I went to my best friend's wedding this weekend, ag I mean my best friend's daughter's wedding. She was wearing white with an insert of blue, really lovely. Elspeth's whole family asked after Geoff, but there was no way he could attend. By Saturday he looked like he'd been in a bar room brawl: black eyes, stitched head and, under the shirt seven or eight handprintfuls of bruise. He did say he was wondering how I would cope when he dies. I know I would cope very well, largely thanks to him. He has bought me my ideal home, view of a mountain from my lounge, the sea less than a kilometre away (the sound of the sea soothes us to sleep every night) and the vlei 200 metres down the road with flamingoes and kingfishers and dogs for Africa. He got a lump sum as pension and we can live off the interest. I have my son and my friend close by. I am quite capable of hanging pictures, changing plugs, painting walls and if I need more complicated handyman work, there are plenty of those around.
In any case there's no saying when he will die. As for this time, while he feels wellish, we will just make every moment count. I am taking the dog to the vlei now and taking him with me.
Okay he didn't want to come out. I'll persuade him to go this evening. My poor husband.
Monday, 19 October 2015
Saturday, 17 October 2015
Where we are now (Cancer was first diagnosed in 2011)
You 61 Geoff 67. It's just brought tears to my eyes to see a photo of Geoff on here somewhere (I still don't know where to find what on Google+ and every now and then come across some random thing) which I must have put up on 23 March 2015. My husband looked so healthy: hair on top of his head, happy smile, shirt a little undone. But the photo couldn't have been taken this year or last year. It must be from 2013.
Compared to now, the 17th October of 2015, where he has some foam rubber sewn onto his head, a finger of flesh on his forehead, no feeling in the top of his head at all any more (from the radiation) and last night his face was all swollen. My poor, poor honey. On Monday the plastic surgeon (to whom Geoff had gone back to because his head was hurting so) said he was sorry to give me 'slegte nuus'. He said it seems there is another carcinoma on his head. Now, of course, I thought at first that meant it was simply a basal cell carcinoma, but no, it is that same pleomorphic sarcoma that was supposedly removed and radiated away in April. So now to try and remember how this all started:
Geoff used to run Comrades, and of course to train for Comrades. Comrades is an all-day fun run! Well, it is a run that starts at 6 in the morning and you run for about ten hours, covering 84 or 85 (it varies) kilometres. It is a long and gruelling run and you have to train about 1000 kms a year to run it. This meant he did a great deal of running in the hot sun without a hat and didn't put sunscreen on his actual hair. He was fine and pretty healthy until last year, that is, 2014. He then had something which was diagnosed as a fibrosatoma removed from his head but all seemed well. He used to go to the dermatologist every now and then and get something burnt off. Then he was told he had a pleomorphic sarcoma and that was also removed and some skin was taken from his right side to cover the space on his head. It seemed fine. Then another one appeared. Again it was sliced out, a skin graft was done once more, and, this time, he had radiation for a month. All this happened in 2014.
Then this year he started coughing blood and finally went to our new GP, a Dr Rupping, to see what was going on. Dr Rupping sent him for x-rays and there was something on his lung. It was not lung cancer, but a metastasis of the sarcoma on top of his head. So he had a lobectomy in April. The bottom third of his right lung was removed. He had a complete body scan in August and all seemed well. We were both so happy because it seemed the cancer had been conquered. And now, and now, in October, another growth at the original site: there where the skin grafts had been done last year.
Those are the plain prose facts. What they don't include is the emotional roller coaster. The annoyance (rather than anything deeper!) at the first fibrosatoma early in 2014. The relief when that was taken care of. The disbelief when it started to dawn on us that this was something more serious: a pleomorphic sarcoma. (We only found that out when the plastic surgeon disagreed with the dermatologist). But then a wave of reassurance and comfort because it was dealt with quickly and professionally. Then the anger and uncertainty (what went wrong?) when another one arose. But more comfort because of a month of radiation which seemed to be a lot. All seemed taken care of. That all happened before Christmas last year.
