Time to go...

There is a clear theme when you have a disease like VHL... waiting. Waiting for appointments, waiting for results, waiting rooms, waiting games. 

I think most of us learn to forget the wait at times, it sits quietly in the back of our mind and surfaces most when someone else, who is waiting too, asks "do you know when..." or "have you heard?" 

This week, an appointment I'd been waiting for arrived quickly and happily when I could go easily without a lot of rearranging and adjustment. And at the end of it I have a better idea of how long I need to wait for the next bit. I don't know exactly of course, that would be too easy, that would be too convenient. And so I give my news;

mid-December. 

So I'll wait to find out the exact date and then I can plan more. It doesn't just impact me, it means my work, my family and my friends. It means cancelling things, probably, adapting things, likely and a period of recovery, definitely.   

and then, of course, because it is VHL

wait for the next one. 

Thank you VHL alliance

 I waited until I was back from my holiday, despite the temptation, to ask for the scan report. It came back within the hour. That was impressive. I read it and compared it to the last full report I have. 

Then I had a little wobble. 

I sent the report onto my Prof's secretary, with the sing song tone that says - I don't want to bother you but I want you to look. And I got a reply within the hour. Not an answer but I know I've been acknowledged and now I will have to wait. I can do that.

Then I had a little cry and got a hug from my husband. We talked it through, best to wait. The report didn't seem very thorough, the MRI machine wasn't as high a T number as the others, they could be looking from a different angle. I quickly calculated a thousand different outcomes, the best being  - we can still wait and the worst - well... going back to the fear I felt in 2013. I even began to think of the cost of more scans. Would my insurance cover it? I have savings - I can use those. When would be a good time of year for surgery. Then my calm husband held me again. Breath and just wait. 

I thought about telling my mum  - but she worries and I don't want her to, so I looked again at the report. And did a bit of googling, before finding my way to the place on the internet I should have started with! 

Kidney Cysts, Renal Cell Carcinoma : VHL Alliance

this bit

Cysts are generally not considered sufficient cause to operate, even if large. In the rare event a tumor is present in the wall of a cyst, it will be important to watch the size of that solid tumor, not of the cyst.

and this bit helped 

Tumors typically grow in steps, with periods of little to no growth followed by periods of rapid growth. Looking at tumor growth over a number of years, NIH has found the average growth rate is 3-4 mm per year. Generally, growth greater than 5 mm over a year is considered accelerated.

and so the left one has gone from 13 x 12 mm to  29 x 23 mm cystic lesion

no news on the right one

I'll wait

just wait

scan connoisseur

I know a few MRI machines well, one I consider I've had an on going long term relationship with, although I have been seeing his brother on the side. I've had a couple of one night stands with some, holiday flings really. 

And then there's the first, you never forget your first. In my home town. He was new to the area, my family knew him. I haven't seen him for years. 

a story about one of my hemangioblastomas

The last blog post I made before being admitted to hospital for the hemangioblastoma was about 3 days before I went in.

I got through that day, a sad and horrible day. I had told so many people about her death, a student, and then I tried to carry on.
My last day at school - My boss was out and I had sat on a chair for the entire lesson. My colleague knew my face was 'not right' and kindly offered to do my lunch duty.
I called my GP to chase the information about the cyber knife.
I cried and I knew I had to go home, I hadn't felt that tried in so very long.
It always felt better if I could just lie down.

Even today, if I feel especially tired I worry something is going on in my brain.

I still marvel at just how I got out of my friend's car and had my bloods done, how the next day I even made it as far as the end of my road and I sometimes drift back to those hideous moments when I was unable to move. My daughter dressing me, helping me clean my teeth, how I asked for my husband to come back from his business trip early and, thank god, he did.

And then in the first hospital. I had been lying down for a long time, still and rested. I felt like I'd made such a fuss, no cortisone crisis, not feeling that bad. There are moments when you recognise the brilliance and simplicity of the medical process. It was my blood pressure that gave it away, you are not fine.
A crash from lying to standing, the nurse, reaching out his arm to hold me, fearful I was about to faint.

My hospital having me in, the sedatives to help me move from bed to bed, I could still walk a bit then.

The worst of all moments, the unknown and the real crash, my body began to go into shock, the blood retreating into my internal organs, the sudden and complete spread of pins and needles and the loss of sight. The panic as I couldn't find the alarm
HELP HELP ME HELP
The bumbling Dr who couldn't find a vein - no wonder my blood had been sucked towards my heart.

