A Bad Hair Day....and it wasn't even my own

Greetings Follicle Followers,

Last Friday dawned clear and surprisingly warm. It was to be a big adventure. I was being taken wig shopping with the lovely Craig (an experienced wig wearer ....but more of that later) in preparation for my hair loss that will occur week three or four once I start chemo on the 30th May.

Like Craig, many kind and wonderful friends have offered so much of their time and support and its truly moving. Life is extremely busy and time is such a precious commodity but I have had beautiful food prepared for me, visits and phone calls aplenty and even a new coffee machine from the embarassingly generous Tony H when ours calcified and went belly-up. There are too many people to mention individually, but I would throw this out into the universe. As we go through this over the next however many months, please keep calling in, or call and text. Without sounding too "herbal" here people, your words and your wishes mean so so much. And they will keep me from limiting my world to drugs that I can't pronounce the names of, needles, hospital visits, smells and a pre-occupation with body fluid emissions that is unedifying in the extreme.

I want to hear about the progress of any renovations, how good/bad your work is going, how much you are loving/loathing your boss, what shows/matches or restaurants you have been to. And what holidays are planned or taken. All the everyday stuff that makes life good. And if you don't, then those who know me well, can attest......I will haunt you. - that's a promise.

So enough of the mushy stuff, back to the hair shopping. Craig has two preferred places to take me so first stop is in the City and its called Creative Hair Products. It is the largest direct importer and dstributer of wigs and hairpieces for "ladies and gents", Australia wide!!

A Hair Wholesaler !! A kind of hirsute DFO - Direct Follicle Outlet.

Its above a shop in Swanston street and has been there forever. Its like stepping back in time. It reminds me of the JobLot Warehouse that until relatively recently, used to occupy a large shop frontage at the spring street end of Bourke street where one could rummage and find absolute treasures of retro fabrics that were original. The style of service was similar, direct, brusque and no nonsense and the place had a lovely shambolic feel to it. The selection was incredible and the prices were extremely reasonable. But as these photos will clearly demonstrate, whilst I am a total natural at hat wearing, a wig does me no favours whatsoever!!

I am all too aware of my relatively harsh profile and non-photographic face ( a dispassionate and accurate assessment) but when you combine that AND my total lack of a decent sized forehead that a wig can proportionately attach and fall from, I am in for a whole world of fake hair pain. (the hair is fake, the pain is very real!! ) I look rubbish in pretty much all of them. Because of my lack of a decent forehead, heads scarves simply fall down to my eyebrows so they aren't an option - that and the fact that the whole headscarf is just waaaayyy too Northcote/Thornbury for me. I would look like a (badly) ageing "carnie". I still have nightmares about that callico bag peoples!

I wanted the option to mix it up a bit with perhaps two or three wigs, of different lengths and if possible colours. This hair loss caper will go on for at least six months. My skin will also change and either become rather pale or possibly take on a tannarexic hue, so a change to a warmer colour than my natural brown will be kinder against my skin. When my hair grows back, the first time its peach fuzz and then that falls out. And the second time, when the real stuff does grow, my hair grows extremely slowly and there is no way I am walking around in public with bad lesbian hair! When one is attractive, striking or pretty, one can sport a stylish short do. I am under no illusions that I fit any of those categories, so I wont be out and about the neighbourhood with short short hair anytime soon. Plenty of sisters in the Thornbury hood already setting a bad example.

So with the ever kind and patient Craig we began trying on a few numbers. Can I just say this, if Craig ever decides that he longer finds fulfillment in the practice of Human Resources, he will have a successful career in diplomacy. Despite the oft horrendous "vision" before him, he neither laughed nor choked but managed to find just the right words. Grazie.

So here dear readers is a sample of what I tried with accompanying comments. I though of setting up a social media platform to get you voting for your favourite (with peta's help of course) but I think you would be prevented from voting due to being taken over by a debilitating bout of hilarity or being stricken by such sympathy and compassion that I am going to have to walk around looking like this for six months at least that you wouldnt be able to vote.

First wig - WTF am I doing? Hideous 

An early favourite called  the "Reece" !

A back view of the Reece

Channeling my Mother here !!

Reminiscent of Joan Jett ! - a definite NO!

Needs a fringe and some voowving!

A Brunette Carol Brady that curls up around the neck!!

Layers are all wrong

 Needs a good trim

 Alexis Carrington in need of a set and comb up (and lots of lacquer toot sweet!)

My personal bad taste fave.... a wig complete with deliberately dyed regrowth - Shades of Cranbourne!

Okay, with apologies to all those ladies that may have contrasting highlights - on me they look crap. I said to Mr Till that obvious colour contrasts made me look (and feel) like a Middle Aged Woman. He drily told me....well love, you are a middle aged lady. Ppppfffttt to his career in diplomacy I say.

