Navigating the world of diagnoses is a bit like trying to find matching socks in a dark laundry basket. My recent telephone appointment with my haematology consultant gave me a diagnosis of low-grade Non-Hodgkin's Follicular Lymphoma. Now, did he hand me a detailed roadmap of my condition? Not quite…
The conversation was a bit like trying to decipher a cryptic crossword puzzle – intriguing but lacking in clarity. When I inquired about the specific grade or stage, he just flippantly commented “it’s low grade which does not need treatment, just watch and wait”. However, I did receive some unexpected lifestyle advice. Apparently, I need to get myself a personal trainer and arrange a chat with a nutrition expert (I did try to explain my healthy diet choices and my arthritis stopping me doing the exercises I love). Who knew my lymph nodes were yearning for some squats and kale?
As for emotional support or words of wisdom, that cupboard was bare. No gems, just a suggestion to wait three months and then revisit the mysterious world of haematology. But fear not, because in the interim, he would send me loads of information explaining my condition and a blood form to get bloods done a week before my next appointment with him.
I called the gynaecology nurse specialist, a beacon of competence in this shit show. Lyndsey, my ovarian guardian angel, reassured me about a mass on my ovary. No immediate treatment required, just another watch and wait scenario. However, she thoughtfully offered to toss me into the warm embrace of cancer care for support, if I needed a nice massage or some aromatherapy (now this actually sounds quite pleasant). Plus, she promised to nudge the haematology nurse specialist to call me with some much-needed answers. Patiently twiddling my thumbs, still now for that call.
A few days later, a leaflet on ‘watch and wait for lymphoma arrived’, seemingly crafted for people with learning disabilities. Short sentences, simple words, and pictures. Perhaps my haematologist believes my grasp of medical concepts rivals that of a toddler not a specialist nurse with nearly 30 years’ experience. Needless to say, I was left fuming, feeling like I was handed a pamphlet from the 'Lymphoma for Dummies' collection.
So, here I am, still unwell, armed with unanswered questions, and eagerly awaiting my three-month review. If only lymphoma could be tackled with a prescription of humour, I'd be in peak health. Until then, the saga continues, and the search for answers persists in this boggy swamp called cancer-care.