I begged to be catheterised, the idea of getting up again too much to take, the need of a bed pan and the change of myself.

The MRI - the fear and my genetic nurse, a woman who made me feel less alone and knew she had to call my mum.
36 years old and I needed my mum.

Then a wait and another transfer, just a few miles away but I didn't know then how long I was going to wait.

I remember my mum's fierce instance that even touching the edge of the bed was horrible for me. And despite having never experienced it themselves my mum and husband knew -this isn't like her.

3 weeks of progressively unbearable dizziness. But bare it I had to, no choice.

Despair.

Infections, bloods, a drip, a mouthful of food and only for my daughter, I kept going for her.
I didn't want to be alive even though I didn't want to die.

It was the hardest time in so many ways.

It ended.

The NHS was there for me. And I mean the people and the experience, equipment and care.

I am worried for  myself not having it in the future and I worry for everyone else who might need it. And my heart pounds at the injustice of life that some people don't even get insurance.

Postmum Pat

Two letters arrive at my old, old, old, old, old, old address.
They contradict the emails I've had.
They send me into the state of the unknown again and they make the evening frustrating and I feel sad and confused.
I'm now back in the doubt and so despite feeling I knew what the plan was, it's changed or has it?

I don't want to

I don't want to
I don't what to chase
I don't want to ask
I don't want to know
I don't want to stop
I don't want to carry on
I don't want to cope
I don't want to fall apart
I don't want to

Epiphany

Lots of people around here like climbing mountains.
I don't.
I'm told you get a great sense of achievement once you get to the top. Then it's all been worth it.
I thought this was true but I've realised for me it's not achievement I feel.
It's relief, relief it's over and the easy bit is ahead of me.
That's why VHL is such a arsehole disease. There's always another mountain.

The news we're always waiting for.

This is a familiar feeling. I don't think it is ever different. The waiting and finding out.   

The news is:
Brain and spine stable.
 A lesion in the right kidney has grown from 13mm to 18mm and Prof D thinks it might need treatment and he is going to write to the renal team.

What's different this time as I've found out via a short email and now all my questions are left completely unanswered. Although if I had been there in person, Prof D would still have to ask the renal team.

Might need treatment.

When?

Please say, not for a long time.

Please say, maybe never.

Please don't say you need more scans.

Please don't say, soon.

Please don't end my current bubble of happy.

Holding back tears, letting them come. Fight the urge to tell everyone. I FUCKING HATE VHL. Fight the urge to get sympathy from all sources.

And into strategies, - if it's this then we'll do this. What's 18mm? How rapid is that growth? What was it last time? Which side?
We'll cope. It's fine. I'm fine. Should I tell my mum and dad before I know more? They'll only worry.
Cover it up so my daughter doesn't worry.

And then numb.

Dazed.

Tired.

More questions without answers, more guesses.

Sadness.

Fear.

Blog.

Ssshh, don't tell my mum

It turns out the medical insurance I had was not fit for purpose.
Having filled in the form for a much 'better' one, I'm still not insured in a way that makes me feel safe.
I'm covered for everything but my condition. So where does that leave me?
Still better off than almost every one I know with this shit burger of a disease.

Update:

Getting a slightly better deal. 

The simple pleasures in life

This morning I am content and happy. I'm in bed, a lie in, reading, blogging and drinking a cup of tea that my husband just brought me. He's going to make pancakes.
My wonderful daughter is with her friend, they had a sleep over.
I'm going to drive up a mountain later and have lunch with my friend.

A wonderful friend back home just offered to do a beautifully kind thing.
I'm still not feeling the need to get up

If VHL has taught me anything it is to relish these moments. Notice them and be glad. I'm a privilege and lucky woman.

I travel back to the UK in a week. The buzz of London will fill my soul and no doubt I'll quickly re-ajust.

But I'm ready now. I need to stop worrying about it and be ready to enjoy that. How unbelievably lucky I am to even get to feel anxious about a return trip. I've had a word with myself and I'm going to look forward to it.

Someone else...

My mum is due to have an operation. A full knee replacement.

I don't know much more at the moment but from my dad and sister it's clear that they are all feeling worried about it.

It's easy to forget that most people rarely need operations. So they are not ever routine.

