Surgery done

Good morning! I thought you might all enjoy this sexy stocking shot over breakfast. I took my inspiration from Sam and Dave’s ‘anniversary snuggles’ pic from a few weeks ago. You’ll notice that the advantage of having only one leg is that there’s plenty of room on the hospital plastic sheeting for all your crap. 

Anyway, I have recovered from all-night vomiting (thanks general anaesthetic), have a bruised and numb replacement boob and am only slightly delirious. Things are going well. 

I will be doing my utmost to escape from here today. Thank you to everyone who sent me messages yesterday – much appreciated xxx


Surgery: Take Two

crossed fingers

It’s been a super stressful week, as my white blood cell counts are still low, which was the reason for cancelling my operation two weeks ago.

But after much wringing of hands and changing of minds (and that was just the doctors), we are now going ahead with the surgery. Tomorrow.

I can’t say I’m over-confident going into an operation which was deemed “unsafe and irresponsible” under the same circumstances a mere two weeks ago, but the tumour has got to come out so all I can do is cross my fingers and hope.

Wish me luck x


The best-laid plans…

All ‘marked up’ and nowhere to go

If Theresa May was having a bad start to the day, I was feeling more hopeful: my hospital bag was packed; iPad fully-loaded with films; childcare arranged. Hell, I’d even written A farewell letter to my boob. I was ready.

The positive vibe continued after arriving on the ward: the nurse told me I was first on the list (that never happens) and I had been allocated to a private room (that never happens). By 8.30am I was in my gown and compression stockings (sexy), had been ‘marked up’ by my surgeon (i.e. she’d scribbled all over my right boob with black pen) and I’d even managed to share a crap joke with the anaesthetist who seemed to share my gallows humour (they always do).

Then my blood test results came back.

The surgeon came back to see me with a grim look on her face. She explained that my white blood cell levels were too low to proceed with surgery. White blood cells help your body fight infection; too few of them and your body can’t defend itself against infection post-surgery.  Chemotherapy’s to blame for my paltry levels – it destroys white blood cells temporarily. Then your body makes more and your levels ‘bounce back’. But mine were seemingly too bloody knackered after six cycles of chemo to be bothered. I know how they feel.

It may seem odd to get upset over not having one’s boob surgically removed, but at this point I just wanted the tumour gone.  So obviously I burst into tears. And then removed my surgical stockings and threw them onto the floor. That’ll show them.

Then I got dressed, tried ineffectually to rub the black marks off my chest, and got back in the car with my long-suffering husband for the grumpy drive home (stopping off at B&Q on the way to buy the sodding smoke alarm that I’ve been nagging about for the past two weeks).

My surgeon is (of course) away next week so my operation will now be delayed for a fortnight.  I’m sure I will muster enough energy to psych myself up again, but seriously – why is nothing ever straight-forward?

A farewell letter to my boob



Dear Boob,

We haven’t always got on, but now I’m losing you I’m feeling kind of sad.

You see, I’d already chosen what kind of breasts I wanted when I was ten. I had this Illustrated Guide to Puberty. It explained, with what I can only describe as a gallery of boobs, that breasts come in different shapes and sizes, and no one type is superior to others.


Even then I knew that in Real Life only the big and bouncy ones count.

And we did have a promising start to our relationship. Getting my first Tammy Girl training bra was one of the highlights of my pre-teen years. Although I never did work out quite what we were training for. At any rate you never made it much past the start-line, stubbornly remaining flat, even though I did all the chest-press exercises prescribed by my bigger-boobed mates. I was incredibly gullible in those days; I also spent an entire weekend winding my hair round a pencil because another classmate told me that was how she got her naturally curly hair.

Luckily, along came my saviour in the form of the Wonderbra. I took one look at those life-size Eva Herzigova billboards and ran to Debenhams to buy one. You spent years encased in that punishing push-up underwired hell (sorry about that), yet I still didn’t stop traffic.

I felt that you’d let me down in your sullen refusal to form a cleavage, and I spent way too much time crying in the Miss Selfridge changing rooms as various low-cut tops and strappy dresses failed to produce the curvy silhouette I craved.