Quite like the colour. Need a much shorter style!

Dont mind this for colour - fringe needs work

No.......simply No

Bowl Head!!

The only Human Hair Wig I liked. All the others are synthetic.

But the front needs some style work!!!

So there you have it. Apparently no-one looks great in a store brought wig and its more a case of getting one that is less abhorrent than the others.  Clearly I have my work cut out for me. I will go again next week and try on the preferred options and see how I go. With the human hair, Corinne would cut and style it on me and I will be able to wash and style it myself at home if I wish. The synthetic wigs need to be taken back to Corinne for steaming, cleaning and styling as they cannot be done using shampoo but need special cleaning agents. Might take in the drapes and the lounge room rug and get the whole lot done at the same time!!

Having played dress ups for a few hours, Craig and I headed to the Grand Hotel in Richmond for a post mortem natter about the future of my coiffure options over lunch and a vino. It was a good day and one that despite the pictorial evidence, I enjoyed the experience and sharing it with Craig immensely. It made what will be physically traumatic change, when it comes, an experience that had a joyful and fun beginning.

But as many of you will know, I am not one to let a crack about my age slide by unanswered , so dear Craig, this last one is for you!!! 

Hair Be Craig!!!

Lotsa

Kellyxxxxx

Dear Diagnostic Diary............

'Gland Tidings' dear readers,

 Last week commenced with my swollen underarm full of fluid needing expiration from the lymph gland surgery. It was stretched, puffy and very hot, so off to Peter Mac I trot for a timely needle straight into the scar under the arm. The relief was immediate and the swelling disappeared before my very eyes. About 70 mls of fluid was collected in the syringe and it was a very bright yellowy colour.

I had wanted to take a pic or even a short video so that Clare could express her incredulousness about my propensity to 'share' such personal stuff. Wait til she reads about the internal ultrasound I had to have!! But my Visiting Fellow was simply too efficient for words so no gruesome photos folks of underarm waste by-product!!!!!! I am regarding this as a personal mission as to how far one can reasonably push the boundaries of genuine educative value versus sensationalism!! So in true quality speak jargon.......I welcome your feedback.

My arm again hung in a straight line down my left side, no longer pushed out and hanging awkwardly over a lump of fluid that didn't know where to go to exit my body. My Visiting Fellow said that in the event that it refilled again, just pop back in and they would expirate it again. All over and done in 15 mins I head home.

The next day it was off to my lovely Voodoo Doctor to pierce my skin with little needles to manage the post menopausal symptoms which have reached such a level of discomfort as to make me wish I was a bloke - after all, how difficult is it to get your prostate checked occasionally when compared to all this carry on? In addition to placing the needles in my legs and feet, I now have a new set of hair pins .........literally.

A few days later having emptied my bladder two hours prior and then, in accordance with instructions, I proceed with all the commitment of a camel commencing a cross dessert trek, to refill it with a few litres of water and NOT pee prior to having a kidney and pelvic area ultrasound. (I find it simply extraordinary that I am talking about bodily functions in such a banal way, where once upon a time, the use of a unisex toilet was enough to give me a chronic case of stage fright!!) These days I can flash a tit or talk about fluid outputs of urine without batting an eye.

 Up to Diagnostic Imaging I head. I pop into a cubicle and don one of the lovely frocks in seconds flat. It is amazing how something once so foreign becomes so routine. Into a darkened room I head and lie down on the bed. A foam dooverlackey is placed under my left side to tilt my left side up and forward, warm gel is placed over my skin and then this very polite but clearly, totally masochistic imaging person presses the little microphone shaped camera thingie deep into my kidney to take lots of pics.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to deduce, extremely full bladder subjected to firm and constant pressure equals strong probability of wetting of the bed!! But just when I am about to explode ( think Star Trek original series and the Starship Enterprise Engineer, a little Scotsman whose name escapes me but was probably called "Scotty" ) screaming ......Capt'n I joose canna hold her any looonger", the evil Imaging person, moves the foam dooverlackey to the right side and recommences exerting the same pressure on the other kidney.

All to get some good pics of my innards including my uterus because apparently, if the bladder is full, it moves out of the way that ensures a crystal clear pic of the body part that neither the Prime Minister nor myself have had much to demand of. It also provides a clear shot of the ovaries which was the reason I am here. The original report from the CT scan indicated a "mass" on the ovary but in all probability should have in fact read " the mass WAS the ovary. But my surgeon wanted to be absolutely sure. So dear readers not only did they do an external ultra sound but following a post pressure pee, I was subjected to an internal ultrasound.

