An Early Christmas Present

Today I had three separate medical appointments, all related to cancer. If that's not an atypical start to the school holidays, I don't know what is.

The lead up to this day had been similarly atypical. I had known it was coming and, for the most part, I'd shoved it in a box at the back of my mind and stacked a bunch of stuff on top of it. I was determined not to get caught up in the what-ifs of it all. So I'd put it away, so deep in the back of the closet that I almost forgot to get it back out. The day was upon me and I'd barely had a chance to walk through it in my mind.

Locking it away and not dealing with the anxiety it would normally bring meant that, despite multiple offers from people to come along and sit in waiting rooms with me all day, I decided that I would prove to myself how wonderfully independent I could be by doing it alone. I had somehow failed to really register the fact that, if this day didn't go to plan, I could be sitting alone in a hospital finding out that my cancer was back. This realisation hit me about half way to my first appointment. So I did what any well-adjusted post-cancer patient would do. I very quickly buried it again.

Appointment 1

Back in the old, familiar outpatients department of the Gold Coast University Hospital I sat alone. I was seeing the occupational therapist who was monitoring my lymphoedema. There was no scary your-cancer-is-back possibility that came with this appointment. Only a your-legs-are-increasingly-swelling-and-we-think-you-should-wear-compression-garments-full-time. Mild in comparison.

After the quick 'how you going...haven't seen you for ages' pleasantries, I climbed upon the familiar table and sat patiently while both of my legs were measured. Starting from my foot, at ten centimetre intervals, a measuring tape was wrapped around each leg and the number recorded. As usual, it was then compared with the previous appointment's measurements from three months prior.

Now...what is it that a woman struggling with self-confidence after cancer treatment doesn't want to hear? What little sentence might play into the self-deprication she was fighting? "So Lauren...can I ask...have you put on weight? Your swelling seems to have grown only in your hips and thighs and it's possible that you've just put on weight and it isn't actually the lymphoedema getting worse."

Smiling politely through gritted teeth, I replied that yes, I probably had put on a little extra weight. I fought back the tears as I realised that I had let my body change to such an extent that they now couldn't work out if it was fat or a full-blown worsening medical condition.

Appointment 2

Appropriately, appointment number two for the day was for a lymphatic-drainage massage. In the hope of managing the swelling in my thighs that, as I'd just been told, might just be fat, I'd had a few of these massages in the past months. I stripped my overalls off, grateful I had worn appropriate underwear and laid on yet another table while the physio rubbed my legs in an attempt to move some of the fluid, or fat (who knows), that had gathered in my thighs. Somehow, she spent 40 minutes doing one leg and, before I could say anything, I was being told to get dressed. With one leg drained and the other feeling very left-out I pulled my overalls back on, too polite to remind her that I'd had lymph nodes removed on both sides. In a flurry, I looked down and noticed that the waistband of my undies was coming away resulting in two large holes. My record of inappropriate underwear continues unhindered.

Appointment 3

Back again in the hospital waiting room it hit me again. I was about to receive MRI results that could tell me if my cancer was back. Opposite me a young man my age sat in a wheelchair. A backwards baseball cap covered his bald head and his thin arms looked to be wasting away before me. It was so real. Cancer was still so close behind me. While it sometimes feels like a distant memory, the reality is that it's right behind me and, at times, feels like it's closing in. I was expecting a long wait for this appointment so didn't get too worried about the tears that filled my eyes. I would have time to get them under control before my number was called. Wrong. I pulled myself together and hid the tears under, what it turns out, was a very thin veil.

I sat down and was greeted by Marcelo, my surgeon. A friendly Brazilian man who is as casual as he is professional. He read through my notes to catch himself up on my history. As much as these doctors make you feel like you're their only patient, the reality is, you're one of thousands. So, as I listened to him read through my history, I was given my entire cancer journey (gosh I hate that word) in about ten seconds flat. He then bought my MRI results up and read through those too. It was clear that he was reading them for the first time and I was taken back to when I rang Dr Walker around this time last year. Taken back to when he agreed to give me my results over the phone, making it clear that we were reading them together and he had no idea if it was good or bad news. No idea if I was cancer-free or would need a hysterectomy.

Marcelo mumbled quietly to himself as he read through the MRI report. I picked up on the odd word here and there...liver, spleen, cerclage stitch. And then a few words that made me laugh out loud. "No cervix...well, we already knew that." Almost immediately after came the words "two centimetre..." and my stomach dropped. Everything slowed down as he finished the sentence. "two centimetre fibroid in the uterus." He continued mumbling for a few more seconds then stopped, looked me in the eye and smiled. That's great news! Everything's normal. We couldn't have asked for better. I questioned the fibroid before being quickly dismissed. Apparently it's very common and no big deal. And just like that, I had MRI results that suggested no evidence of disease. But, it wasn't over yet.

As I pulled my holey undies down and placed them on the chair, I began to cry. I sat on the bed, spread my legs and draped the sheet over my lower half, just as I'd done five months earlier. A nurse had been called in to chaperone and looked at me with pity. Marcelo asked why I was crying and all I could manage was, "I hate this place," because I knew what was coming.

Now I know a pap smear isn't that big a deal. In fact, I've been pushing women to bite the bullet and go and gets theirs done for over a year now. So I felt slightly silly getting so upset about mine. That was until I questioned Marcelo on why it hurt so much. When he removed my cervix, he had pulled the bottom part of my uterus down and sewed it to my vagina. Cutting out the middle man if you will (yes I'm very pleased with that analogy). Now, the part of me they swab during a pap smear, is a part that was never meant to see the light of day. Let alone have somebody jab at it with a sharp implement. No wonder it bloody hurt.

Marcelo promised to be slow and gentle which, as I'm writing this, sounds very weird. I gripped the sheet in my sweaty hands, clenched everything and stared at the ceiling as the examination began. Marcelo talked me through what he was doing and I appreciated it. "Just touching the outside, checking the outside, now...the little duck's bill." I couldn't help but smile. He was referring to the speculum and it really did help to make it a little less intimidating. The little duck's bill. What an image. The exam was horrible as usual and as painful as expected. He finished off with an internal exam using his hand which is never fun.

Once I was dressed, Eilish stopped in to say hi. My favourite nurse. She gave me a big hug and a kiss and touched my curls a lot. When she left, Marcelo looked at me surprised. "She doesn't do that for everyone you know. She likes you." And I liked her too.

As I went to leave he stopped me. "I gave you a big gift today. A clear MRI and permission to go and make a baby. You should be very happy." And I was. Somewhere between MRI results and a pap smear, I'd been told that my body was now recovered enough to attempt carrying a baby. Another bit of news that had not yet truly sunk in.

I walked out the door to a chorus of "baby, baby baby" from the man who agreed to let me have chemotherapy and a trachelectomy as a way of avoiding a hysterectomy at 30. And I was so so very grateful. Whether my body responds to baby making or not, I'm just grateful to have been given the chance to try.