Audrey’s Blog on living well with disability and breast cancer

 Cara catching the mood I kept thinking, there’s a great pun in the whole genes/jeans thing but could I find it? I’m trying to find the light side of this. Like does my bum look big in these genes or similar, you know. ( surely the answer would be yes just now so I won’t go there!). Frankly I’m avoiding jeans right now because they trigger nerve pain. Apparently my brain is confused by my recovering ( hopefully) nerves and it’s not just going you are too old for jeans now, it’s more ahhhh thats sore , stop it.  Usually discussions on genes in this house centre on whose eyes our Grandson has ( his Dad’s definitely) and his dimples are his Mum’s. But this year genes took on another meaning. After my recent cancer diagnosis I was tested for the BRCA genes.The BRCA gene test is a blood test that uses DNA analysis to identify harmful changes (mutations) in either one of the two breast cancer susceptibility genes — BRCA1 and BRCA2. My family history is in no way typical of the

Waiting for spring So last week I started another medication. I am the personal cause of the medicine shortage, never mind Brexit. My cancer treatment has begun. I’ve to take this treatment to shrink the tumour so that the surgery can be minimalised and safer for me. Hormone treatments like tamoxifen or aromatise inhibitors are now seen as effective for oestrogen sensitive tumours as several months of chemotherapy and I’m grateful for that. My fragile state could be tipped over by a toxic chemo combination.  I’ve been on these drugs before and stopped them because of side effects but that’s not an option this time i know.  I’m now on exemestane which has the best side effect profile of all. With this drug the common side effects are « only »: aching or pain in joints and/or muscles, menopausal symptomes, low mood/depression, difficulty sleeping, fatigue and osteoporosis. There is a list of less common ones but I can’t even face writing them down. I wrote about tamoxifen b

I’m being stalked by a killer. The regular attempts to wound me have worked to take away my confidence and my pleasure at so many things. But all along I have kept going. Nil illegitimi desperandum and all that. I’ve put on my make up, done my hair, squared my shoulders and kept going; whatever the cost. I’ve gone to work, I’ve met friends, I’ve covered up my bruises and scars and lived my life. All the time knowing that the killer might return at any point.  Might just show up unexpected and yet familiar. So familiar to be honest that I’ve become desensitised to the risk when the killer reappears. I know how this goes, I’m deeply wounded physically and of course mentally and I eventually recover because this killer is trying hard but it hasn’t managed to kill me yet. And when I say recover I’m not saying I return to how I was before. Oh no. I get my life back in time but each time leaves me scarred and scared. I find my mood flattens and everything gets just a bit greyer and sadder