Rest assured that it is safe to read on because in the interests of decorum I decided against any happy snaps of the camera in situ.  I hear a collective gasp of relief! If that is your thing though, then I recommend a visit to MOMA in Hobart that has a scuplture which is a wall of clackas (remember people, its art!!! )

In the darkened room with only the machine lights glowing in the dark, there was a touch of a beginner Harry Potter trying to illuminate his magic wand about the Imaging Chick as she wielded her instrument towards my lady bits. I half expected her to point it making small circles and in a deep voice command "Lum-in-os" . What she actually did doesn't need further explanation, suffice it to say though, that one wasn't much impressed when in seeking to get a better 'shot' of whatever she was trying to capture, the angle of the instrument vis a vis one's natural dimensions was sorely tested!!!!

 Stay tuned for the "Bad Hair Day"coming soon and then "Kelly Does Chemo". 


 Stick that up your jumper - trust me its preferable to elsewhere!!

 Kellyxxxxx

My Chemical Romance

Good Morning Lovers of Music, Its been seven days since being told that it wasn't going to be the straight forward process that I had hoped. On Tuesday Peter Mac called to say that chemo will begin on the second last day of autumn , May 30th. For much of Tuesday night and Wednesday night, my natural buoyancy temporarily deserted me. Siobhan and I both struggled through what was a tough day of reflection and doubts. For the first time this whole saga seemed frighteningly real. I found that listening to music, even songs that was even vaguely about life and death incredibly evocative. Thus I have avoided playing music of late. I was mopping and polishing the floors on Wednesday (By the way peoples, So much for the (No Housework for Her, She has Cancer Rule - pppffftt!!!) when 774 played a live version of Hunters and Collectors "Throw Your Arms Around Me", on John Faine's program (or as a friend likes to call it - The Voice of Balwyn - ouch). I have heard that song many times but this time I was so moved, I could have washed the floors using my own tears! Most of you who know me well, know that I am a practical and rational human being whose modus operandi when faced with a problem, is to dissect, examine options, develop a solution and then implement - whether its a work problem or fixing a door. I tend to be more of a "cut to the chase", rather than a "let's workshop this" kinda gal.I am very outcome focused. Some of my more questionable home handy repairs are testimony to this approach.....but it is the way I am. So it has also come as somewhat of a surprise that I am 'enjoying' a more reflective approach to all things possibly due to this cancer stuff. Case in point. The sight of the extremely beautiful and imposing athelete Majak Daw rising up against Nic Natananui for the centre bounce of North v Westcoast on Friday night almost brought me to tears at what this means for many of our younger recent arrivals to Australia, particularly those from African nations. And also for how it will shift the limited and bigoted views of many racists when inclusion and acceptance is served up through the filter of sport to even the most hardened bogan. It was a good good thing indeed. So this new state of reflectiveness in the main is a nice change for me. Except at night. Night time poses this big loooooooong stretch of time when with no distractions your thoughts can travel in many directions - not all of them good. So small little setbacks take on disproportionate impact. My underarm where the drainage tube was, has swollen up like a big fat half a football ball. It is called a seroma and is a pocket of clear serous fluid that can develop after surgery. When blood vessells are ruptured, blood plasma seeps out. Inflammation caused by the dying injured cells contributes to the fluid. And it means I just dont sleep much. It is hot and burning and makes me walk like a gym junkie, in that I cant hang my left arm naturally down my side. My arm is curved like the letter C. It sticks out over the swelling. This is both expected and temporary and I will go to Peter Mac on Monday to have it drained. But at night....in the stillness of night, it hurts and I cant sleep and I think...enough. Make it stop. I am not a fan of nights at the moment. And this song captures that beautifully. Nonetheless, the theraputic value of a good cry is well documented. And I know that these occassional maudlin days will strike but they also will pass. Do you remember those old blow-up beach-balls that you used to have as a kid - panels of different colours of white, red, blue and green. Now I don't know if you ever tried it as a kid, but in the pool in our back yard in Williamstown, I would try and push an inflated beach-ball under the water, all the way to the bottom so that I could stand on it. Invariably, due to both my lack of co-ordination and strength and a little physics thingy called the law of gravity, it would ensure that the beach-ball would shoot right back up with quite some force, break through the water's surface and there it would bob. For the most part my natural resilience strongly resembles such a beach-ball. The cancer and the treatment process of it, is trying to push my beach-ball to the bottom of the pool. But it has its own will and it will naturally find its way to the surface again. This winter of 2013 looms before me full of long days and nights of feeling poorly and not in control. But it will pass and the natural order of things will be restored. For me, that order includes being able to sing along to music not seeking any deeper meaning than just joyful expression and for me there is no better song in the entire world than this. Version 1 is the Il Globos - a Melbourne cult band of the 80's - which I should add, I can sing almost word perfect..... and Version 2, the original version for you purists out there!!! Ciao Bella Kellyxxx

Some bad news, and a cry but the washing still needs to be folded

Good afternoon Children of Mothers,

A happy mothers day to you if you are one (of both human or loved furry critter type) and happy mother's day to your mothers if you ain't.