But then 2005 happened. A shock diagnosis of bone cancer in my leg. So I didn’t even think about you for several years. I had more important things to worry about. Having my limb amputated was just as devastating as you’d imagine. And then some. For a start, I’d always compensated for my lack of cleavage by flashing a bit of leg (classy, I know) and my fiancé-now-husband had always reassured me that he was more of a leg man than a boob man.

So that turned out well for him.

The along came my two precious (and unexpected) babies, and finally you morphed into the D-cup I’d always imagined I wanted. But you were rock-hard, engorged and sore and had to be carried around in a deeply unattractive Mothercare breastfeeding bra. At one point there was a savoy cabbage leaf stuffed in there too because someone told me that helped with the mastitis (apparently I’m still a bit gullible).

It has to be said – credit where it’s due – that once we got over the sore-as-hell-tits bit, you did an excellent job of feeding my babies, and so I wasn’t too cross when, later, you shrunk back to your pre-nursing size. Although I could have done without the extra droopiness.

Then I got into sport in a BIG way. Partly this was an act of defiance: I’d spent so long as a cancer patient, that I was out to prove I could still achieve something. And so I chose a sport (or it chose me) that was singularly difficult to do as an above-knee amputee: cycling. Because – bloody hell – if I could ride a bike really fast with one leg, then I could put all this cancer crap – once and for all – behind me.

And for a time I did. I rode in competitions in Italy and South Africa, and represented Great Britain at the UCI Paracycling World Championships. The advantage of being flat-chested soon became clear when I tried to squeeze into my Lycra skinsuit for the first time.

And so, finally, I made peace with you. I felt positive and powerful in my new cycling-fit body. I became used to pushing my body to its limits and enjoying that post-workout glow. I had survived cancer and I was strong. Your diminutive size no longer mattered – because you were healthy.

Until you weren’t.

When I felt the lump in the shower, I knew straight away that it would be cancer. I was familiar with your usual monthly bumps, but this felt different – like a little hard and jagged stone close to my armpit. I’ll admit I had neglected my regular lump-checking duties duties for a few weeks – I was busy and anyway, I was done with cancer. Wasn’t I?

I had no idea how long you’d been host to this malignant stranger and that made me feel guilty. Perhaps if I had shown a little more TLC, checked more frequently, eaten more carefully, drunk a little less… These are the kind of irrational thoughts with which I’m now plagued.

So, after five months of chemotherapy, here we are. The drugs have shrunk your tumour a little, but there are still too many cancerous cells remaining.

It’s time to say goodbye. Your silicone replacement won’t be as soft as you, or as warm.

After all these wasted years of pointless criticism,  it’s time to admit the truth – I’ll miss you.

Love Sal x

Nurses – here’s what not to say…


With my operation looming (Friday, since you ask) my anxiety levels are increasing day by day. And today’s pre-op assessment didn’t help: Why oh why do nurses and healthcare assistants feel obliged to talk about the quality of your veins whilst taking blood?

I’ve been drained of more blood over past six months than a vampire’s victim and every single time it’s not the act of the blood-letting that makes me feel sick but the accompanying ‘reassuring’ chat.

Today’s torturer had already noted that I’d had chemotherapy so vocalised her concern that my veins would be ‘poor’ (chemotherapy tends to be bad for veins, and indeed most other organs).  My already-raised anxiety levels went up a gear; no one wants to be stabbed by a jittery needle-wielder.

But after some enthusiastic slapping of the crook of my arm, she exclaimed in delight,

“Ooh, this one’s really juicy!”

My stomach churned.

Then the inevitable warning:

“Sharp scratch”

Then to finish me off:

“Yes, this is a fantastic vein – it’s like turning on a tap!”

I could see out of the corner of my eye (I always look away) that the red stuff was indeed gushing into the blood bottles.

I turned a delicate shade of green.

The nurse is delighted with the performance of my veins and clearly thinks I should be too.

But I’d much rather she kept their qualities – however superior – to herself.