January 2015
Tuesday 20th January 2015
The Initial Diagnosis
Yesterday I had my regular two-yearly colonoscopy as part of the management of my ulcerative colitis. Afterwards, a specialist nurse took us into a room and explained to us what they had found during the procedure. I had been made aware from the beginning, when the colitis was first diagnosed in the summer of 2013, that sufferers of inflammatory bowel disease (ulcerative colitis and Crohn’s) are more at risk of developing bowel cancer than the normal population, and that this is one of the reasons for the regular colonoscopies, to check for early development of cancer. I knew this with my head, but now I realise that in my heart I never thought that would apply to me!
While the colonoscopy showed that the treatment for my colitis is working well, and the area of inflammation is much reduced, they found something which they said they “didn’t like the look of,” in the middle of the still-inflamed area, at the right-hand end of the transverse colon. A bit further along the transverse colon they also found a polyp, often pre-cancerous, and which they normally remove during the colonoscopy, but because of the problem area, they left it in place for now. They took biopsies during the procedure, and are arranging for me to have a CT scan in the next fortnight. When I asked the nurse whether it was possible that it was benign, she did not answer in the affirmative, but merely reiterated that they didn’t like the look of it. This, to us, was enough to confirm that they already know that it is malignant, but they will apply science to confirm what they already know by experience, and this was reinforced by the further things she said, about future plans for treatment, etc. If they were not sure, she would not have gone into so much detail.
The CT scan will be of the whole of my trunk, from neck to bum. The nurse explained that so far, all they have been able to see is the tumour from inside the bowel itself, but the scan will enable them to see the whole of it. From my subsequent researches I can see that they will be looking to see how far it has grown into the muscle of the bowel wall; if it has advanced further into the outer membrane surrounding the colon, or even into the surrounding lymph nodes (not good because via the lymphatic system, cancerous cells can travel throughout the body). The scan will also show up any secondaries that might already have developed.
However, she said that they think they have caught it early, and all that may be required is for surgery to remove the affected part, and to join the two ends together. Because of the location of the tumour, which is “in our favour,” it is unlikely that I shall require a colostomy, which is very good news.
The nurse told us that she is the first point of contact with a multi-disciplinary team (MDT) which will be set up to manage my treatment. She gave me her card and told me to phone if I had any problems or questions; they are there to help me. The team will most likely consist of herself, my current gastro-enterology physician, a surgeon specialising in this area, an oncologist, and possibly others as needed – OT, physio, stoma nurse etc. From what Shaz has said about her MDT, this is an efficient team who communicate regularly and fully with each other and with the patient, who is given a ring-binder containing names and contact numbers of all concerned, and details of treatment and progress etc. They are very well geared up to deal with these problems, and the machinery is already in existence, ready to roll into action when needed. This is very reassuring.
After the scan, they will be in a better position to know exactly how to proceed. After surgery, they will put in place any further treatment that might be required, such as chemotherapy.
Ahead of surgery, they are also arranging an appointment with an anaesthetist for a fitness test, to see if I my general health is up to surgery. I asked what form this test might take, and the nurse said it was an exercise bike or treadmill test – at which I laughed and said that was a joke, sitting in front of her in my wheelchair, with my M.E.! I would never stay the course, and what I did manage would probably lay me out on the recliner for the next two or three days afterwards! They will have to find another way to see whether I’m up to it, but it’s all a bit academic, because if they consider I’m not fit, what are they proposing? If they just leave this, it’s most likely to be curtains for Shoshi! I’d rather take my chances with the operation! Anyway, we shall have to wait and see.
The operation will most likely be by keyhole surgery, which is a lot less traumatic to the body than traditional open surgery, and necessitates a shorter stay in hospital. My hubby had keyhole surgery for the removal of his gallbladder a few years ago, and I was amazed how quickly he recovered, although I had a job to get him to recuperate fully before launching himself back into work full-time!!