We went to the surgeon (Anita) on Friday just past, to find out where to from here, now that all the pathology, testing and histopathology report was complete. I am saddened to report that it was less than optimal and obviously not what we were expecting nor what we would have liked to hear.

It seems that despite going back into the left breast tumour site a second time to surgically  "clear the margins", the team found more of the little buggers skulking around the parameters of the new margins. Although these are baby cancer cells, if left unattended they would develop. So I will need surgery again.

They have also found isolated tumour cells albeit in only two of twelve nodes under my arm, but it demonstrates that the type of cancer tumour that I had was reasonably aggressive so this fact, to a large degree has pretty much determined that I am headed for chemotherapy toot sweet! Although the tumour was small (1.6cm), it was classed as a Grade 3 because it had already made its way under my arm - in short , what the Surgeon referred to as a reasonably high turnover rate of cells - I presume she meant that it has quite a quick conversion capability.  So its chemo instead of chrysanthemums for me this year.

According to the surgeon, the debate apparently between the clincial team was, which need be first - surgery or chemo. If I was to opt for the surgery, then the type of surgery that I could have (and more of that a bit latter), would postpone the commencement of chemo as time would be required for sufficient healing. From her "surgeon's hat point of view" she said she can see the relative merits of getting the breast and underarm sorted, and thereby closing off that specific chapter. However, the infancy stage of these lurking cells means that we have time and to that end she agrees with her colleagues in this instance that chemo should commence as soon as possible. I will come back to my surgeon in a minute.

The oncologists and pathologists were barracking for chemo first and surgery latter. The reason is that the relative aggressiveness of the tumour was making them inclined to get the chemo through my system to flush out and kill any other cells that may have already broken away and headed into my blood stream and possibly lodged elsewhere. They wanted to be able to do this ASAP.

Now folks, all of that makes perfect logical and rational sense but when you are absorbing it in one go it makes for one industrial sized head spin. I was conscious of the effect of the news on Siobhan and on me and I was fighting really hard to stay in the moment and not lose the thread of what was being told to me. I was conscious of the almost physical effort I was making to remain focused.

Many things were going through my head at that moment - The  team obviously think that the cancer is relatively aggressive, that I could already have cancer cells cruising around my body looking for a nuturing place to lock and load, that I am going to have to wear a bloody wig, that I have a bloody big head and what if I can't find one to fit, that I will need to learn to draw on eyebrows, (but I need to be wearing my glasses to be able to do it properly and not look like a tragic drag queen) and finally  \what if I go through all of this and it comes back or a new one starts in the other boob.

Oh and "fuck" I kept thinking "Fuck"................

So I asked Anita. I said that someone had told me early on that having had breast cancer in one breast there was a high probability of it either a) spreading to the other breast or b) a new cancer occurring in the right breast. She confirmed that this was the case particularly in relation to the latter. So I said leaving the chemo question to one side for the moment, what were my surgery options.  It was at this juncture that she floated the relative merits of going again and revisiting the margins and scraping more out, versus a bi-lateral mastectomy, versus a double mastectomy. But that should I elect for chemo first, then this would allow me to explore reasearch and determine which surgical solution was the best option for me. A bi-lateral or double mastectomy would require longer healing times that if I went for that procedure now, would delay my starting chemo.

Radical stuff folks to take in in one go.

But it did show me how they gently steer you towards the optimum clinical solution in their collective opinions that they prefer. Although they were at constant pains to ensure that I was aware it was my choice as to how I proceed, the manner of how they queued the information led you to the path of obvious inevitability that chemo first was the only real option here.

I do think that perhaps they were expecting me to be a bit bolshie and likely to be seeking hard facts as they also advised that we were to meet with the medical oncologist immediately post this meeting which we hadn't been advised of prior. I had asked about survival rates, my own survival rate given these new developments, the percentages of re-occurence, more radical intervention to mitigate future risks etc, so I guess they figured I wasnt the crying and staring-into-the-distance-in-shock kind of gal..........