Apparently Geoff first coughed up some blood in February this year when I was in Johannesburg. He said it was just a little and he thought it was caused by his asthma because that sometimes happened. (The coughing up of blood, that is). To us it seemed normal as Geoff has had chronic asthma during his whole life, he has coughed up drops of blood before, and it seemed far more likely to be some bronchitis from his incessant coughing rather than cancer. I mean you don't usually hear that people with lung cancer cough up blood, and, unfortunately, Geoff always coughs. So neither was it unusual to hear him coughing. But then in April this year he coughed up what to me looked like a generous teaspoon of blood and I was thoroughly alarmed. We both thought that was a bit too much and he finally went to the doctor. So you go through waves: down into fear and up into reassurance, all laced with some scepticism, lashings of sadness, frustration and anger and impatience. Ugly emotions.
Compared to now, the 17th October of 2015, where he has some foam rubber sewn onto his head, a finger of flesh on his forehead, no feeling in the top of his head at all any more (from the radiation) and last night his face was all swollen. My poor, poor honey. On Monday the plastic surgeon (to whom Geoff had gone back to because his head was hurting so) said he was sorry to give me 'slegte nuus'. He said it seems there is another carcinoma on his head. Now, of course, I thought at first that meant it was simply a basal cell carcinoma, but no, it is that same pleomorphic sarcoma that was supposedly removed and radiated away in April. So now to try and remember how this all started:
Geoff used to run Comrades, and of course to train for Comrades. Comrades is an all-day fun run! Well, it is a run that starts at 6 in the morning and you run for about ten hours, covering 84 or 85 (it varies) kilometres. It is a long and gruelling run and you have to train about 1000 kms a year to run it. This meant he did a great deal of running in the hot sun without a hat and didn't put sunscreen on his actual hair. He was fine and pretty healthy until last year, that is, 2014. He then had something which was diagnosed as a fibrosatoma removed from his head but all seemed well. He used to go to the dermatologist every now and then and get something burnt off. Then he was told he had a pleomorphic sarcoma and that was also removed and some skin was taken from his right side to cover the space on his head. It seemed fine. Then another one appeared. Again it was sliced out, a skin graft was done once more, and, this time, he had radiation for a month. All this happened in 2014.
Then this year he started coughing blood and finally went to our new GP, a Dr Rupping, to see what was going on. Dr Rupping sent him for x-rays and there was something on his lung. It was not lung cancer, but a metastasis of the sarcoma on top of his head. So he had a lobectomy in April. The bottom third of his right lung was removed. He had a complete body scan in August and all seemed well. We were both so happy because it seemed the cancer had been conquered. And now, and now, in October, another growth at the original site: there where the skin grafts had been done last year.
Those are the plain prose facts. What they don't include is the emotional roller coaster. The annoyance (rather than anything deeper!) at the first fibrosatoma early in 2014. The relief when that was taken care of. The disbelief when it started to dawn on us that this was something more serious: a pleomorphic sarcoma. (We only found that out when the plastic surgeon disagreed with the dermatologist). But then a wave of reassurance and comfort because it was dealt with quickly and professionally. Then the anger and uncertainty (what went wrong?) when another one arose. But more comfort because of a month of radiation which seemed to be a lot. All seemed taken care of. That all happened before Christmas last year.
Apparently Geoff first coughed up some blood in February this year when I was in Johannesburg. He said it was just a little and he thought it was caused by his asthma because that sometimes happened. (The coughing up of blood, that is). To us it seemed normal as Geoff has had chronic asthma during his whole life, he has coughed up drops of blood before, and it seemed far more likely to be some bronchitis from his incessant coughing rather than cancer. I mean you don't usually hear that people with lung cancer cough up blood, and, unfortunately, Geoff always coughs. So neither was it unusual to hear him coughing. But then in April this year he coughed up what to me looked like a generous teaspoon of blood and I was thoroughly alarmed. We both thought that was a bit too much and he finally went to the doctor. So you go through waves: down into fear and up into reassurance, all laced with some scepticism, lashings of sadness, frustration and anger and impatience. Ugly emotions.
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