My emotions yesterday were as you can probably imagine. I did shed some tears, and had fleeting thoughts of “Why me?” I brought myself up short at that. We all know that cancer is very common, that bowel cancer is one of the commonest forms of all (and fortunately the most easily dealt with, with a high success rate), that bowel cancer is more common in inflammatory bowel disease sufferers, and that it is no respecter of persons. Why on earth should I be arrogant enough to think that I should be immune? Why NOT me, for goodness sake?
Last night I spent some time doing a bit of research, which was very helpful, and contacting many friends and family, and online friends on blogs and forums, filling them in with the news. The support and encouragement I have so far received has been overwhelming.
Today I am in fighting mood, and I have felt happy and upbeat. My hubby took me out for a lovely meal (planned before the colonoscopy) and I had the first proper outing away from the house for several weeks, apart from the hospital, which was a real treat. I am realistic enough to know that this feeling is unlikely to last, and that it might simply be a slightly manic reaction to yesterday’s news, and that there will be times when I am angry, confused, hurting (physically and mentally), and downright SH*T SCARED. My hope and prayer is that I will never turn in anger and frustration on others, most especially my beloved hubby, and that I will always retain a thankful heart, whatever the circumstances.
In this diary, I am going to attempt to be honest about my feelings, however negative they may be. This may be difficult for you to read. However, I believe that it serves no useful purpose to pretend that everything is fine, or that I am not worried or scared, or frustrated. Firstly, it will help me to vent my feelings in the form of the written word, and get them out of me. Secondly, I believe that even if it makes unpleasant reading, it will help any of you out there, who are going through the same thing, to “give you permission” to feel the same, and will let you see that you are not alone. I hope, though, that these negative thoughts and feelings will be relatively few and far between, and that the general tenor of this diary will be upbeat and full of hope and faith, and that these positive feelings will be expressed as honestly as the negative ones.
So… the journey begins.
Friday 23rd January 2015
Scan Appointment
This morning, the appointment arrived in the post for my CT scan, which is to take place next Friday, 30th January, at 5.20 p.m. They also enclosed a bottle of Gastrografin oral solution which has to be taken in two doses: two days before, and the day before the scan. This is a radio-opaque contrast medium which will enable my gut to show up on the scan. They will give me a further contrast medium immediately before the scan. It appears that I don’t have to perform any dietary preparations, which is a relief.
I am feeling rather weird and detached about the whole business, and it hasn’t really sunk in. Part of me is still saying that cancer is something other people get, not me. I think this is partly because I don’t feel any different – no lump, no pain, nothing apart from the words of a nurse and a letter in the post to indicate that there is anything wrong at all. I expect once things start to happen, I shall become more engaged with the whole idea. I expect others feel much as I do. I feel quite cheerful, but I have been pretty exhausted over the past few days, which isn’t really surprising, I suppose.
You will see from my post on my regular blog for today that my hubby is doing his best to make things pleasant for me and to help me on the journey – he took me for a lovely outing yesterday.
And so the juggernaut has started rolling. Onwards and upwards!
Monday 26th January 2015
Boot Camp
I am still feeling pretty unreal about this whole business, but expect it will become more real once they start poking me about and cutting bits out of me!
However, I have been thinking about my attitude and how I need to make a conscious decision about how I react to what is happening, and what will happen. First of all, I have decided that whatever kind of emotional rollercoaster I may end up on, I am not going to take out my feelings or my fear on those around me, and especially not on my lovely hubby, who has put up with more than enough from Mum lately. On this subject, for the last couple of days, I have actually been giving thanks to God for her appalling behaviour of late (although she is now behaving a lot better) – I never thought I could say that! I have thought about what it is like to be on the receiving end and decided that it’s a good thing I’ve had that experience, because I wouldn’t wish it on anybody, and I am forewarned, so I can guard against it.
I think the reason she’s been like that is because over the past couple of years, she has had everything important in her life stripped away, and her behaviour is the last vestige of control she has over her life. OK, it’s a bad decision to behave badly towards everybody, but it’s the only power she has, and it is understandable.
