Obsession.  Compulsion.  Not a good combination.  According to the internet, my 5 year survival rate is 75-77% which is scaring the hell out of me.  So, do I believe a surgeon who seemed to have no clue what the fuck he was on about or do I lean towards the statistics that every website seem to agree on?  I want to see my usual man at the hospital, but he was not available the last time due to the clinic being understaffed at the time.  And now I have to wait until April before I can see him again, and this time round I will not be settling for anyone else!  I want some bloody straightforward and honest answers, but I want them to be answers that don't scare me.  The surgeon scared me.  He went into worst case scenerios and was quite brutal.  Bastard.  Winston (my usual guy) was confident that the cancer had not spread to the lymph nodes but recommended I have the node biopsy for peace of mind.  He was right.  So, I would probably trust him with statistics and other bits of information needed.

Maybe I am feeling horrid and paranoid due to lack of sleep and dealing with a teething baby who is being a horrid little shit.  I feel as though I have not achieved much this weekend due to having a grumpy temperamental 8.5 month old terror needing attention and that frustrates me.  Today was the first time in a long time that I felt like I was not mother material.  I felt that I wasn't good enough for this role.  No matter what I did, he was not happy.  My confidence lowered and I felt out of my depth.  Maybe I just need some sleep.  Maybe I need a break.  Maybe there just needs to be more hours in the goddamn day!

Paul is home, I have a beer and the shower is about to be invaded by me.

Fuck this weekend.

Why, why, why?!  *stomps feet*

Why must there be utter moronic fools in the world?!  And why must they be in MY corner of the world?!  Do they not realise that their stupidity makes me want to slap them silly?  Do they enjoy being the bane of my existence?

I walked away. With already feeling like I had been hammered into the ground, the last thing I needed was to have my face being torn apart and my hair pulled by an 8 month old lil shit.

At first it was all ok but after a while I could feel myself getting frustrated.  It was more to do with the horrid over-tiredness than anything else but the last thing I wanted to do was get more flustered while dealing with my child who was also in dire need of sleep. So, I did the right thing and safely tucked him into his cot and walked away. Well fuck me, the bugger got comfy and dozed off.  Nice for some!

I felt horrible leaving him and going to the other end of the house to get my thoughts sorted, and guilty because I was nearing the end of my rope and was unable to be the perfect Mummy and just deal with everything including the annoying child. I know it is the best thing to do when in that situation and I know it is better for baby to be safe than to have a pissed off parent, but there was still that slight feeling of failure happening which sucked. I felt like I was supposed to be Super Woman and be able to fit work, household chores and a baby all into one day, every day. So, when am I allowed some "me" time? Is it ok to have this sort of time or is it selfish to want it? Is sleep considered this? Well, if so, I am shit out of luck as sleep and I are morbid enemies. Sleep likes to play hide and seek with me alot. It hides, I seek, I catch, it gets away and then this repeats all over again.  Stupid vicious circles. 

There are fucktards out there who actually do put themselves first and foremost, before their kids, at all times.  Even if it poses risks.  That I could never do.  Yes, there are times that I put myself first, but is that not normal?  Surely it must be ok to do for yourself at times, so long as there is no endangerment for anyone?  If we didn't have some time-out would we not then go more crazy

So my conclusion is that being selfish is ok at times, so long as everyone is safe and nobody is being put in harms way.

"I don't want to hear anymore"

These are the words that came out of my mouth as I felt the familiar coldness in my head which could only mean one thing. Panic. I needed to focus on getting the anxiety under control before it had me in a complete state of terror.

One of the horrible things about suffering from depression and anxiety is that hearing the worst case scenerio feeds the monster.

Yesterday morning was my first hospital appointment since having my Sentinel Node Biopsy, and the doctor was being incredibly honest and straightforward. Don't get me wrong, I like honesty, but as the saying goes "The truth hurts".  Or in my case "You can't handle the truth!".

