That is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
That really is the question. Do we take what life deals us with lying down or do we roll up our sleeves when the going gets tough and throw a few punches? With the help of a Macmillan nurse (who should be beatified in my opinion), I delivered a literary boff to the hooter.
This week things all got a bit too much. The sense of hopelessness over my treatment plan, pain, the effect of drugs and a wound infection that's worn me down. So I picked up the phone and called the Macmillan helpline, something I would have never considered before now. After a snotty, sniveling hour of my misery, the saintly nurse helped me clarify the steps I needed to rise out of my miasma of despair.
On my to do list was to seek a new consultant, secondly I was to consider contacting PALS, the Patient Advice and Liaison Service. I must firstly say, that I have no doubt that my consultant , MDT and nurse had my best clinical interest in mind when they devised my treatment plan, and I completely trust their clinical expertise but they certainly didn't take in to consideration any of my wishes. I made it clear from the day of diagnosis what I wanted but it made no difference. Being diagnosed with cancer puts you in a vulnerable position, standing up for yourself and making decisions under pressure is not easy or a good thing. In hindsight I should never have agreed to the surgery I didn't want, or agreed to the drug I didn't want but I did.
The worm has turned.
I have chosen to take arms, my weapon of choice is email; the word is mightier than the sword. Where I was refused my preferred surgery before, a door has suddenly opened and I have a new consultant, who I'm assured will be sympathetic. The good news was delivered at the 11th hour as I have my first radiotherapy meeting today. If I have further surgery I won't need radiotherapy but until I am certain that it will happen in the very near future, I intend to hold on to plan B. One's loins are girded.
Sound trumpets! let our bloody colours wave!
And either victory, or else a grave.