I have also been thinking about some sort of visualisation, to help me in my upcoming battle against the cancer. Our lovely neighbour from opposite popped in yesterday with cake and sympathy – she makes the most delicious low-fat chocolate brownies! She said that a lot of people give their cancer a name. However, I don’t want to do this, because farmers always say if you give animals a name, you can’t kill them lol! Shaz, whose example I am following by writing this diary, has given her colostomy a name (Sid!) but that is quite different – her hubby said she needed to think of it as an ally in her fight against her cancer, rather than something else to fight against, and giving it a name certainly helps with that.
A thought came to me today about the MDT (multi-disciplinary team) that is being set up to care for me. I like to think that I will be a member of that team, because I shall be working with them towards the goal of eliminating the cancer. I see the team like an army, with generals, officers, non-commissioned officers and men, each with a role to play in a very organised and structured way, fighting a war. I am the humblest of privates, who just has to obey orders and co-operate! The lovely thing is that this whole war is being fought on behalf of this particular little foot soldier, and that is quite a humbling thought – all that professionalism, training, expertise and experience being directed towards my healing and wellbeing. What’s more, on our wonderful NHS, it is free. I am sure that over the coming months there will develop a camaraderie as we learn to work together.
So think of me as I don my battle fatigues and knuckle down to the campaign. I shall get muddy and tired, probably resentful towards my senior officers at times, and feel powerless and desperate as they urge me ever forward, even though I may be thinking I can’t march another step with this load on my back!
This preparation time feels a bit like boot camp. Attitude training.
I am also thinking about the training I shall get while on campaign, and what I shall learn, just like in the army. I shall be given new skills, in coping, and new knowledge. I am eager to learn. I should like these skills and knowledge to be used in the future for the benefit of others – even if that just means that I am better able to understand what they are going through.
I am a conscript in this army, not a volunteer. I have no choice but to join, and make the best of it. In the face of impending war, we have to set aside our regular lives and personal preferences, because our lives are no longer our own but belong to the army, and for a season, we have to go where we are sent, dress in unfamiliar – and maybe uncomfortable – garments, conform to a new regime, and endure many hardships. I am fortunate in that I have many civilians making their own sacrifices on my behalf, and keeping the home fires burning while I am at the front. I am very sorry for the anguish they will be suffering on my behalf, and their own personal worries about the outcome, and if my attitude can help them in this, so much the better.
Maybe this war will be of short duration, but maybe not. At the beginning of WW1 they all said “It will be over by Christmas.” Nobody knows at the outset. We are all hoping for a brief skirmish, not a protracted all-out war.
So now, I await the arrival of the troop ship which will take me who knows where. I doubt there will be any medals, or even mentions in dispatches, but that’s not important – what matters is that the war is won.
My hubby is spoiling me rotten, bless him! I told someone the other day that he is my rock and my star, to which he replied, “But I’m not a rock star” lol! (Believe me, nobody wants to have him sing at them – I always try and protect the kitties when he does it at them!) After Jesus, he is my rock – my foundation – and my star – my guiding light.
[Note: When I had my pre-assessment appointment with the anaesthetist prior to my surgery, I told her about this visualisation and she said that my being a lowly private having to obey orders was not an accurate analogy, because she emphasised that I was to be fully involved throughout in the decision-making, and nobody was going to force me to do anything. I take her point, and every metaphor or visualisation has its drawbacks and falls down in one or more details, but I did find this analogy helpful.]
Wednesday 28th January 2015
Limboland
I am feeling very tired today after our busy day yesterday (lunch out, and a drive down by the sea) so I have been resting most of the day. I feel as if I am in limbo – suspended, untethered, unable to settle to anything constructive.
At lunch time today, I took my first dose of the contrast medium the hospital sent me with my scan appointment. I have to take the second one tomorrow, and then they will give me some more just before the scan. It is in the form of a clear, somewhat syrupy liquid that you have to dilute with water, and drink. Why do they always flavour medicines with aniseed? I HATE the taste! The battles we’ve had over the Gaviscon, to get them to give me peppermint!