I have now been told that if Melanoma comes back to haunt me then the prognosis would not be very good. He then went on to talk about the worst case scenerios which led to me telling him to stop. Paul was also feeling concern, over me getting twitchy and also what we were hearing. It was then that the surgeon realised that the good side of things needed to be voiced. So the positives I have discovered are that even though they can never be 100% sure that the cancer did not break off and go anywhere else, they are pretty confident this is not the case. Melanoma thicker than 1mm is very very bad, but even though mine was 2.3mm they did manage to cut it all out and it did not invade my nodes which is a good sign. Because I am "young, healthy and have no history of this disease" my prognosis right now is good. Most people they see who are in similiar stages as myself end up being discharged after 5 years and being fine. I just need to keep a very close eye on my skin and always go to my 3 monthly checkups without fail.

My survival rate is 90%, so why is it that the 10% weighs heavily on my mind? Since that appointment I have felt fear, angst, sadness and paranoia. Is it the existing Mental Health issues that comtribute to this, or are these feelings normal for someone in my shoes (or barefeet as the case is)? It is incredibly difficult to distinguish where the line is. Should I not be happy that I have a very good high survival chance? Is it selfish to want 100% instead of 90%? I am happy that my survival rate is so high, and I do realise that my chances are pretty damn good, but that fear just seems to stay lurking under the surface and that is something I have no idea on how to deal with.

I had a Mental Health appointment this morning, but dammit, it was cancelled. And this was one appointment I so desperately needed!  So, what to do when oneself is at loose ends and feeling out of sorts?  A day out with Paul, Wyatt and the 2 dogs ended up being the agenda.  I have never been one for colour, unless you consider black to be one, but somehow I now have a white summer skirt and a white/blue striped singlet amongst the clothing I own.  Black attracts the sun.  White does not.  You do the math.  Before we left the house this morning, I made sure sunscreen was used.  And then I reapplied it to myself in the car as the sun became brighter.  I probably looked like an idiotic fool sitting there in the passenger seat with my feet up on the dash and flashing my undies to the world, but I figured I would rather have random strangers see my undies than take the risk of getting even the slightest sunburn.  I then started feeling paranoid about being exposed to the brightness in the sky and have come to the conclusion that winter is safest.

The sky started to change this evening and we ended up with lovely cooling drizzle, so I took advantage and did some gardening.  Gardening in light rainfall is actually quite refreshing and there is no fear of the sun doing its worse.  Does that make me insane?  Crazy?  Or just carefully cautious?

Reflecting on the past can be both horrifying and humourous.  Going through old storage boxes and finding old diaries that date as far back as 1996 is quite funny...... until you start having a browse and realise you were quite the mess all those years ago.  So many words enter the mind.  Slapper.  Death.  Lonely.  Angry.  Sad.  Confused.  Scared.  And so many more.

2011 would have to be the most terrifing year of my life so far.  Even more so than those I experienced during my horrid teenage years.  I was 30 and pregnant with our first child when I found a rapidly changing mole and had it cut out.  It was discovered in February 2011 that this mole was Melanoma and even though the mole was gone, the cancer was not.  My father decided that being pregnant, this was something that needed attention right away so with his help we went to a world renowned surgeon who specialises in the skin and he took a nice big chunk out of my back.  We could not do a Node Biopsy while I was carrying this living creature inside of me so the surgeon went 3 stitches deep into my back in the hopes of getting all of this killer cancer.

