Three Little Words E-Book

Vicki Culverhouse

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

"I’m standing at the reception desk of the breast clinic on Christmas Eve. Oddly, I’d not really had much head space to even think about the joys of Christmas with the biggest lump known to man festering away inside my boob."

On Christmas Eve 2015, Vicki Culverhouse's life shuddered to a halt when, completely out of the blue, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. A business owner and single mum to two teenage boys, she didn't have time for chemotherapy, surgery, radiotherapy, and the hundred and one alien things that come with a cancer diagnosis.

With an unfaltering sense of positivity and dark humour, this book charts Vicki's journey from her first appointment at the breast clinic to the final stages of her recovery. It's a journey that takes no prisoners. Between the friendship reshuffles, head shaving and chemo brain, she's forced to ask herself some crucial questions. Is a group email an acceptable way to tell people you have cancer? Will it ever be socially acceptable to talk about bowel movements? Does cancer really turn you into the most boring person in the world?

A personal look at how even the scariest situations can turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

Warning: This book contains strong language and is intended for mature readers.

Leseprobe

Vicki Culverhouse

Three Little Words

How breast cancer made me a better, kinder person

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Three Little Words

Three Little Words

by Vicki Culverhouse

Copyright © 2019 by Vicki Culverhouse

All rights reserved. The author asserts her moral rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Three Little Words

“Are you looking forward to Christmas then,” the receptionist asks me.

AM I LOOKING FORWARD TO CHRISTMAS? Is she for fucking real? I’m standing at the reception desk of the breast clinic on Christmas Eve. Oddly, I’d not really had much head space to even think about the joys of Christmas with the biggest lump known to man festering away inside my boob.

“No,” I reply in an incredulous tone. I’ve always been truthful but when you’re faced with the scary prospect of the dreaded C you somehow seem to care even less about what you say or how you deliver it.

The waiting area was overcrowded, to say the least, and we had struggled to find somewhere to sit. Men and women of all ages, faces frozen in all different states of expression, and all of them probably really looking forward to Christmas, too.

Forms completed. Questions including family deaths from cancer. Happy days. We wait. Reading the posters on the wall about hair loss, numbers to ring with questions. Christ. “Am I looking forward to Christmas?”

The nurse calls us through and we meet Mr. A the consultant. Nice enough chap but he seems to have a penchant for stating the obvious. After my inspection, he says, “You have a lump” whilst drawing on my boob with a black pen.

“No shit,” I say, “that’s why I’m here.” He must go through this process with people who have a lump and have been referred to the hospital time after time after time. You’d have thought he might be able to muster up something a little more considered.

Sorry, I’m ranting, aren’t I? Let me introduce myself, my name’s Vicki. I’ve been on the planet for 46 years and I run a successful business. I’ve been a single parent of two fabulous boys for 14 years (paid for everything, parented them single-handedly). I have a fantastic and hectic social life, have been blessed in many, many ways and I can front out any situation.

I’d like to think I’m a battler, but it’s funny how a process like this can tip me into uncontrollable eye leakage. The worst part is, because I don’t cry very often, when I start it’s almost impossible for me to stop.

I found the lump about two weeks ago. I don’t think I’d ever checked my breasts before. Lying in bed one night, no doubt prompted subconsciously by something I’d seen or heard, I decided to have a feel. My left one had this huge lump thing which wasn’t mirrored on the other breast.

I booked in at the doctors and she confirmed I did indeed have a lump and that she’d refer me to the hospital. I asked her what she thought it was. She was understandably vague but said it could be one of a number of things not necessarily the big C.

I have to be honest, I wasn’t really too concerned. I’d decided I had a cysts. Nice bit of self-diagnosis.

So the mammogram, ultrasound and biopsy process began, as did my tears. It gets so bad the nurse performing the mammogram asks me four times if I want to stop. No! I just want it done. I want to be told I’ve got a cyst and I want to go home and look forward to Christmas. It’s for this reason I’d asked my friend Catherine to come with me. Not because I thought I had cancer but because I knew I’d be on meltdown due to the procedures.

