Having returned to "normal" life some months ago after my last Herceptin treatment, it has been a while since I wrote a sharepost for this site. There hasn't been a lot to say, since it can become repetitive continually saying how much you're enjoying feeling well.

A couple of weeks ago, however, I went through an experience that may be of some help to those who are at the stage of working out how they are going to live as a BC survivor once treatment has finished. I have been convinced, since I woke up after my mastectomy, that the cancer had gone. I agreed to the rest of my treatment just to be sure. Then I raised with my surgeon the prospect of removing my port. Grateful as I am for the ease with which it enabled the medical Dream Team to administer my treatment, and without it wrecking my veins, I've never liked the Frankensteinish feeling of the lump in my chest that I feel every day in the shower.

Most sensibly, the gorgeous Bob prescribed a bone scan and a blood test to make sure that we were not being premature. With a somewhat cavalier shrug, I agreed to this.

Little did I realise the extent to which having this test would re-awaken old ghosts. There I was, back in the nuclear medecine department, where I had spent several hours almost two years ago, nervous about what the future might be holding in store for me.

The day that the results were due, a bear with a sore head had nothing on me. I was definitely not a nice person to know. The kids in my classes looked on in disbelief at the irritable harridan standing in front of the class. Later I erupted at a staff training session involving a more than usually stupid exercise. Curiously, I felt a certain detachment that allowed me to see and hear how horrible I was being, and I did apologise for my reaction and explained why I was rather stressed.

Thankfully, when I rang the doctor's office, I was given the all-clear, and the relief felt like someone had opened a valve to let all the pressure escape. It was a timely reminder to not take feelings for granted, just because you have managed to push them to the back of your mind, to the point where you are no longer conscious of them.

Reflecting on this had made me realise that I still have unresolved feelings of anger towards the GP who almost missed my diagnosis of IBC, and only sent me for tests at my insistence. The school holidays start at the end of this week, and I plan to take the opportunity to write to the senior partner at the practice to tell him of my feelings about my experience and to warn of the need to be aware of this form of BC. Just because it is so rare (only 10 cases in the whole of Australia in 2006) does not mean that it can't happen. Maybe this might save some other woman from having treatment delayed, and from the consequences that this might entail.

Anyway, I continue to feel well and my mental scans tell me again and again that my body is free of stupid, ugly cancer - the only thing on my hate list of one.