Before we left the meeting with my surgeon and breast nurse one good thing happened. The drainage bag was removed (a big yay for me!!) but Anita also advised something that totally spun me out. If all things being equal, the chemo works and mops up any cancer squatters taking up residence in my body and I have either a genetic predisposition or a strong family history that would warrant a double mastectomy (and bless her and her wonderful honesty, she said that if she was in my shoes, she would be opting for a double mastectomy with reconstructive surgery), she said that if I elect to go down that path - guess where they rebuild your boobs from folks??? From the fat in your tummy - so you end up with new boobs AND a tummy tuck ! Stay tuned because if we get to that stage folks the stories and the pics will be totally wild!

I will now not see Anita for about  three months but she has arranged a referral to Plastics, the familial centre for genetic testing and an ultra sound as they have identified a "mass" from my CT Scan .......but recorded it as an ovary !! D'oh.....so she is seeking clarification.

So then we meet the medical oncologist. A total cocky Irish wise-arse smart-mouth who I take to immediately. He can do the genetic logirthythm in his head based on family history of breast and other cancers, ages and pre and post menopausal factors and in his view I probably am not likely to be a gene carrier but will get it confirmed through testing. He also provides me with an interesting sheet of data as to what the odds are for a woman of my age, type of cancer and story thus far, of survival if electing to use available of therapies (chemo, radiotherapy and hormonal ) versus those who dont.

He then proceeds with an almost wickedand  delighted expression on his face to say he intends to thoroughly and totally poison me as soon as I agree commencing with FEC which is fluorouracil, epirubicin and cyclophosphamide. I will be given three cycles of this (one every three weeks for nine weeks in total). Followed by three cycles of docetaxel. (one every three weeks for nine weeks in total). A combined six cycles occurring over 18 weeks folks. Oh, and I will lose my hair in the second cycle of FEC .....just in time for the start of winter!!!

He tells me to seriously reduce alcohol intake (what sort of Irishman is this bloke) as the connection between breast cancer and alcohol is well established. In the interests of full disclosure peoples, I intend to do so, save for one notional glass at any important occassion but that this change to lifestyle will only commence when chemo does. So now we wait about three weeks and I will start chemo.

Siobhan and I left and walked across the road to the Fitzroy Gardens. The leaves have turned and have started to fall away. As we both digest the news, we look at the trees on this beautiful Melbourne autumnal day  and I say to Siobhan that I want to come back to this specific tree with her in spring, when new green shiny leaves have totally covered all its branches. I tell myself that this tree wil provide a metaphor for my own renewal.

To Joy and John D and to Pauline and Rob a very special thank you from us.

Kxxxx

PVC Jewellery & Calico - all hail the Thornbury Bag Lady

Good Evening Fashionistas,

Its been a few days since surgery and although still feeling a tad wasted, (and looking like some homeless woman)  I am incrementingly on the improve each day from the surgical chapter in this Cancer Chronicles novel in which I am the relunctant lead character. I was scheduled to meet with the Medical Oncologist late this afternoon to determine whether I am to to have some adventures in the Chemo and Radiotherapy chapters of this drama but it has been postponed til after I meet my Surgeon this coming Friday, who will on behalf of the whole Team Minogue, now that they have all my results and pathology results, advise me what luxury suite of procedures I get to enjoy over the coming months.  But that is for later, so let me fill you in on what has been happening over the last few days.

In pursuit of the maximum return for the health dollar spend, patients spend minimal time taking up bed space in a hospital these days so I was tipped out and sent home the day after surgery and I could not be happier. Not only does one not have to insult one's taste buds with less than tempting fare, but one can rely on the familiarity of one's own chosen mattress, 1000 threadcount (and absolutely not one thread less darlink!) and duck down accessories to ensure a truly comfortable night sleep. One that is uninterrupted by fellow inpatient snores or the slightly disturbing lurkings of the night duty nurse!!

To facilitate this transition however, Peter Mac sends a troupe of amazing people to tend and assist your recovery. This service is called Peter Mac @ Home. It is a service that has been going on for 40 years. Most other health services have only recently introduced it in the last 5 - 10 years. I have had five visits thus far by four nurses (and a second year nursing student) and they should all be bottled!! They are just tremendous. These very experienced people come into your home for about 40 minutes a day. They take your "obs" - blood pressure, pulse and tempertaure, check your wounds and then have a chat about how you are managing. All very low key - but these people are cunning.

In seemingly informal chit chat they can glean how you are managing and how you are coping,- they can offer you some good recommendations to follow up on an issue here, or a reference there, that you may be chatting about. They are a wealth of information and exceptionally professional. Now these attributes in a hospital setting would be both expected and indeed easier to convey. But within the context of a patient's own home, where this hitherto unknown person is able to convey both clinical professionalism as well as genuine warmth and approachability is the true skill and measure of these health professionals. I am in absolute awe.

