Friday dawns. A whole new world of opportunity has opened up....

Friday dawns.  It's like a whole new world of opportunity, which given the scenario is pretty bizarre.  I'm woken my Moaning Minnie next door, who bless her is partial to a bit of noise.  Like 9 HOURS NON-STOP NOISE.

None of this coming in to hospital to sleep, heal and get better, oh no....  YOU WILL STAY AWAKE AND LISTEN TO ME CRY FOR NURSIE!!!

I beg for industrial strength ear plugs. They work.

The staff are yet again amazing and do their best.  She does have one redeeming feature though and that's she is quite mischievous.  At one stage she's weeping and wailing so one of the physios I'd just had a session with bent down to see what what us. "What have you dropped Minnie?"  Oh, it's my 'h's - I've been doing it for years.

Du du dum!!!  It just goes to show there's some life in all of us yet....

Bank holiday weekend also brings with it a host of wonderful, wonderful visitors, all tasked with a simple challenge.  To provide me some level of access to the mysterious new drink called Vena Bena (to which I feel completely entitled given that my liver (yes, to those of you who are about to blatantly disbelieve this!!!) is "clean as a whistle".

Ha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I should clearly have been working harder with more gravitas and dedication over the years.

Let's see who cracks this with the most success and creativity....

The Big C news....

Thursday afternoon - just before everyone bar the essentials leave for the Bank Holiday weekend.  In the team come.  We, and the very limited number of friends we'd shared this with by now are thoroughly Team Lymphoma  (which frankly is an odd place to be and means no dis respect to others suffering through this - it's just our odds were so heavily stacked one way).  Some of our more risque friends had even had cards printed eh. Crystal Tips?)

Do they launch in and give the news straight away?  Oh no, "talk me through how we got to this place".  How long has your back been bad?  JUST TELL US!!!!!!

We're sorry to confirm that you have non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma Diffuse B aggressive.  I punch the air and say YES!!!  The oncologist looks at me like I'm certifiable and checks that I understand what he's just told me.  I say yes.  I understand clearly.  You've told me that I'm going to fight, kick the shit out of this thing and live.

Thank you.

Now, I've been neglecting to introduce a bit of humour here and there in these last posts because they were the 'serious' ones.  The next few shall start to introduce some of the characters that I've come across since I've been here - and they are many and varied.  We have Moaning Minnie, Lady Lucinda, Unnamed lady with knickers on her head and many, many more.  Pure, unadulterated genius of society cross section.

The NHS is a shining example of wonderfulness.  I am in awe of the treatment I've received here from start to finish, from every single member of staff.  No matter what the outcome of this ultimately, you are all superstars.

I have to do what? Learn to walk again???

So this business of learning to walk again.  I thought it would be a matter of time, things would come flooding back and there I'd be skipping the light fandango up West Street for a refreshing little VLT.

But no, apparently, that would be far, far too easy.

Once your spinal cord has been as pressured/swollen/etc. as mine, the signals along the cord i.e. your Central Nervous System can get all mixed up.  Which makes walking again difficult, if not downright impossible.

Now that scares the living crap out of me.  Never to be able to just pop out to the shop, wander into the kitchen for a cup of tea (oh OK, glass of wine).  Never to be able to walk my dogs again. Never to do any of the myriad things I'd taken for granted for oh so long.  Potentially devastating news.

Thankfully, into the breach step my new hospital physio friends. Who are brilliant at what they do and are much, much fun..  Well as much fun as you can have shuffling along the floor moving peoples feet between parallel bars.  Two days after major spinal surgery (yep, they don't hang about on the NHS these days), they had me sitting in a wheelchair and hoisting myself up between the bars. Jesus that was hard work. I then had to remember about 20 something different instructions just to get ready to lean forward to take a step - not take a step mind - just to lean forward enough (without going tit over arse) to take one.

The fact that Helen sometimes confused her right/left made it even more brilliant - we ended up doing the chimpanzee piano movers - to me, to me, to you, to you....

Thanks ladies, I have every faith you'll have skipping that light fandango again - maybe not as fast as I'd like.  A year or more is realistic though we hope.....

