Today was going to be all about results. I have been building up to it for sometime. In fact, as a very wise person observed, I should be due a PhD in Waiting by now.
I began the day in a pretty chilled state: breakfast with a friend; my new Wonder Woman pants; general busyness occupying my mind. I interspersed all this with reflections on Psalm 25 and occasional sniffing of my nose stick. Our time for leaving for the All Singing All Dancing Breast Unit was just after 1pm, so sitting down to lunch at 12:30 I was still calm and collected. Five minutes later, all this was undone.
At 12:35 the phone rang. It was the Local Breast Clinic. That’s right, the one I had been referred on from:
I am ringing to tell you that now we have your results we’re requesting oncotype testing. I promise you, at that moment this meant as much to me as it does to you!
Sorry, did you say you’ve had my results?
Yes, we need to treat you as a Grade 3 tumour patient even though the histology showed only a Grade 2 tumour removed.
But I’m not under your care anymore. My understanding is that I am under the care of the All Singing All Dancing Breast Unit. I’m going there in a few minutes to get my results from them.
Oh no, that was only for your surgery. You’ll be back with us for any further treatment. Anyway, your results are …
And she proceeded to rattle through my histology report. Over the phone. Having heard me explicitly say I was about to go to an appointment to discuss them. To say my composure was disturbed is an understatement. So much so that I rocked up at the All Singing All Dancing Breast Unit with my cardigan tucked into my knickers. My fabulous Wonder Woman pants as already mentioned, but even so.
My first appointment was a brief trip to the dressings clinic just to check out my wounds which are now looking good enough to leave undressed. Thereafter it was my appointment, the big one, with Brainy Spice that was the focus. I had already tipped them off about my phone call from the Local Breast Clinic. They were gratifyingly enraged. Brainy Spice had written with my results requesting further information, which had not been forthcoming, but at no point had she suggested they discuss this information with me.
Anyway. My results are annoyingly not clear cut. There is Good News. There is Not Such Good News. And there is Wait and See News. The Good News is that they removed a 15mm Grade 2 tumour and there was no sign of any other cancer. It had clear margins suggesting it has completely gone. More Good News is that radiotherapy is not indicated. Hurrah! Even more Good News, there is no sign of the Grade 3 cancer found on biopsy. The working theory on this is that it was entirely removed during the biopsy. The Not Such Good News is that the mere mention of the Grade 3 tumour immediately effects my long term prognosis. This is assessed with the Nottingham Prognostic Index (NPI) and I have scored 4.3 based on my tumour size, grade and lymph node involvement. A score of 4.3 means I have a moderate prognosis, or a 69% chance of survival at 5 years. Frankly, that seems a bit crap currently. The other potentially Not Such Good News is that the size of the tumour means that I may not have needed a mastectomy at all. It was considerably smaller than originally assessed and a lumpectomy would have probably sufficed. However, I am fairly sanguine about this. I am quite glad to be rid of the whole lot. Whether I always feel this way remains to be seen.
The Wait and See News is that the need for chemo has yet to be decided. Because my histology falls into a borderline category, my tissue will be sent for oncotype testing. This involves being flown to America. Perhaps I should have offered my Wonder Woman pants as a courier service? Two weeks later, the results pop up over here. They will indicate whether or not chemo would be good idea. The higher the score the more likely chemo is. More tests come back with low scores so that is something to hang on to.
So now I am back to waiting. You really would think I’d be good at this by now?