It's not this that's making me feel anxious about going home. But I am. Life here feels normal. A colleague said to me yesterday 'you won't realise how much you've changed until you go home.'
I thought, I haven't changed. I'm the same.
She must have sensed that. We were sipping wine, she's been here over 5 years. They go 'home' every long holiday for the whole 7 weeks. She told me how she feels when they are staying in England.
Lots of her feelings were about materialism. The sheer volume of everything. The waste, the indulgence.
I'm wondering how I'll feel about all that.
I feel extremely privileged here. We have so much.
We talked and talked. Small stories that were so based on this life here in Malawi. It's going to be hard to help my family and friends back home to see it. The ones who have been will understand more.

I'll pack a bit more this weekend because we fly in a week. I'm nervous. 

Medical insurance

It's one of the reasons I've thought I couldn't ever be anywhere but the UK. Now I find myself filling in forms, my husband doing it most of the time. He remembers the facts. He likes those.
Cancer - tick
Brain tumour - tick
Cardiovascular - X
And on it goes

The ticks playing a game with the xs

On evenings like this I realise I'm living in my current bubble.

I like my current bubble.

Poorly but fine

I've got a nasty cold. I'm in bed but I can't sleep. I have a temperature. But I'm kind of fine.
It's odd feeling ill somewhere very different. But easier to stay in bed as the pressure to get into work isn't any way near as acute as the UK.
I'll go and teach my year 7 but otherwise l will rest.
See if I can get any sleep.
My little girl was worried, it's hard for her. Her mum in bed brings back too many horrible memories. I can see the concern all over her face. Only thing to do is stay alive.
As obvious as this is to say, I do so hope I don't need any surgery for the foreseeable future. For her as much as me.

What makes me happy?

On Monday I went to first Zumba class. Unlike my ridiculously fit and capable friend, who bounced the whole way through, I look it fairly easy.
As I shook and stepped and laughed at my lack of coordination, I was reminded of how different life could all have been. Of the brilliance of the human body to recover and cover up. Who would know my knee hurt. Who would know my arm tingled away. Who would have believed that the woman who lay in a bed for three weeks would now be grapevining her way across a school gym in Africa.
That I can laugh at myself and find joy.
I am finding the joy in life. My confidence is growing.
I am often happy.

I feel so happy

A brilliant night, an event that I helped organise and it was superb. I was happy in every part of me. Well almost.
I watched my daughter and loved her. I enjoyed myself, having found the freedom in dance. I belonged and I was loved in return.
And now I'm in bed with my home the centre of a brilliant party. I'm too tired to stay up. But I'm brimming with pride and satisfaction.
The ever present cloud has a bright silver lining and that's what is shining tonight.

Oh to love yourself

I'm having a lovely time. I'm at a party. I just went to the toilet and saw my face. Not bad
Here I am. A foreigner. But I feel so welcome. And I felt confident and happy.

I had two people by my side who I know love me. I've never been too sure if people do but it's a new feeling to be confident in their love.

The fact my mum and dad love me unconditionally has sustained me. But my self confidence isn't quite as it seems. 

Hard to fall asleep on a day like today

Two posts on one day.
I'm feeling loved, unsettled, sad and proud.
I should go to bed. I should be very normal.
I should try to get on with life.

But I'm haunted by events of 22 years ago.

The day it was confirmed he was dead. And as clichéd as it sounds, nothing has been the same since.

It just doesn't go away. The loss. How could it? No resurrection planned here.

To quote a wise woman

We will both always be running (even sprinting...) to fill the void our siblings left and live 2 lives into one.

She knows. She's felt the shadow of loss and the burden that it can leave you with. But the Ying and Yang of trying to accomplish and achieve so much more that perhaps, would not have seemed necessary had we just been left to be the number of children our parents planned.

Maybe that's why I'm struggling to go to bed. I remember him often. I value his memory always. But this day. This anniversary marks a shift. The balance will tip now.

It's nearly tomorrow.

Tomorrow could be just as sad.

But I'm getting tomorrow and for that I'm very glad.

Start of the half term

Which means I'm half way through my first year here and it's gone so quickly. It feels very normal too.
I've had a few things to worry me but not many and so far so good.
So I feel blessed and positive.
Worth noting.
Worth saying it.
Worth this short post.

To be or not to be

A simple question. Because I'm a to be. No matter what. I've considered the 'not to be' talked my way into the who would hurt. How should I do it. That was before my brother died.
You'd have to be the most heartless person in existence to do that to your parent's twice.
No,  I keep on with the to be.

Despite the agony.

Turning 39

It's another year and another achievement. Getting here.
According to that fateful letter I've got 13 years left.
Better make the most of them.

My birthday also showed me how loved I am and how I've learnt to keep amazing people close by.

I'm a lucky woman with an unlucky disease.