After being handled like a milking cow (not her fault, she was very lovely) and having my boobs stretched beyond all expected capacity between two bits of toughened plastic (I was completely unaware my body could perform such things), we get moved to a separate room to wait 45 minutes for the ultrasound. Just as well, I don’t think I’d have been able to see through the tiny slits in my face to find our way back to the main waiting area.

As we sit and I calm down, we continue with the conversation of “There’s nothing wrong with me, I’ll be fine, there’s no way I’ve got it, it’ll just be a cyst or a blocked duct, god there’s a million things it could be, just because it’s a lump it does NOT mean I’ve got the C word.”

We get called through for part two – the ultrasound. I ask that Cath sits behind a curtain. We’ve been friends since we meet in 1990 in the south of France but I really don’t want her seeing me with my whammers out getting prodded and poked.

The ultrasound is no different to that uber-happy experience when they show your baby moving and wriggling, except this one isn’t quite so happy. I’m still crying. Pathetic I know, but the floodgates have been removed and so I lay sniffling and breathing my garlic breath all over John the technician. It was seriously strong. Cath had already commented when she arrived at my house how bad it was and she suffers from polyps in her nose that mean she can’t smell anything so it must have been bad.

John does both boobs but understandably spends most of the time gliding the equipment over the bit that’s been used as a colouring-in pad by the consultant. As he moves it to my armpit, I know. I just know. I know what he’s doing there, we all do… the dreaded fucking lymph nodes. Two small words that none of us had ever heard of before and lived in complete ignorance of until the C-word arrived.

The biopsy, well, it wasn’t nice but to be perfectly honest it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I’d expected it to be. John was really considerate and explained what was going to happen. He numbed the area and then let me hear the noise the instrument would make, I guess so as not to scare me. It sounded a bit like a quiet gun. I didn’t look. I think sometimes when you can’t see what’s happening it’s easier to cope with and bizarrely hurts less. The most uncomfortable part for me was having to keep my poorly arm stretched above my head. It’s not built for these kinds of manoeuvres since it tried to vacate my body some years previously in a motorcycle accident. That really hurt.

John explained that he was going to leave a coil in the lump, something to do with measuring the size of it. This was a bit lost on me, to be honest; I was a little distracted.

I’m not built for waiting. I’m one of those people that just needs to know everything straight away. Ignorance in my world is not bliss, so I asked him if it was a cyst.

‘It’s definitely not a cyst,’ he said.

Fuck.

“And it is definitely not benign.”

Double fuck.

“But there’s some good news, it doesn’t appear to be in your lymph nodes.”

It’s incredible how your once quick brain malfunctions and grinds to a halt. It flatlines and turns to spaghetti.

My brain exploded. Fuck! What do I tell my kids? I haven’t got time for this shit. I’ve too much to pack in before I die. It’s taken me ages to grow my hair. I don’t want to lose my eyebrows. God, how do I tell people?

I realise I’ve said most of this out loud as John responds with, “Well, we need to send the biopsy off first and find out what type you have and what we need to do to is identify which treatment you will need to shrink it.”

Shit. I’ve got it. Those three little words. I’ve got cancer. The Big C. How bloody annoying!

To cap it all, I’m still bloody crying. I honestly can’t believe it. I’m fit, well, healthy, I’ve got a superb life and now I’ve got this to contend with.

I simply don’t have the time, and just before Christmas too.

Speaking of which – NO, I’M NOT LOOKING FORWARD TO CHRISTMAS!

This Will Not Define Me

I’m the practical sort, so I need time to process this cancer bombshell. My boys had been waiting for a text from me. So, too, had a couple of friends. I sent them all a version of the truth.

I’m not built to lie but I also have to consider my communication so I don’t upset anyone. I’m not sure a text is really the best way to deliver the news, so I sent this:

Mammogram, ultrasound and biopsy done get the results in 2 weeks.

It was mostly true, I do get the results of what version of the big C I have and how they will treat it. But you really can’t upset people before Christmas, there’s no point everyone being brassed off. I need time to reassemble my brain.