Now, I am  mindful that I am clearly more receptive to healing because I am in familiar surroundings, with the room temperature, the house layout, the water pressure, the type of shampoo, snacks, use of my favourite teacup and tea type and preferred toilet paper of choice all of my own choosing for me to use and this aids the process. Aided and abetted of course by the care, the love and proximity of Siobhan and the four hairy nurses, as well as regular calls and visits from wonderful friends. But the psychological benefits that come from being at home, and maybe do a bit of sweeping here or dusting there, picking some flowers from my garden and placing them in our home, or getting the mail and taking a short walk, will better promote my well being far more effectively than swanning (and trust me, I can brilliantly execute serious swanning when I put my mind to it) around a hospital bed all day and night. Its been an facet to the whole process that I hadn't expected but am quite intrigued by. And to think that it has its genisis in bloody health spend economics!!!

What these nurses also do is change my drainage bag. 

Peoples,  you dont get to say that sentence too often in your life time!!!!!

In some poor facsimile of a Dominatrix with a rubber fetish, I get to 'sport' a rubbery plastic tubing 'stole' that is anchored under my arm about 30 centimeters inside my body down my left side  (can I just repeat that .....INSIDE my body) and protrudes about a metre and a half outside my body , at the end of which is a very fetching clear and white plastic bag of considerable thickness with intricate navy blue markings that measure the fluid outputs!!!

My research shows that this autumnal ensemble is the latest thing at all the reputable Paris atteliers or fashion houses this season. Tres chic or what!! It would appear that I am surgically attached to this eye catching Clinical Art Installation for at least a couple of weeks!

Now its one thing to be sprouting a tube and bag out of one's body. Its another thing entirely that over the course of a twenty four hour period my body expels liquids (yes plural) comprised of blood, water and sinew. I am wedded to this "NOT A PRADA DARLING", until my tubal leakage maxs out at 30mls or less for two consecutive days!! Folks to give you some idea of how I am travelling, first day's output was 240 mls,  most recent two days on the trot have been just over a 100mls each day - so I have aways to go!!!



On the first day, the volume of output looked like a cheap sangiovese in colour. The bouquet and taste clearly not for exploring or rating. But in recent days it has faded plenty and apparently we - dont you love the use of the collective pronoun......we are ultimately aiming for a pale straw colour - kind of like a Marlborough Slut Juice (a popular term I use for a NZ Savignon Blanc!!)

And even if you are ok with the concept of a continuous leak and I must confess it does make me feel abit queasy the worst part is not that - its walking around trying to be normal that is the hard part. On soooooooo many occassions thus far, I have hooked the bloody tubing on every kitchen drawer handle, door knob or shower tap, or dog leg and commenced to walk away blissfully unaware that in a matter of a few seconds I will look like a caricature from a cheap cartoon as I am hoiked backwards by the unforgiving tug of rubber and stitching on my delicate and sensitive underarm skin. If I was into slapstick - it would be funny. Its funny for everyone else though.

But even when you may think - gee she's doing it tough - it gets a whole lot worse.

Not only do you have to be umbillically attached to this little number but the very kind and well intentioned volunteers of Peter Mac take you to a whole new fashion plane and provide you with little fashion items to accessorise your new look.

No need to walk down the street screamining - "Look at Me. I am a Cancer Patient" No folks, these good good people have fashioned a whole line of accessories for you to look your best. And no-one will possibly suspect that inside that hand sewn calico bag strung awkwardly over your shoulder with a cross stitched hand cut flower motif on the front, is a drainage bag. Because after all, I am such a calicao bag, complete with floral motif, kinda gal!!!!!

But wait - there's more.

In addition to the Camouflage drainage bag Over the Shoulder Clutch, is a more robust handbag to keep all your drugs (plenty in number but of no serious street value), extra bags, dressings and appointment diary. This defies description and I will leave you to imagine the endless possibilities for how I can mix and match this very special number with my wardrobe. The interesting and most valuable of my presents though is the half moon shape cushion - not as you may assume a neck cushion - but a rather ingeneous cushion when placed over my left shoulder perfectly cushions my arm from pressing on my tube and wounds and enables a truly magnificent sleep. The little mouse thing in the bottom right hand corner is a lavender (natch!) smelly to make everything smell like little old ladies.

Now whilst I may jest about the fabric design and choices made by these good ladies for someone like me, make no mistake, I am exceptionally grateful for their kindness, their time and their efforts and I will treasure their sense of giving as I will treasure these articles for my care. I am grateful that I can benefit from someone who gives their time altruistically.

Merci Good Ladies - see you on the catwalk of recovery.