Monday. Reality keeps biting - feck off - I'm bored of you now!

Monday, the team troop in to deliver the good news that the op was as successful as they'd ever expected it could be and they have high hopes I will retain some level of mobility. 

I may never throw shapes around a pole again (but let's face it, at 43 and overweight it had stopped being a good look to everyone except me many, many years ago.)

Now the cancer shit.

They'd done a CT scan just before surgery and the odds hadn't changed.  The other bit of bad news was that although Mr. McKenna (all bow down now) had removed what he could, it would take a few days to 'culture' that to truly understand what it was, so they may not be able to tell us which version I had before Easter weekend. 

Great.  A week of waiting for a death sentence.

We had all 'the' conversations.  My overriding terror was of a slow, miserable death,so we agreed that if it was worst case scenario, I was going to come out (as in from hospital not in a sexual way - far too late for that), have a massive party, then bugger off to Switzerland to die with some dignity and under my own control.

If if was the other version, I was going to tell this Cancer bastard to fuck off.  And when it got there, to fuck off again.

Apologies for the swearing here, but sometimes only certain words work for me.

We waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.

Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to op we go....

So, eventually about 6ish, they wheel me down.  I'm terrified, spinal surgery is notoriously dangerous, but I'm surprisingly calm at this stage.  Probably the hunger after hearing about that lovely lamb roast!

Into pre-op and all I can think to do is apologise for my hairy legs - clearly, I hadn't had time to prep.  Funny the things that seem to matter when you're in a life risking situation.  I mean would the big man upstairs (or the downstairs one indeed - I haven't led a totally exemplary life) really be offended with a few hairy leg, bikini, toe nasties?

Doubtful, but I certainly was.

Anyway, in with the injection - here goes everything.  Literally, everything.

So, bonus.  I wake up and they tell me it went "as well as they could possibly have expected".  Now in cagey doc speak, and my drug induced state I take that to be a good thing and drift off to land of nod again.  Feeling quite chilled really.  Sometimes, drugs are good.

I then wake to find the lovely Mr. J beside me holding my hand and saying that everything will be ok.  For some reason, this time my inclination is more to believe that he is superhuman, has become miraculously medically qualified overnight and knows that this is the correct answer.

Again, as I say, sometimes drugs are good.

I pass out, hope and pray.

Surgery incoming...

Originally, the plan was that I'd be on the list for late morning.

 They were going to get the normal stuff out-of-the-way, because I was the "big one" that day.  In a weird way they all sounded quite excited.  I was lucky enough to have the illustrious Mr. McKenna (all bow when his name is mentioned).  Apparently one of the top dogs in this area.  All good.

I was obviously nil by mouth etc. ready for op.  This wasn't bothering me as funnily enough I didn't have much of an appetite  - at that stage.

The day meandered on. 

I lay there. 

Mr. J needed to home "to look after the dogs, cat etc."  I believed him.

I then called about 4ish and said I was still waiting, what was he up to?  "Oh, just about to have roast lamb - my sis popped over to cook me something". 

Unutterable bastard.  I hung up.

He did have the grace to call back and apologise and to reassure me he didn't enjoy it, but I won't forget that. 

Not in a hurry.

Reality bites...

So, they admitted me to a Kennet Ward and dispatched me for MRI scans.  I won't go into detail about them - they're nasty, claustrophobic, noisy as fuck (think jack hammer inside your head) and take ages, bu they do their job.

A couple of hours later in troop the team.  Mr. Important first, followed by the various levels of importance all following with their heads bent at respectful distances.

"Well we won't beat about the bush (good thing really, my lady garden was not in a good state after 3 months with a very bad back!).  You're got severe compression against a nerve in your back which is pushing against your spinal cord.  In these scenarios we typically have up to 72 hours to save the use of your legs.  What time exactly did they start to go?  We need to figure out how far into the window we are?

Well, about 6ish yesterday evening in the truest sense, so we're already 24 hours in.  Shit.

But oh no, he wasn't finished yet.

