It’s the wait I can’t stand

Seems strange to say this, but it’s only now, more than two months after diagnosis, that I can genuinely say I’m feeling the fear.

Maybe I’ve been in denial. Maybe my sunny and positive outlook has trumped the bad thoughts. Maybe the black humour has been winning the day. Who really knows? I certainly don’t!

But this week things have started to gnaw away at me. A wee bit more every day.

Tomorrow morning I get my first follow up CT scan since diagnosis.

It will show what impact, if any, the three rounds of chemotherapy so far have had in reducing my Mantle Cell Lymphoma.

I’m booked in to get the results from my consultant first thing on Monday morning.

All I know so far is that the only noticeable lump I had, in my groin, has disappeared; that the horrible bloody poos (sorry…) that I’d been suffering have stopped; and that my body has more than ably taken the strongest chemo that the NHS can throw at it without any significant ill effects.

All pretty positive then.

But when you enter the unknown, and know that the consultant could throw an “I’m afraid your treatment’s not really working” curve ball at you, you can’t help but start to worry. Or at least I can’t.

I think I’ve gone through more than a dozen scenarios in my head already.

I know that before she’s even opened her mouth, I’ll have tried to read the consultant’s body language on Monday morning. Her every movement. Her facial expression.

I’ll draw a conclusion from her first word. Her tone. Everything .

Even the room they choose for the meeting.

You might have seen the tragic but inspiring story of Heidi Laughlin in the past week, who put off treatment for breast cancer to give birth to a premature daughter who sadly died within days.

In spite of her incredibly harrowing situation, she’s been writing a brilliant, honest, heart rending, profane and hilarious blog which puts my effort to shame (especially the sweary bits!). You can read it here (please do): storminatitcup.blogpost.co.uk

She describes meeting her consultant to get her diagnosis. She was taken to a room with cushions. She decided that rooms with cushions were only used to give bad news. And sadly she was right.

So if I’m shown to a room with cushions on Monday morning, don’t blame me if my heart sinks. Though having said that, the chances of finding soft furnishings in any room at the Western General are well nigh impossible!

A x