Nothing of note to report, really. While I do not relish what is to come, I am anxious to “let battle commence” now, and get on with it, and get it over with. I am not worried about the scan on Friday because all I have to do is let them post me through the scanner and then we’ll come home. However, it is the consultation to come after the scan that I am getting nervous about, because it is then, after they’ve analysed the scan results, that they will tell us what they have found, and whether or not the cancer has spread… I am trying not to think to far ahead, and stick to my resolve of dealing with one day at a time, but it’s hard not to think about that day. I don’t even know when it will be. I think it will be the worst day, because that is when they’ll give us the facts, for good or ill. After that it won’t be so bad, because we will know what we are dealing with, and it will just be a question of doing what they say, step by step, and enduring all the various surgeries and treatments etc.
Limboland is not a nice place. It is a barren land, with pitfalls for the unwary – of fear, anxiety, looking too far ahead. These little pits in the ground can cause you to turn an ankle or trip, and many of them are camouflaged by stones and dead leaves, and you have to watch every step to avoid falling. There are occasional signposts planted at random in the ground, pointing nowhere. It is a featureless, beige place with no clear path leading anywhere, and overhead, dominating the sky, is a brazen sun in the form of a clock, ticking inexorably, ticking away the hours and days but with no end in sight, and a voice chiming, “Wait! Be patient! The time will come!” It is a dream landscape from which you want to wake up, but cannot. I am suspended, detached from my normal routine and the reality of my life. It’s almost as if I am unable to feel anything.
It takes me back to those awful months during the summer of 2007 when I was waiting for my M.E. diagnosis, when I was in a different sort of Limboland, with the frightful experience I had with a very unpleasant neurologist, and the fear they’d tell me it was all in my head. During that time, I was filled with anxiety – not like now; I was all over the place, wondering what was wrong, and fearing M.S., and all the while dealing with a deterioration in my health with ever decreasing mobility, and a succession of viral infections throughout the summer, and a lack of understanding from family and friends. I was given lots of “diagnoses” and advice from totally unqualified, ignorant people who all seemed to have The Answer and were all falling over themselves to give me their pearls of wisdom and I just wanted them all to Shut Up!! It was such a relief to get a “label” for what was wrong, when I eventually got a diagnosis in the autumn of that year.
This time it’s different, because I know what is wrong, but what I don’t know is how bad it is, and exactly what they propose to do about it, beyond the bare bones of knowing I’ve got to have surgery. I am not suffering the agonies of anxiety or frustration with those around me; I just feel detached.
Come on, Shoshi, stick to your resolve not to worry! Remember the Scriptures from Romans! Hang in there! You have yet to meet your superior officers and hear their battle plans. The troop ship hasn’t quite arrived yet and you need to keep up the training in the Boot Camp!
Thursday 29th January 2015
Will I be Fit?
Today the hospital phoned to make an appointment for the pre-op fitness test. I spoke to the consultant anaesthetist’s secretary and we fixed the test for 11 a.m. on Wednesday 4th February (next week), and it is unlikely that surgery will take place too long after this, or the results of the test may become irrelevant, so I expect we are looking at some time mid-February for the operation. She said they had a note that I wouldn’t be able to do the exercise bike test, and the anaesthetist would probably check my heart and breathing. I told them I had left bundle branch block (a problem with the electrical impulses in my heart, with a characteristic ECG trace which interferes with any other abnormal traces, rendering an ECG less useful for testing) and she made a note of that, and also of the fact that I had a coronary artery spasm in the summer.
I asked what the point of it all was, because if I was deemed not to be fit, what would they do? The cancer has to be removed or it will spread and eventually kill me, and if it’s a choice between that, and an operation which might kill me if they don’t think I’m fit enough for it, I said I’d rather take my chances with the operation, thank you very much!! She said it was a bit more complicated than that; they might determine from the test that I could need extra help after the operation, if I was vulnerable, and if so, they’d arrange an intensive care bed to be available just in case. They are obviously being very thorough. I am sure I shall be passed as fit for the operation, though.
I am very grateful to all my online friends (and the non-online ones too!) for their prayers. Today I am feeling better again emotionally. I think I wasn’t dealing with it so well yesterday because I was very exhausted and suffering from some payback from our busy day the day before – I have to factor in the effects my M.E. has on me, which is an added complication stirred into the mix.