Now, these things apparently just don't happen by themselves. The MRI had identified some nasty legion of things ganging up on my spine - called cancer.  Yep, the big C was dropped in the same conversation.  Not the best 6 minute chat I've had in my life and I've had some shite ones with some very pissed people over the years.

They then very sensitively said they'd leave us to process this bombshell before they discussed next steps.

Where do you go from here?

Diagnosis Day 2

Well, not overly medical.  Just lots of fingers being stuck up arses - most particularly mine.

1.  Can you feel that?  Yes.  Can you clench down? Yes.  Good.

2.  Can you feel that?  Yes.  Can you clench down? Yes - ish.  Good.

3.  Can you feel that?  Yes.  Can you clench down? Yes.  Not really.   Right.

4.  Can you feel me if I touch here on your foot?  Leg?  Knee?  Sort of.... 

No, you haven't moved to a Fifty Shades of Grey blog - we're still on paralysis and other nasty shit.

A lovely lady from the spinal unit came along and they decided to get me up and try to see if I could "have a little walk" i.e. even support myself. 

Pissed Bambi on ice wasn't even playing in the same league.  I was all over the place with no control. I was pretty much paralysed from the torso down.

This was not turning into my ideal Saturday. 

I'd had plans to get legless that night.

SuperTed does the business....

We arrive at A&E, screeching into the wrong car park. The ambulance one.

Now my little red punto wasn't quite up to the camouflage tactics required here, so thankfully help was at hand. A very, very, chilled off-duty Paramedic smoking his rolly, drinking a coffee, made an assessment of the blind panic on our faces, the frantic struggles of Mr. J, calmly took another drag of his rolly and said "spine yeah"?   Very Monty Python.

Bless him, he then single-handedly whipped me out of the car, into a wheelchair and without spilling a drop of coffee,  steered me to the afore mentioned delight that is A&E.  Thank you for ever you lovely man.

He then left me for Mr. J to come and register etc.  In he arrives, all flustered (he's a bit of a panicker my boy), and says "Right, I need to get you booked in - I'll just stick you over there while I do that."

Being a woman, his suggestion for where to 'stick me' was not my ideal one, so I said, No, I'd rather be over there, thank you, near those more normal (?!??!) people.

Even in that moment of panic, craziness and terror he managed to find some Little Britain humour, saying ""Seriously, you want that one, not that one". Me. "Yes, that one over there"

We even made some other people laugh in here, which is quite an achievement, trust me.

Diagnosis Day - waking up

Panic ensues.

I wake up and can't feel anything.  Not a thing from about my tummy down. This is very disconcerting.  Clearly I need to get help, but do I need to wee or do a poo first?  Have I already done that without knowing?  Am I about to embarrass myself in front of the cream of Reading society in A&E on a Saturday AM?

I call my husband, the chaos starts and off we go.

He half commando drags, carries me downstairs (I am no small load!), somehow gets me in my car and screeches off....

We're on the way to Royal Berks A&E.

Here goes everything/nothing...

I'm terrified.

It's just a bad back - honestly...

12 days ago I could walk.

 It was easy - one foot in the front of the other, usual stuff.  This was frequently obviously influenced by many factors, primarily wine in fairness, but in the main I was quite good at it.  Then my world flipped on it's axis in less than 24 hours.

This blog is to document some of the extraordinary stuff that's been going on over the last 12 days of my life.  Some will be funny, some will be nasty (biblical, medical level nasty), and some will be therapeutic for me more than you (but in fairness, this is all about me at the moment - sorry Charlotte, but for once, it's true).

Read on if you're interested - opt out if you're not.

Bad backs are dull for everyone, aren't they?

So, Thursday 21st March my back pain (which has been boring the tits of me, never mind everybody else gets really bad).  Off to A&E with you says my physio (Thank God for ActiveVIII of Henley - without them, my life would look very different now), so like a well behaved lady (no really, it bloody hurt!), off we went.

Standard A&E, long wait, lots of weirdos, boredom, but eventually get seen.  Doc agrees all is not well, x-rays, says I need an urgent MRI - he's worried.

Off home, lots of Tramadol and Diazapem.

There's got to be some upside to this - I might actually get to sleep now.

Bonus.