Kellyxx

Ding! Ding! Round 2. Peter Mac v Minogue Surgical Unit Ward 3

Well here I am again Thursday  2 May, this time for a total excavation of the auxilla and a re opening of the wide excision of left breast. In lay speak that means that they are taking out all the lymph nodes in the left arm pit and re-opening the left breast to scrape more tissue from the margins, which is the area surrounding where the tumour was. 

I have to confess that my super hero special strength, that of lightening recovery rate from general anaesthesia, deserted me this time. Normally referred to as GARL Girl (general anaesthetic lightening recovery girl) I felt more Gargoyle than Garlgirl!! Nicknames totally self appointed by the way. 

It's around 4am post surgery of late yesterday afternoon and I have had a shite time of it for the last 12 hours.  My day started beautifully. I headed to Peter Mac via public transport - and yes Lee, there are times when PT can be a joyous occasion! It was a superb Melbourne autumnal day. We drove to Clifton Hill, caught a train in 5 minutes to Jolimont, arrived in 8 minutes, and then Siobhan and I walked through the gardens from Wellington Road to Landsdowne street to Peter Mac. It's terribly un-Melbournian of me that I do not know these exquisite gardens correct name!

So there I am all checked in and frocked up waiting to go into theatre at 11.30. Siobhan has returned to work and will bring my food rescue package abit later. (clearly have got the priorities sorted people!) Mike has purple penned and initialed my left breast and then folks I wait for four and a half hours! It does not bode well for me that I wait as all these other late comers jump the queue and get 'done' before me. 

A lovely young girl is to be operated on and I learn that even in this ready state for a procedure involving anaesthetic,  a head covering is still required for her as a Muslim and one is fashioned to wear during the operation. What is terrific about one's place in this public system process is the people, the cultural issues and the education you receive from it. 

So there I am many hours later and last on the list for my surgeon for the day and I am wheeled in to a nice warm theatre. The waiting room has been freezing. My surgeon and I had had a per-op chat about my concerns that my scars appeared to be keloid already (check word reference) - that is hard and raised. She said she would make sure that they were done again to avoid this and thanked me for raising the issue with her. You gotta love a surgeon who is responsive to your concerns!! Quite the miracle generally speaking, but she is simply lovely (and skilled of course) but her demeanour makes it all the more positive an experience. I think that it is in no small part because she is a female. Now all you blokes, don't pooh pooh this. I think that high achieving women tend to be less hierarchical and less inclined to adopt the stereotypical mannerisms that often go along with specialist roles - The recently departed Baroness Thatcher notwithstanding! 

Next I know, I am waking up in recovery some few hours later. On first blush I feel good, start chatting to the recovery staff and feel a tad peckish. Ticks for me. Then they bring me a cup of tea and a salad sandwich and whilst I am grateful for the tea, the food makes me want to puke. Can't do it. This is the beginning of a stint of nauseousness that goes on for about 12 hours with significant peaks and troughs. Hate feeling queasy. It's exhausting. All your energy goes into distracting yourself from chucking up. 

My Ward 3 Nurse arrives to kidnap me and hold me prisoner in a room with three other patients. It's a full house across the Mac today so no special privileges for anyone. We are about to hear and become strangely accustomed to each other's bodily noises - both audibly and nasally detectable!!! Fortunately, we are all too trashed to care. 

Poor Siobhan gets to arrive finally,  having had to kill extra hours waiting in the city until I was back from theatre. I am off my head. Emotionally very vulnerable , very teary and feel all round crappy. No pain though- not one iota. Just an emotional mess in a dress (a very ugly dress - at that). Siobhan has brought me a tempting dinner of chicken satay and rice from a city restaurant but I cannot even look at it so in the fridge it goes. This is my relationship with food for the remainder of my stay. 

Siobhan heads home to feed the West Highland Nursing Agency team so that they are fighting fit to man the bed upon my discharge tomorrow. Can't have them doing a Dandenong and threatening strike action if their demands are not met. Conceding on all points of negotiation is my strategy to ensure a happy nursing team!!

The evening ploughs on through bad telly, some phone calls and emails to dear friends and I am totally exhausted but am in the extremely unusual mindset of fighting sleep. Anyone who knows me, knows that I am the queen of the Nanna nap and will gladly retire to sleep at the earliest opportunity - even when entertaining people at home. So this is weird. 

When finally I do decide to sleep at sound 11pm, I quickly arrive at the realisation that it was a total waste of time. Each time I fall asleep I am woken up by a violent wave of nausea. I have the drainage drip in place on my left side and a line in with fluids into my right hand to which they periodically add anti nausea stuff for some short term relief. I am also hooked up to oxygen through with one of those plasticky hose things. Given my somewhat amply designed honker, I am somewhat surprised that it keeps slipping out all the time. 