I’ve just got to be patient and take each day as it comes, and try not to worry about the consultation after the scan, when they tell me exactly what we are dealing with – that’s the one that is making me nervous. It’s just fear of the unknown at the moment. Once we know, we’ll just proceed with each step as it comes, and deal with it a day at a time.
I took my second dose of contrast medium today, as instructed, so I am all ready for the scan tomorrow afternoon.
Friday 30th January 2015
Through the Stargate
Today was the day of my CT scan. CT = Computerised Tomography, where a series of X-ray images are taken in the form of slices through the body, a bit like a joint of ham on a meat slicer, but I am happy to say these slices are virtual only, and Shoshi, you will be pleased to hear, is still in one piece! From these slices, the computer can create a virtual 3-D image. The CT scan can differentiate between different types of soft tissue and can show the difference between cancers and normal tissue. Thus the scan is able to show the extent of the tumour and how far through the bowel wall it has grown, and whether it has spread into any other organs.
My appointment was at 5.20 p.m. It was a freezing cold, wet day and I’d have much preferred to have stayed home in front of the fire with a kitty on my lap! We arrived early enough for me to get comfortable, as the hospital was nice and warm, of course. I didn’t want to have to strip off when I was freezing cold! However, in the event I didn’t have to remove any clothing at all. The only thing they worry about is trousers with metal zips but my trousers had an elasticated waist with a drawstring.
After waiting a while, someone came into the waiting area with a large jug of clear liquid and a plastic cup, and instructed me to drink it ALL! I had expected another small dose of contrast medium like the doses I’d taken yesterday and the day before, but there were gallons of the beastly stuff – aniseed-flavoured, of course! I did manage to get it all down and had a hefty chaser of water afterwards! Fortunately they kept me waiting for at least another three-quarters of an hour before calling me in for the scan, which gave me the opportunity for two visits to the loo to get rid of some of the excess liquid!
Entering the scanner room, I was very impressed by the appearance of the scanner itself – it resembled nothing less than a Stargate! For anyone who hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about, Stargate SG-1 is a sci-fi series on TV that my hubby and I enjoy – central to the series is a large ring which holds the entrance to a wormhole enabling travel to distant planets. Here’s a picture.
The central part of the ring revolves as the Stargate is activated, and then as the chevrons are engaged, the event horizon of the wormhole is formed, which resembles a vertical pool of shimmering water.
Here is a picture of a CT scanner.
See the resemblance? Lol!! During the procedure, the mechanism inside the ring of the scanner rotates and makes a noise, just like the Stargate, too! (To quote our favourite Col. Jack O’Neill, leader of the SG-1 team, before one particular mission: “We’ll need snacks.” Unfortunately on my mission through the Stargate, no snacks were forthcoming, unless you count the dreadful aniseed drink, but that’s not the sort of snack I enjoy! Ah well. One can’t have everything, I suppose.)
The bench is lowered so that you can climb onto it, and then it is raised so that the central moving part can be slid into the ring of the scanner with you on it.
When I was called in, I asked what was going to be done, because the specialist nurse who first spoke to us immediately after the colonoscopy had told us that the scan would be from my neck to my bum. However, the letter informing me of my scan appointment said that it would just be of the abdomen and pelvic region. I said I was concerned about this because a full trunk scan would be more likely to reveal any spread of the cancer beyond the colon. I was reassured when they told me that when the contrast medium was prescribed, this produced a computer-generated letter that was standardised; I needn’t worry because their referring letter from the doctor was as the nurse had said, that it should be of the whole of my trunk, and they apologised for the confusion.
I was asked to lie on the bench, and rest my head on the pillow they provided, and to produce an arm into which they would insert a cannula. I had to remove my thick jumper because the sleeve wouldn’t go up far enough, and because of muscle weakness, I couldn’t pull myself up on the bench – I have a bed lever on the bed at home to pull myself up, and could probably have managed to sit up if the bench had been wide enough for me to turn over onto my side, but as it was, they had to haul me up! After exposing my arm, I was told to lie down again.
