So I’m not in the clear yet my friends. As much as I ever will be anyway. The pathology report is in and the surgeon isn’t happy that they could still find pre-cancerous cells a skant 0.5mm from the edge of the extra tissue (margin) they took around the tumour. Too close for comfort. This means they’re going back in from the nipple to take another centimetre of tissue. That will be looked at and if there are still cancerous cells too close to the edges, then mastectomy is back on the table again.
My lymph nodes are all gone. I had 16 of them and 5 were diseased. They’re happy with that side of things. Now we wait for a surgical date which will be as soon as possible. I will be under general anaesthetic again, so another opportunity for random bursts of song. But this time it’s day surgery and no drain. Although it’s certainly a huge drag, it’s not the worst it could be.
Weirdly I sort of knew this was going to happen. You remember that Buffy-style flash of thrill I got a while ago? I had a similar moment of deep knowing after the surgery that it wasn’t all gone. I’m not one for intuition or unprovable similar wooiness. But I had this type of solid, deep in my bones feeling before my diagnosis. I was torn last night between wanting to be right and to be able to trust myself and wanting to be wrong and not having another hurdle to overcome. Seems I’ll have to settle for feeling smug about crap.
So how am I feeling about it? Fed up, frustrated, things along that theme. I was hoping to be done with active treatment by my birthday. But that’s the petulant part of me. I can feel the adaptive human kicking in already. Time to buy more loose fitting clothing and tops that button up. Time to get more fibre in me if morphine is the drug of choice for the foreseeable. Time to accept the haul just got a bit longer. Time to stop pouting.