Blocked Drain

A for those of you who thought I'd stopped... Last Sunday whilst on Skype, grossing my sister and father out with my bag of blood, I must have caught my tubes on something and given it a bit of a yank. The transatlantic connection was treated to liquid squirting in full technicolour. My husband and I managed to shove the tubes back in and get the suction back into the bag. My sister and father quickly signed off but luckily they had already had lunch. Jeronimo of course commented, “Mama boom.” I guess I should have made a connection because pretty much from that moment I stopped dripping. However, wishful thinking what it is I believed whole-heartedly that my time with the drain had come to an end. I had almost nothing to measure and so I made the appointment with the surgeon expecting him to remove the drain. He was very complimentary about the natty bum bag, in which I carry around what I commonly call the “bag of blood”. I thought maybe I had gone to far by topping the 80’s look off with leg warmers but I think they finish the outfit nicely. As the nurse was unwrapping my “The Mummy Walks Again” bandaging (why can’t I ever make it look like the nurses do? It always ends up lopsided and wrinkled) the doctor made chit chat. “I went to a conference the other day with some of your country men from Cardiff.” “I think you’ll find they were Welsh,” I said accepting the rather rough prodding I received from him as fair game. “They gave a great talk and even used U2 in their presentation.” He added jovially as he examined me. “I think you’ll find U2 are Irish,” I added. I couldn’t resist it and of course suffered again as a result. “What quantity secretion did you say you have had?” he asked. “Oh, zero,” I said quite chuffed with myself, handing over my lovely computerized table with the under 30ml measurements highlighted in yellow. “Have you noticed any liquid coming out at any other places, maybe at night?” he asked. “Now that you mention it there has been much more leakage at night.” “And this?” he questioned sticking a finger into the space under my long but neat scar. “Had you noticed this?” The skin undulated as if it was a bag filled with liquid. “Oh that. I was going to ask you about that,” I answered, “It looks a bit like a bag full of liquid doesn’t it?” “Yes, young lady (didn’t really call me that but I can imagine him doing it) that’s because it is a bag of liquid. Your tubes are blocked. I’m just going to unblock them for you.” “A small pulling feeling,” he added as he yanked the gunk through my tubes using a syringe and I nearly threw up. I wonder if he would have been any gentler if I had resisted the England and surrounding countries geography lesson. When I was wrapped in my bandage again, all straight and professional like, I broached the subject of removal of the drain. The doctor guessed at another few days to maybe a week. He reminded me that if he took it out too soon the build up of liquid would have to be syringed out through the skin. Nice! Funny how even childbirth and cancer have not made me any less able to deal with pain or needles? “And will I get a Valium to help me when you do yank them out?” I asked. “A Valium? I think not, you would never get up afterwards if we gave you Valium.” “Get up, I don’t need to get up,” I protested, “Look at my mother in law she is strong, she can carry me out. Please, please, go on. I promise I will never mention the British Isles again.” (No, of course I didn’t really add that last comment) “No, don’t be silly, take a pain killer before you leave the house. It will only hurt for a bit and only if the flesh has started to adhere a lo.” I have had the thing in for almost 4 weeks. Imagine being in hospital for all that time which I imagine people were before portable drip bags. However, before I left his surgery he did give me a bit of news that lifted my spirits and made paying the 40 quid fee easier. He gave me the results of the breast tissue and lymph nodes they had removed. He said it looked like very good news. The laboratory had found nothing in the removed tissue. Wow, nothing. Considering that I had had three breast tumours (plus one previously removed) and one massive lymph node one that is really quite incredible news. “I know you are thinking that maybe I didn’t have to be quite so radical with the surgery,” the doctor added looking at my, lets say whimsical, face as I read the lab report. Medical language is hard at the best and in Spanish it is dam near impossible. “Well, yes,” I said. “The lymph node tumour that we originally felt was four cm and could have been considered metastasis, so it was much the safer option to have radical surgery and not regret it later. However, considering the results you may not need to have more Chemo and we could start the radiotherapy sooner.” No more chemo. As soon as he had said it my heart leaped, and then plummeted again. My surgical oncologist and my chemo oncologist are not know for exactly seeing eye to eye in terms of treatment. I guess each specialist thinks that their field is, well, special. I have since tried to have an informal chat over the phone with the chemo doctor about further treatment but I imagine chemotherapy is not really something one chats about off the record. “Send her a copy of the results an make an appointment once you have had the drains removed,” said the receptionist. “Oh yes, I knew that…” I said putting the phone down. I do know that, because the first tumour I found was removed and tested positive for cancer (twice in two different laboratories), there was something particularly nasty in body. So, I don’t want to be too smug and think that I will probably have the chemo if they offer it, just in case. However, I do feel that, even if I still have four more sessions of chemo and then radiotherapy, I have been given a slice of my life back and I can start planning for the future again.