Monday was the tumour board meeting and I picture the medical experts seated around a table bearing my blob in a dish). They decided not to refer me for radiation therapy, saying “there's nothing left to irradiate” thanks to the skilful surgeon. HOORAY!
I may have lost 2 or more lymph nodes but they couldn't be exactly counted, nor do we know how many I have left. Apparently a full complement of nodes in the groin varies from 3 to 10. You can't tell how many are there, not even in a scan, unless there is cancer or something else wrong. However, the doctors believe my chance of suffering lymphoedema is probably lower than 15%.
Physically, I'm feeling good and mending well, every day a little better.
I'm loving the superglue which is more flexible and comfortable than stitches and I really appreciate freedom from mucky dressings that have to be kept dry in the shower etc.
Wearing a bag to catch the drain fluid is bringing back memories of my 6 month experience with the iliostomy, and that's a good thing really. This might be a little gross, but it's NOTHING like the grossness, pain and stress of a protracting or retracting stoma that leaks and burns!
Emotionally … well, I came to pieces on day 8, sobbing on the phone to my telco over a stupid high bill overcharged while I was vulnerable and immobilised in the hospital. I kept having to ask her to slow down and repeat due to my difficulty with her accent. She was very patient really.
When I wondered why I was feeling so cut up, of course it dawned on me – why wouldn't I be?
Surgery was, after all, a trauma, even if it went as well as possible!
Some would say life's too short to spend any of it talking to telcos, let alone the inevitable 1 1/2 hours on hold! But I don't know – I felt glad that she copped my meltdown rather than my family. I stayed with it and put in a couple of hours grieving. A good howl is sometimes really helpful, I find, and I feel much better after it.