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?


9 thoughts on “The best-laid plans…

  1. Not good. At least you can have a ‘normal’ few days not wondering if you’ll get the call for your op. Just imagine all those fighting fit white blood cells you’ll have in 10 days or so. Glass half full type me. 🍷 Don’t you be going getting an infection though! ⚠


  2. It was a sick joke on cancers part. It wanted to let you know it’s just as shit as you imagined it to be and your latest, very humourous blog did not go down well with cancer. Cancer once again tried to bring you down Sally. I’m sure it has done; I’m sure you’ll spend this next week being very angry and sad and pissed off frankly. You’ve every right to be. However, in 2 short weeks (The weeks do pass quickly with lively kids don’t they?) YOU will be the boss and YOU will tell cancer to go fuck itself once and for all!!!! Please find some comfort in that. It will be GONE and you win once again. X


    1. Stupid white blood cells. I should be sitting up in the recovery ward now eating cold soggy toast and drinking stewed tea. They better have a word with themselves before the next time x


      1. Have a long hard word with themselves, slap themselves around a bit and then they can just eff off for good. Try as they might, they ain’t sticking around much longer! 14 days (ish) and counting! Immerse yourself in all things you love and try your best to do what you can to enjoy two weeks respite. Me personally, I’d be opening a bottle of fizz right now but that’s my answer to everything (oops) X


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