Once the cannula was inserted, they left the room, telling me to lie still and obey the automated voice instructions regarding breathing. I had to put my arms straight above my head, and this was extremely uncomfortable, generating pain in my upper arms. I am sure this would not normally happen but with my M.E. my muscles can be affected by holding an abnormal position, such as at the hairdresser’s, when I find it physically impossible to sit with my head tipped backwards over the basin.
The bench moved me forwards, feet first, and posted me through the ring of the scanner. It took less than a minute, and part way through, it stopped, and I was told by the computer voice to breathe in and hold my breath. When the pass through the scanner was complete, it told me to breathe normally. This happened twice.
After this, they came in again and injected some contrast medium into the cannula, which produced the normal hot flush sensation, and then the feeling that one was peeing (I’d had this when the contrast medium was injected before my angiogram in the summer). When they came in to do this, I complained about the pain in my arms, and they put a block under them, which made them a lot more comfortable. They then left the room again, and the final pass through the scanner took a little longer, and with more whirring of mechanism. This was when I became aware of the rotational movement of the mechanism inside the scanner ring – just like the Stargate!
Once this pass was finished and I’d again obeyed the instructions regarding my breathing, I was told the scan was complete. I asked how long I could expect to wait for the results, and was told “a week to ten days.” I said I was anxious to receive the results sooner rather than later, firstly because this limbo period of waiting and not knowing what we are dealing with is not easy, which they could understand, and also because I have an appointment on Wednesday 4th February with the anaesthetist, to assess my fitness for surgery, and any delay between the fitness test and the actual surgery would surely be undesirable, because if too long a time elapsed, the fitness test would become irrelevant. They obviously cannot perform the surgery until the scan results have been analysed and assessed, so that they know exactly what they need to do. They said this was all understood, and I should not have to wait to long to hear; presumably I will be sent another appointment to come in to discuss the results with someone on the MDT (multi-disciplinary team), but this is unlikely to happen before the fitness test.
After this I was taken back to the waiting area, and told to wait there for ten or fifteen minutes, just to make sure I was OK and didn’t develop any reaction to the contrast medium. After this I was called into another room where the cannula was removed and a small dressing applied, to be left in place for two or three hours.
As a result of my journey through the Stargate, I am somewhat exhausted and definitely feel as if I’ve been on another planet.
Comments from my old blog
Shaz Brooks
21 January 2015 at 15:17
Hi Shoshi, good to see you have started! I’m happy you are on the upbeat swing, it does get a bit like a rollercoaster at times. I just keep telling myself it could have been worse. There are many, many untreatable cancers out there we could have got, so we are lucky. I saw a news article the other day that said medical research suggests that getting cancer is a ‘luck of the draw’ thing, and that in reality little can be done to avoid it.It is all about staying positive, I know you know that- frame of mind is everything. I’ll be keeping up with you, I have really appreciated you keeping up with me. Hugs, Shaz xxxxx
Zsuzsa Karoly-Smith
22 January 2015 at 19:35
What a heartfelt and honest post, Shoshi. I’ll be rooting for you and keep you in my thoughts. xx
okienurse
23 January 2015 at 23:54
I haven’t been doing too much blog hopping the past month so I hadn’t read anything about your cancer. I am really sorry that this has happened. I love your positive attitude about the ‘luck of the draw’. I think a lot of folks want to blame it on genetics or something but…who knows. I will keep you in my thoughts and prayers. Vickie
Eliza
25 January 2015 at 03:02
This post is very inspiring and heartfelt, keep it going and stay positive, you have loads of friends all around the world that care and interested in your journey. Sending positive thoughts your way. Hugs Eliza & Yoda
Shaz Brooks
26 January 2015 at 18:10
Hi Shoshi, I am with you on the ‘feeling detached’. Like you, I had no symptoms, still don’t. None of the ‘normal’ things you expect with a cancer, no pain, no weight loss- in fact I’d been putting a few pounds ON here and there! I think that’s partly why I’m reacting with mine the way I am- it simply does not feel real. The only time I’ve felt ill has been just after the radiotherapy- the treatment made me suffer somewhat, yet the problem itself isn’t affecting me in any way. How weird is that? I had the contrast medium before the scan- don’t know if its the same as the one you will have, but mine was an infusion into a vein. Its strange, when it starts to go in you feel warm all over, then get a slightly metallic taste in your mouth, and then finally , when it gets down to your bladder, you get the sensation of weeing yourself! You aren’t, it just feels like it! Good to see that your appointments are coming through quite quickly too- I have tos ay mine have all been very rapid. Just updated my page with todays meeting with the Oncologist, and its way better than I had dare hope!. 🙂 Fingers crossed for your scan, Hugs, Shaz xx
peggy aplSEEDS
27 January 2015 at 08:36
Sending you my prayers and a big hug to help you get thru this difficult time, Shoshi. You’re on my prayer list.
