid once in a while. I hate what it’s doing to the people around me. I hate that my mum and dad and sister and friends are having to watch all of this happen and feel so helpless. I hate that there are days when I feel like I’m failing in some way by not responding better to the drugs, and for longer. I hate that people are having to think about things that they should never, ever have to think about when it comes to a 36 year old who, other than a rogue clump of cells that just won’t quit and a boy’s haircut, looks and feels quite healthy. I hate that I’m weirdly quite fascinated by this mini evolution that’s happening inside of me without me even knowing – that cells with no sense of purpose, no drive, can change and mutate and keep on going despite the fistfuls of drugs that are chucked at them on a regular basis.

I also hate that this now feels proper. I know I’ve had cancer all along, and I know that I’ve jumped through all the hoops to try and get rid of it – the surgeries and the biopsies and the chemos and the radios, and the re-admissions to hospital, and the changes to my diet and the giving up booze and all that guff. But I’ve never really felt like I had cancer. Not like the people you see on the news, and on the adverts. I’ve never really felt like one of them. But now, I’m having to accept that I’m going to be on chemotherapy of one type or another for good. And I have to just assume that the Kadcyla is going to work it’s magic.

And it’s going to have to work it’s magic, cos it’s a right bugger – I’ve only had one round of treatment and it gave me the worst hangover I’ve ever had. And I didn’t even have the fun of the night before.

Cancer, let’s be honest, sucks.