Yesterday the post came. It delivered a letter from the third hospital saying I was having an appointment with the plastic surgeon two weeks earlier than previously advertised, on Wednesday, 21 Dec. At the same time, I got a note confirming the oncology meeting this Friday, 16 Dec, and a note from my GP saying my blood tests were abnormal and could I come in for 'a chat'. That would be the chat I tried to arrange last week at the surgery because I knew my blood tests were abnormal but I hadn't been sent a note yet.... er.
Anyway, good news to have my surgical discussion appt moved forward. Except my first reaction of delight rapidly sank under the weight of doubt that this did not mean the surgery itself would happen any sooner. Was I on a surgery list anywhere? I told myself to lay off worrying and just go with the flow. Of course I was on a surgery list somewhere. I just didn't know it yet. Not knowing is fine.
Then I started my period (a hormone rollercoaster at the best of times) for the first time after beginning Tamoxifen (the prime purpose of which is to disrupt hormones further) and made a mental note that I needed to factor OTT reactions into things for a few days. Or I hoped it was a few days. What if it were permanent? Having told everyone blithely I would turn into an extra large box of frogs once I was on Tamoxifen, what would happen if I actually DID?
A small bird getting stuck in the kitchen flue proved surprisingly tough to handle emotionally, although I knew intellectually and practically what to do and I actually got the thing out inadvertently before help came. Emotionally, I was all over the shop, struggling not to be upset for the bird and empathise with its feelings (?!?), crippled with remorse for dragging someone out to help when I had solved the problem already, although he was only too willing to help and ended up sorting out the undersink leak whilst he was there, and becoming furious with myself for literally not being able to change an (expletives expletives) hallogen lightbulb, although no one else can with that (expletives) lightbult anyway. I sat down and thought, okay, let's not sound the klaxons yet. Just chill and distract for the evening.
This morning, I was still worrying about not being on a surgery list so I thought I might try a couple of phone calls to see if I could pin some info down. I tried Waiting Lists at the second hospital. Very kindly the lovely bloke on Waiting Lists explained, no, I was not on any list but then I won't be until the plastic surgeon has seen me and decides what to do. This seemed very reasonable and sensible. Except I could not quite accept it. So I phoned the plastic surgeon's secretary. She didn't answer. One of her very nice colleagues did. The plastic surgeon's secretary was unwell. I asked if it might be possible to find out if the plastic surgeon might be working during 26-30 Dec, being Christmas week. I thought that if I knew if he was working and there might be cancellations, or not working and no possible chance of cancellations, then I might emotionally calm down. But actually, although she very kindly suggested he was working but it was unlikely there would be cancellations, I felt worse. My mind went into complete blue funk mode of 'what do I tell people about Christmas? Do I say I won't join them because I need to stay for a cancellation, or go for Christmas and then be a complete nightmare to deal with? They don't need that!'
The secretary caught onto my tone of mild desperation and very kindly went on to say the plastic surgeon was probably the best in the biz, always took extra care with his patients and was a very safe pair of hands. He would know what to do and it would all become clear on Wed 21 at the appointment (once, I realised, he had had a chance to assess the state of The Lump and work out the optimal plan of attack). It all made perfect sense, highly reassuring and she even called back to say she had spoken to Waiting Lists and his surgical slots were fully booked during Christmas. I added it was unlikely my surgery would be then, even with a cancellation, because what I have chosen to have is such a long procedure. (It's already two surgery slots long.) Apologising profusely for talking like an emotional wreck and thanking her even more profusely, I set off to get lunch ready in the kitchen.
And burst into tears, howling. I had hit the wall.
I've had the howls before. Handily, just over fifteen years ago I was discovered to have a low-grade, fairly rudimentary depressive personality disorder that I've been managing with regular doses of Rational Emotive Behavioural Therapy ever since. I don't do drugs. Nasty side effects! Talky-talky has been far more effective, if incredibly expensive: I've paid for the whole lot privately. Having the howls has cropped up a few times in that period and when they do, I mobilise the back-up team and get things sorted asap.
But I observe the level of howls before I leap for the emergency activation codes. The way I see it, I have to be determinedly inconsolable in a distinct way, and not just out of the blue but after a few days of being very scratchy, stressy and negatively reactive. Also I wait to observe a sense that I will somehow never stop howling and observe I am using the clothing I'm wearing to dry my eyes, as opposed to the more normal paper hankies. Then I can start crying, er, wolf.
After an hour of weeping copiously at anything and everything like a rather underpressure, dribbly garden water feature - even the salad I was making was a source of alarm as "I might have put too much oil onto it and that might fuel The Lump" producing another cascade of tears - and assessing how I have been reacting over the last few days, I decided to roll out the big guns and get my therapist lined up for a Skype session in short order and phone Macmillan helpline but, first and foremost, talk to the relation with whom I might or might not be spending Christmas depending on what might or might not be happening with surgery dates.
The relative was entirely unfazed (I was worried they really did have enough on their plate already and that having an emotionally dishevelled relation might be a bit offputting for the smalls). I was reassured the smalls would be unperturbed, politely stepping over their prostrated howling relation on the floor as they disappear off to their winter sports festival matches and, if I suddenly get called to fill a surgical cancellation mid-Christmas, I can get back to Edinburgh within a day. So we have a fully fledged Christmas Plan.
And, actually, before I even speak to my therapist or Macmillan, that has sorted me out. Laughing with my beloved family.
