benign

Dearest honey bunches,

I hope you’re doing okay out there.

We’re okay. Absolutely devastated by what’s happening in some parts of our country and the world. And at the same time relishing the fact that we have a kid-free long weekend, and that the garden is bursting with colour and flavour. It’s hard to reconcile the two, but somehow we must.

Now that my health scare is officially over I’ve decided to write down my story of what happened here. I feel like I need to document it to hold onto the details, and I’m hoping that writing it down will help me process what happened and make some sense of it. I do need to warn you that it is a story about a breast cancer scare. If you are coming here looking for some light relief from the heavy state of the planet, maybe skip this one. If you feel triggered at all by tales of disease and fear, maybe you should come back next week. And while I’m definitely not going to go into the gory details, if you feel queasy or at all sensitive, please click delete and scroll right on. I completely understand. And I’ll be so happy to see you next Friday.

Here we go…

68 days ago, on New Year’s Day, I found a lump in my right breast. I was lying in bed with Bren watching something on his computer, and all of a sudden it was unmistakably there. It was so unexpected and such a shock. Without much direction Bren then felt it for himself. And so began the terrifying story that completely took over my life for the next two and a bit months.

For the first few days following the discovery I felt the lump so often, and made everyone around me feel the lump so often, that I bruised myself. I just couldn’t believe it was there and had to make sure that I hadn’t dreamed it. And I cried. At that stage I wasn’t convinced it was cancer but the thought of the next few months of my life being spent in waiting rooms, being scanned, and probed, and felt up, and being treated like a sick person, had me sobbing all over the place.

Because of the time of the year and because of the Omicron Covid wave, doctor’s appointments were extremely hard to come by at that time. Eventually I found one in a town half an hour away but just as I arrived the receptionist at the clinic called to let me know that the doctor was in Covid isolation and wouldn’t be able to see me after all. That poor receptionist was so kind to me as I wept and then when I apologised she explained that she’d been through exactly the same thing herself.

A few days later I did see another doctor and from there my next few weeks were a whirlwind of appointments and scans, a mammogram and a biopsy. At every stage I was told how bad the lump looked. How many cancer markers it had. And how my future cancer path full of treatments and side effects might look. Needless to say I cried to every doctor and technician, at every appointment and in every waiting area.

It was such a strange place to live in. On one hand real life was marching on regardless: Jarrah was preparing to go overseas, Pepper was on school holidays, Indi was staying with us and nannying for a local family, Covid was rife, the farm jobs needed doing and people needed to eat and be driven around and listened to. And then on the other hand, when I remembered my lump, my heart felt like it was falling out of my stomach. It was almost too unbearable to think about.

I went there. I googled everything. I imagined the worst case scenarios and how they would play out. I visualised what they would look like. I didn’t see the point of trying to stay positive and protect myself, mainly because at every turn I’d been guided that way. Night-times lasted lifetimes.

And then the sun would come up and my brain would protect me from the darkness and allow me somehow to keep going.

Poor Bren. Devastated as he was, his default setting is always optimism. He tried endlessly to convince me that it was all going to be okay but I wouldn’t hear it. I couldn’t. I argued with him. I couldn’t see the point in false hope. I needed to talk about the ugly stuff, the scary stuff, death. I tried to talk to him about his next wife. I needed reassurance that he would wait until she loved our kids before they had more. I talked about where I’d be buried. Nothing was too dark. Poor Bren. It was a pretty bleak time.

Two weeks after my biopsy when the results still hadn’t come through my dad got on the phone and started chasing them. The fact that they’d been finished and ready to be sent back two days after my procedure is a whole story of incompetence in itself. But one sunshiny day, in the middle of a Covid breakout in our house, my doctor called me to say that the results were negative. No cancer.

If you’ve been reading my past few posts you know what happened next. One minute I was sure I had breast cancer and the next minute my world went back to normal and I struggled to process it. Rather than feel elated, I felt exhausted and deflated. My life felt tedious for a while. But gradually I started to feel the spark again. I started to see the beauty and appreciate the moments.

Eventually I saw a breast specialist who decided after much feeling around and examining of scans that the lump should still come out and be tested. It was disappointing that the story wasn’t over yet, but in my heart I knew that it was the right thing to do. Firstly I did not want that stupid lump in my body anymore and secondly I just needed to feel 100% certain that I could safely move on and forget about it.

Two Wednesdays ago Bren dropped me off in front of the hospital in Ballarat and I walked up to the day procedure unit. I got weighed and measured, I got interviewed, I got dressed into a white gown and knee high compression socks. And I waited. At times when I thought about the procedure to come I felt so anxious I couldn’t breathe, but then at other times I did the Wordle, I scrolled instagram and I texted.

Eventually my name was called, I was given a cap thing to cover my hair and led over to theatre. As I was lying on the stretcher with a drip inserted into the top of my hand, monitors stuck to my body and head, I met three anaesthetists, two surgeons, an assistant surgeon and a few other people who popped in and out to discuss my case or gather equipment.

Then there was a discussion about whether to do the surgery at all and some more scans because as it happened the lump had shrunk a bit by itself. But they decided to go ahead and pretty quickly I was being coached through minutes of breathing through an oxygen mask and then I remember something cold feeding into my left hand drip.

I have no idea how much later I woke up in recovery. Lumpless and crying. I went home a few hours later and spent the afternoon lying awake with my eyes closed. I couldn’t sleep but I couldn’t completely wake up either. I wasn’t sore at all. I felt content. Happy to lie there with the world going on outside my door. It was so weird but it felt completely familiar from a time years ago when I’d had a dilation and curettage procedure after a miscarriage. Sort of dreamy and alert but also fuzzy. So relieved to have it all behind me.

After that there were a few days of fatigue and then my life started going back to normal, And then this past Tuesday my doctor called to let me know that the lump was cancer-free. She told me the medical name for what is essentially lumpy boobs. It happens as we get older apparently. Yay?

So now that part of my story is over. I have no idea why I get to walk away with nothing but a tiny scar on my breast. I have no idea why all of this happened and what I’m meant to do with all of the emotions. I have no idea if there are lessons to be learned. But I am so frickin grateful. So frickin grateful it’s ridiculous.

And of course I think often of what could so easily have been for me and is for so many others. It actually hurts my heart to think of people everywhere getting the other kind of news. Of people feeling terrified and exhausted and in pain. I’m so sorry if that’s you or someone you love. I promise I’ll think of you often and wish for the good results, the positive outcomes. I wish I could do more.

We’ve spent the past few days in a cleaning frenzy. Pulling everything off shelves, wiping them down and putting things back again. I think it’s partly about cleansing myself from the whole icky past few months, and partly in preparation for an upcoming photo shoot. Whatever the reason, it’s starting to feel so lovely and fresh to live here again. I’m hoping to attack the windows next. And then the sunroom.

I hope you’re doing okay wherever you are out there, I’m sending you so much love.

Until we meet again next Friday.

Love,

Kate x