Vomiting five year-old.
Looming operation and resultant booblessness (‘tits aff’, we say in Scotland).
Lack of control.
Last Friday we attended the ED (emergency department). Eva had three days of abdominal pain and a feeling of fullness in her pelvis. We’d sat on it (not literally) for two days but as we took a walk on Good Friday we recalled our last episodes of sitting with unexplained symptoms: one month of post-partum mild bleeding ended up as a post-partum haemorrhage in a public toilet, HDU admission with a one month-old, blood transfusion and D&C; two days of pelvic fullness ended up being a ruptured ectopic pregnancy with half a litre of blood causing the discomfort, and emergency surgery; and then that growing breast lump during pregnancy and breastfeeding which an ultrasound had not previously identified.
So we went to hospital (public holiday so GP surgery not open). Eva had, perhaps subconsciously, designated these four weeks between chemotherapy and double mastectomy as hospital-free, get-fit-for-surgery, enjoy-life-as-much-as-possible time. On the way to hospital we both voiced our fears: worst case scenario was a metastatic caecal mass, or ovarian pathology such as an ovarian cancer with free fluid in the pelvis causing the irritation. Despite a normal CT and PET scan in December, our trust in imaging and diagnosis had taken a bit of a bashing. And unfortunately, the diagnosis of breast cancer in a 36 year-old very healthy breastfeeding woman with no family history of the disease makes one realise that shit happens without an (obvious) cause. The professional part of me ran through symptoms with Eva: no urinary symptoms; some mild alternating bowel habit but no fresh blood or melaena; no nausea or upper GI symptoms; amenorrhoiec due to the Mirena and possibly menopausal due to chemo; no fevers; discomfort on movement (walking) and palpation but no peritonitism; no gravitation of pain; mild (2/10) right lower quadrant discomfort.
Dx: cancer, cancer, cancer (infused with our anxiety). ??appendicitis
To cut a long story short, Eva had a large canula inserted into the scarred veins on her left wrist. Examination was unremarkable – mild discomfort on palpation, no masses. Bloods were all normal. Ultrasound was unremarkable. She was offered a CT but we decided with the current findings and results, the exposure to more radiation, and the high likelihood that it would not change any management, that it was unnecessary.
So we left with an uncertain diagnosis (which is very common in abdominal pain), but that it was more likely to be wind or some GI spasm than a malignancy.
A bad fart, not a tumour.
“You must have been so happy,” you say. “What a relief you must have felt,” you say.
On one hand, yes. Farts always trump tumours. And it’s nice to not be thrust into again dealing with pending unexpected nasty pathology. But…the emotions it gave rise to. It was like the first weeks of her diagnosis after the initial shock: the churning stomach; racing thoughts; calm, quiet exterior; feeling of impending doom.
So it knocked us more than we expected. Eva felt her mortality thrust in her face again. She realised that odd, unexplained symptoms for the rest of her life may play on her mind more than they ever did in the past. The dealing with hospitals and healthcare professionals who, in their own sanity-saving manner, remain distant and not wanting to commit to this or that for fear of getting it wrong – either a fact or the way they communicate.
And the mental tiredness that comes with this wondering. We expected Eva to be recovering from chemo day by day – and she does feel better to some degree – but unexpected, unpredictable, unforeseen events put us on edge again.
And then you have a sleepless night with a vomiting child. And your toddler is upset at all the commotion and vomity crying unhappiness. And the swirling mush of feelings goes on and on.
And you just want to move to Thailand and go on a month-long yoga retreat and lie in a fucking spa for hours and wander through jungles and climb hills and have no responsibilities and eat things which are doused in lime and chilli and fish sauce and get sun burnt and dive off cliffs into beautiful seas.
There’s a rather exclusive spa nearby called Ikatan. We make frequent jokes, on the tougher days, about moving in there. Cancer and two small kids would be no problem in a luxury spa, right?
Okay, onwards and upwards. Good to remember that most painful things in life are just farts and not tumours. (Mostly)