Zsuzsa Karoly-Smith
28 January 2015 at 13:29
Your positive attitude is admirable, Shoshi! I’m sure a lot of people will find your Boot Camp post very inspiring! Keep up the good work and best of luck with the scan on Friday. At least, you’ll know what you’re up against. Early detection is definitely in your favour!
glitterandglue
28 January 2015 at 17:52
Hello Shoshi. I haven’t blogged for 12 weeks, and hardly turned on the computer in that time, so hadn’t realised what was happening for you. John and I will be praying for you – as we are for Shaz and Doug. May our Loving Heavenly Father hold you tight in His arms. We know He is big enough for you to rant and rave whilst safe there with Him. He is a good and compassionate Father – hang in there. Trusting all goes well with your next test. Take care. God bless you in this. Margaret (and John)
Lisca Meijer
29 January 2015 at 23:35
Hi Shoshi. I’ve been out of the loop so to speak being in Holland etc so I hadn’t realised what has been going on with you. Now I’ve come home and am catching up on my fav blogs (yours being one of them) and I see a lot has happened while I was away. I’m so glad you are able to have a positive attitude. I think following Shaz’s example of a special blog page is a good idea. Comparing it to an upcoming battle and being conscripted to fight is so fitting. I shall be praying for you and your lovely hubby, Keep positive, big hugs, Lisca
Lisca Meijer
29 January 2015 at 23:37
PS will be thinking of you later on today when you have your scan. When will you get the result? Lisca
Zsuzsa Karoly-Smith
30 January 2015 at 21:58
Thanks for your visit Shoshi! I’ll pop back later to find out how you got on.
Shaz Brooks
31 January 2015 at 16:58
Hi Shoshi, glad the scan went off ok. I had to have that awful aniseed drink when I had a CT scan pre-radiotherapy. That stuff was vile, and I LOVE aniseed! Hoping the MDT meeting goes well, and they get you an appointment to bring you up to date quickly. I’ve found that very helpful up here, no long wait to be given information. I’ve found the images are usually with the relevant surgeon within 48 hours, so depending what day/time yours hold their MDT meeting, it should not take long. My last, I had my CT scan on Friday, they had the images to discuss on the Tuesday, and I had an appointment to see him on the Thursday! Keeping everything crossed for you, Hugs, Shaz xx
Zsuzsa Karoly-Smith
31 January 2015 at 17:21
Your Stargate entry was a fascinating read Shoshi and I’m so glad to hear humour in your voice! I was so hoping that you would tell us that they had found no evidence of cancer after all, but of course now you’ll have to wait for the results. I can only imagine how hard the waiting is. I’m not very good with uncertainties myself. It’s better to know what you’re up against. I’m still hoping it’s good news, though!
Zsuzsa Karoly-Smith
31 January 2015 at 18:36
Got your reply on my blog, Shoshi! Even facing these adverse conditions you have the ability to make me laugh! So admirable! I know how humour can help people get through difficult situations. You’ve definitely got the right attitude to get through this! And you will! Hope to see you on WOYWW if you’re feeling up to it.
Neet
31 January 2015 at 19:36
Didn’t read this until today as someone very dear to me had to have a colonoscopy and I didn’t know why. Everything was ok so I was able to read this tonight. I am including you in prayer, just as I have and still am with Shaz. Pluck up your brave, it will all come out good in the end. Hugs, Neet xx