So, Cath and I have a cup of coffee in the separate waiting room, I guess one for people like me who’ve just been given the sort of news you never want to hear. We were encouraged to stop for coffee because you’re not supposed to drive after a biopsy and Catherine is NOT driving my fabulous new SLK. At the beginning of the year, I’d decided that if my business had done well I’d give myself a bonus and treat myself to one. We’ve had the best year ever and I’d managed to save a lot of money. I’m a bit tight and hate spending what I’ve saved, but in truth I’d found the lump and not knowing what it was inspired me to just part with my cash.

I’m pleased I did and whilst it won’t fix me it does make me smile. I love cars. I love the acceleration and this beast does not disappoint. Cath’s not the worst driver in the world but even so, she is not driving my new car, cancer or no cancer!

I manage to pull myself together, nip to the loo and wander round to the car park. It’s a piss take. I have to pay £2.60 in parking fees to be told I’ve got cancer. Oh, the fucking joy. I do think they should make some allowances for stuff like this.

When we get home, I say goodbye to Cath and I have to find the courage to get ready, stay smiling and go out with another friend, Sarah, for dinner. My kids are away with their donor – yes, I know that’s not very nice but to be fair that’s about all we got from their father – so I’ve yet another Christmas on my own. With the music full blast, I showered and applied my happy mask ready to collect Sarah

Dinner with Sarah. Poor girl. I’ve no idea what we spoke about. I know my communication was disjointed and my train of thought not exactly as rail track straight as it should be. Thankfully she was drinking as I drove so I don’t think she noticed, but all I wanted to do was scream in her face, “I HAVE CANCER!”

It went round and round and round in my head. I don’t know how I stopped myself yelling it out loud, except for the impact those three little words would have on her, on her Christmas, her family. It just wouldn’t be fair, it’s not her fault and I don’t think I’d want to be hairdryered like that.

Now, let’s chat about things being fair. The big C is not fair. Now don’t get me wrong I don’t want a pity party, a badge, nor do I need a flag to wave. I’m no ‘poor me’. If I wanted it, you’d think getting sexually abused at ten by an overzealous step-grandparent and nearly losing my arm at 21 in a motorbike accident would be enough for me to get a ‘poor me’ badge, but you really couldn’t write this shit. Why me? I know that’s an awful thing to say but, why? Jesus, haven’t I had enough to contend with? Have you ever wondered what you did in a previous life?

I know this is even worse, but I’ve had friends that have abused their bodies and yet are fighting fit. Whilst I wouldn’t ever wish this upon anyone, you do have to wonder who decides.

I had this one friend who had a body to die for, proper slim, long luscious brown hair, she drank black coffee, did cocaine, smoked her perfectly pert tits off each and every day to the tune of 20-30 fags, drank like an alky, ate no more than 500 calories a day and she’s fine. How? Again, trust me, I wouldn’t wish this upon anyone, it’s a shit thing for anyone to go through but I want to know who picks the recipients because we need a chat!

Sorry, I’m ranting again. Back to Christmas Eve. After I dropped Sarah off I popped into my friends Nicky and Nigel’s for drinks and did my best to be my idea of normal.

Tell you what, it was good to get a couple of glasses of prosecco down my neck and play catch up with my friends. I’ve always been lucky with my friends and have a vast and varied collection of people whom I love spending time with. I was vague about the outcome of my appointment. I had told them that I was off to the hospital because I honestly thought I’d have nothing to complain about. Got that wrong, didn’t I?

Christmas day was a challenge. It’s never great spending Christmas without my boys. I want them to do what they want, but I can’t honestly say I’m loaded down with Christmas spirit at the best of times. At the very least, though, I’m very positive and always approach it with the ‘it’s just another day’ attitude.

I’d woken up in the night having a little panic thinking I was dying. My body didn’t feel right. Oddly, I had a moment like this at a friend’s a few weeks earlier. Except in the middle of the night, alone, you do literally think this is it; this is the end for me, I must be terminally ill.

It then dawned on me that over the previous four days or so I hadn’t eaten much and I’d walked about 26 miles so that was the actual reason my body was having a mini crisis. I needed food. At 3am I got up, raided the fridge and started to feel a little more human.

It’s funny what your brain does to you. It plays games and tricks especially in the middle of the night.