It has to be one of the most tense, emotional moments in life.
Your life is literally hanging in the balance and literally everything depends on that phone-call.
I was sent for an urgent scan because of liver pain and breathlessness.
The wait was up to six weeks (even for an urgent because the NHS needs more money Boris).
Luckily I managed to get a cancellation after two weeks and in I went. The CT scanner is just like a doughnut.
You lie on a bed, have a cannula put into your arm (my veins have collapsed because of the amount of chemo I’ve had so getting a cannula or a blood test is painful).
Then they inject a dye into my cannula so that any cancer will light up on the CT.
Those of you who have had a CT with contrast will be all too familiar with that warm feeling down below – it feels like you’re doing a big warm wee.
I have no idea why it happens but I always have to have a quick check I haven’t actually had an accident afterwards.
You’re then sent on your merry way and told to wait for your oncologist to get in touch.
I used to analyse every expression on the radiographers face. See if they were giving anything away from what they may or may not have seen on the scan.
‘Did she touch my arm on the way out because she felt bad for me because she can see the cancer is back?’.
'Did he not make eye contact with me because he knows I’ll be able to see in his eyes that my cancer is back?’
I’ve become strong enough to not do that any more. I know they can’t tell me anything and I know over analysing things will just catapult me into hell.
I lived that weekend literally soaking every ounce of joy up. I lay down with Ivy and smelled her hair.
Looked at her beautiful face wondering if this was the last time I could look at her with relative ease.
Would Monday bring a call that could ruin our whole family?
Monday came and I distracted myself all day. Had a bit of self care with my FaceLite mask and my Elemis superfood goodies which make my skin feel like heaven.
I have been reviewing so many incredible products on my social media and I’ll be telling you all about some of my favourites every week.
Anyway, back to the phone-call. Michael was home from work and I was upstairs on my own. ‘PRIVATE NUMBER’. I knew it was Dr Hogg.
It honestly feels like the blood runs hot from your brain to your toes. My palms are clammy and my breathing speeds up.
I almost can’t hear because my blood is pumping in my ears. I answered the phone and there was my lovely Dr Hogg…. “Hi Roisin, are you free to talk?”
I listen for any sign in his voice that he’s about to tell me something bad. I imagine him saying to me “I’m so sorry Roisin, it’s back”.
I wonder how I’ll accept it. I remember my beautiful friend – Seema who passed away two years ago.
She told me when her consultant broke the news to her that her cancer was back and she only had around two years of life left, she felt relief.
She felt like she had always known this day would come and now she was ready to accept it.
I get worried sometimes that I will feel the same. I will never be able to accept it and hopefully I won’t bloody have to. Seema was so incredibly brave.
I stand up looking out of my window across the fields and Dr Hogg says the words I so desperately need him to…. ‘STABLE’.
The relief! He is clearly pleased to tell me the news and I feel a warm, mellow calm comes over me.
Almost like when your head goes a bit nice and fuzzy when you’ve had a couple of glasses of wine. It’s pure bliss.
He told me there is no spread to any organs and disease is stable.
I’m not quite sure what he means as I think I am totally free of cancer, so what is left to be stable?!
He tells me there’s some shotty lymph nodes in my neck that are unchanged.
I’ll ask him more about that soon but for now. My mind is free to wonder and dream and hope for my future with my family.
I run downstairs to tell Michael and we have the biggest hugs with our little babes.
Life I love you – and now it's back to wedding planning.
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