The next few hours are shitty. It's dark, my throat is sore from the tube down it during surgery (and no, not from snoring!!) I am having hot flashes very 15 minutes so am sweaty and grumpy and I feel like chucking regularly and I am too tired to read, play word games, browse the net or anything. The only thing not giving me grief is the actual surgery that I had. The bag is draining well, the surgical sites are not giving me any pain at all and from that perspective it's fantastic.  My fellow patients are periodically in some discomfort so there is pockets of activity and noise when I do start to drift off. Did I say how it sucks being a woman???  I am awake for a period of time each and every hour through the night. 

My night duty nurse is a delight and ever vigilant, ever patient and she kindly brings me tea and crackers. I am not normally this sooky so that in itself is hard to take but the combination of things is knocking me around and the effects even more amplified in the loud quietness of night.

It's now nearly 6am so things should start happening here so. Siobhan will be in around mid morning to collect as I am hopeful of a discharge then. Home to my lovely house and Siobhan's unstinting care and attention. 

I leave you now, knowing that in the coming days I will be facing an enormous battle.A battle that will call on all my strength, my mental toughness and sheer rat cunning. But I know I will prevail folks. I will secure, maintain and defend my space in my bed against those nursing terriers!!!!

Game on Folks

Kellyxx

It's official....... I have gone "Herbal"

Good Morning Fellow Fysical Followers,

Yesterday I was required to attend Peter Mac's Physiotherapy Department to undertake a bio- impedance assessment. This was to establish a baseline (pre-operatively) as to what the fluid level is in my left arm before they take out all my lovely hard working lymph glands from under my left arm pit. Apparently one can develop the "lymphoedema" - lymph meaning lymph gland and oedema meaning swelling. So albeit a low risk, I could end up with an arm like Guillermo Vilas. For those not familiar, Guillermo was a rather gorgeous tennis player circa late 70's early 80's, whose hitting arm was three times the size of his other arm!

So they run this electrical current through your body using these little stick-on pads that then connect to the machine to do the reading. They may have also thrown a piece of bacon on my tummy as well for their lunch but I can't be too sure - but here I am connected and feeling very Miss Frankenstein-esque. Felt very tempted to do a zombie like walk when leaving the department, arms outstretched and stiffly rocking side to side and groaning but they probably get that all the time. Reading is all good and within the acceptable range. I will head back in one month's time and they will check the levels again to see that the fluid is at an appropriate level and being redirected or re-routed to other lymph glands in my body (neck, groin etc) as expected.

But my real news for today is that I have finally succumbed and am about to confess - to come out, as it were to all you good people  and tell you dear friends that I have finally embraced what living in
Thornbury is really all about.

Yep, I am officiallya  card carrying Herbal.

I have thrown caution and conservatism to the wind and have gone to see a traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner who goes by the somewhat unusual Chinese name of Raffaele Vavala!!

See folks to live in Thornbury as a true native, is to embrace organic produce totally with the focus of a serial killer, to shop with an almost palpable religious fervour in search of the best super food that has travelled the least amount of food miles, adopt a superior sense of piousness about the goodness coursing through one's body that only comes from a diet of organic mung beans served with a brown rice pilaf and washed down with a chilled glass of 2013's finest wheat grass - brought not from the filthy capitalist supermarkets- good lord no- purchased only from either the Health Food Shop where the shop assistants all need a good shave (boys and girls alike) or from the local farmers market held at the local primary school of which Thornbury has plenty. It would appear that herbals are rather prolific breeders and have lots of chill'un with names like Zinia, Ennui, and Harness. Who knew?

So in the interests of truly assimilating, I have developed an acquired liking for independent music,
where such performances could be held in a telephone box, such is their appeal, a love of well-intended yet poorly executed community art such as an interpretative dance, the theme of which I think may have revolved around live animal exports followed by the possiblity of a commemorative fund raising purchase of such works portrayed through the craft of scrap booking!!

My diagnosis has afforded me the opportunity to slam dunk this sense of pure self and community by embracing those health provider options oft used by my more organic Thornbury brethren. So at the recommendation of the lovely Pauline, ( a free radical and non-conformist of long standing) I get my unshaven legs to take me to Raff's rooms where after a detailed consult, he sticks little needles in me like some voodoo doll to alleviate the return of meopausal symptons that have returned with a
vengeance, since ceasing HRT.

 I was considering the purchase of some hand spun, hand dyed, home made garments to complete the transformation but seriously, herbals just don't do a good outfit that goes with heels!! So I leave you good people with the new Minogue Mantra.........

"All this biodynamic food and decaf  beverages had better have some bloody benefit because they taste like shit"

Here Endeth the Lesson.

Kelly xx