I planned on going on Maternity Leave when I was 3 weeks away from my due date, but alas a month before my due date my waters broke.  At work.  Oh shit.  And then came the denial.  I spent the next day going shopping with my other half, Paul, and cleaning house.  Every now and then I would keel over in pain but no, I was NOT in labour as I was not bloody ready for it!  That night was the first night I spent in the hospital hooked up to machines and sucking in the gas..... which apparently made me so high I ended up flirting with Paul while going through contractions.  Sunday afternoon, the 1st of May 2011, after having every pain relief possible, including an epi, I finally got to meet my son, Wyatt, via a forceps delivery.  He was only 5lb 14oz.  53 hours after my waters broke and the first thing that went through my head was "Ha, little grey alien. Cute".  The next few days had both Paul and I at the hospital in a single room with Wyatt and his lack of feeding on top of Jaundice.  A bottle fed baby he became.  Once home we got settled into the sleep deprivation as best as we could, and then along came the Postnatal Depression.  And fuck was it bad.  The world was ending.  We were all going to die.  I just needed to figure out how and when and why.  No, I didn't want to deal with the baby.  I was too nervous.  Too scared.  It was all too much.  Bloody hell child, do you ever shut the hell up?  So, another trip to the doctor was in order.  I already had Depression so I knew the signs of it getting worse and I knew I needed help.  The doc was fantastic.  All I needed to do was take an extra pill a day and Hey Presto!  Isn't medication just bloody marvellous?  It was not a quick fix, but after a few days I certainly felt the difference and was able to start functioning like a Human Being again.

Luckily for me, Wyatt was sleeping through the night when I went back to work, but alas now I had to book in for a Sentinel Node Biopsy.  This was in November 2011.  You are wondering what that actually involves?  Well, they put you to sleep then make a cut under your arm and remove the Sentinel Node for a biopsy.  The Sentinel Node is basically the gatekeeper to the other Nodes.  If the Sentinel Node is positive for Cancer then chances are more are affected.  But, firstly you need to have radioactive dye injected into you around the original Cancer site and yes the needles going in hurt like Hell.  So, once the dye is injected they have you lie on a bed under a strange machine that can see which Nodes the dye travels to.  Basically, it is making a map so the surgeons know where the Cancer would of gone if it spread.  Just before I went into theatre, the surgeon decided that he wanted to take more of my back aswell just to be on the safe side and to make the Melanoma more preventable of being able to come back and visit.  What was supposed to be a day surgery ended up with me being admitted overnight.  Did I tell you I hate hospitals?  I was not a happy camper!  The next day, I was discharged and was on my way to healing.

The above is what my back looked like a few days after the surgery.

Below is under my arm.

I got my results back and I can now say that I won the battle and there is no sign of Melanoma existing within me now.  I do need to go to a clinic at the hospital every 3 months to get checked over and I will need the checks for the next 5 years.  I also take photos every few weeks so I can compare and refer to these if the paranoid thoughts over whether a mole is new or not takes over.

Above is my back once the dressings were able to come off.

Below is under my arm.

What is strange is that my son was born on the first day of Melanoma Awareness Month and my clinic visits for the cancer will be in the same building that my son was born.  Odd.

I have days of fear and terror.  Those days where I am so scared of having the deadiest Skin Cancer come back and take my life.  Those days of utter panic and breakdowns.  But those days are becoming less often and I am becoming less fearful.  The worry will never go away and it will never be ok that I ended up with this ugly disease in the first place.

I know how lucky I am to be surviving the big C, but this does not mean I no longer have bad moody days. It does not mean I no longer have fat days. And it certainly does not mean I am never a Bitch. Afterall, I am human.

Above is what my scar on my back looks like.

Below is under my arm today.

I have never been one to bathe in the suns warmth and have always covered myself in sunscreen and am even one to wear a hat whether I am going for a walk or swimming in the lake.  I am not a beach person and have never been very fond of the summer months and the heat that comes with them, but I did burn as a child.  More than once.

Childhood sunburn can lead to adult Skin Cancer.

Adult sunburn can cause Skin Cancer.

Sunbeds can cause Skin Cancer.

Melanoma is the deadliest form of Skin Cancer.

Melanoma will kill 80 people in New Zealand alone this summer.

Be Sun smart.  Be sun safe.

And ask yourself:

Is a tan really worth your life?