Tuesday was a good day, bringing the very best of news: the cancer hasn't spread. It is adenocarcinoma, non small cell lung cancer in its early stages. I met with my specialist cancer nurse, Michael (who is amazing), and the surgeon, Mr Jordan, who is also amazing. After reviewing my PET scan, the surgeon was keen to offer surgery and stressed that this was good, as not everyone is suitable. He told me how it would be: 2 chest drains, central line, catheter, cannulas and an epidural morphine pump; painful, exhausting and hard to breathe. That was on top of the 10% mortality risk. The colour drained from my face and I locked eyes with Jimmy as we both felt horror at what would come if I chose surgery. But the decision was not yet made as he wanted the radiologists to see my scan first, because there was an alternative, and then he would call me on Thursday for my answer.
The alternative was radio frequency ablation (RAF); a much 'simpler' procedure of inserting a needle directly into the tumour and blasting the cancerous cells, plus some extra around the outside, to make sure. A walk in the park, by comparison. But there isn't really that much information about the long-term prognosis with this radical treatment. It sounds almost too good to be true but I do know it has worked, it's just whether it would work for me. Could I risk it? Would it work or leave me vulnerable to the cancer returning and spreading to other parts of my body?
We drove ourselves mad on Wednesday; talking, researching, saying "what if", until we were blue in the face. At bed-time we fell into bed, mentally exhausted, and still hadn't reached a decision, but we slept the deepest sleep since my diagnosis. When Jimmy brought me my morning cup of tea, he sat next to me with such sadness in his eyes and told me that he loved me. He told me he was scared I might die on the table. He told me he was scared that RFA wouldn't work. And he told me that he couldn't help me make the decision because it was happening to my body and he didn't want to see me suffer from an operation when the RFA might possibly work, but that he was scared the RFA wouldn't work and then it might be too late. I hugged him close and said "I know" and we cried.
Mum rang to tell me she loved me and the text messages started to stream in from my friends. No-one wanting to say "go for surgery" because they knew what it would involve and that it would be me, not them, having to do it. I made up my mind and changed it at least 8 times before I got dressed. And then there were my friends on Purplecoo - offering their usual strength and support, along with some sound non-biased advice.
We agreed to wait and see what the phone call would bring, and prayed the decision would be taken out of my hands. My prayers were answered for the second time this week: the first when I prayed it had not spread and this time when the surgeon rang to tell me that the radiologist felt surgery was a better option for me. He felt that RFA could be a "fall back" treatment for the future but should not be my primary treatment, as there was a "better" solution. Good enough for me, thank you.
My surgeon sounded relieved when I said that I was happy to go ahead. It will be a wedge resection and is, fortunately, in an area of my lung that is already damaged from fibrosis. He laughed when I told him not to let me down, and promised that he would not. He's one of the best, I know, and I have to let him do his job - not easy for bossy old me, who likes to organise everything!
Before I knew it, my nurse was back on the phone with a date - 4th December. A week tomorrow. This will either be the longest or shortest week of my life, as I get myself ready for what lies ahead. I'll let you know what it was when I come home................. xx
