The Answer

Before I could attend the appointment with the third consultant, I needed to have another contrast MRI scan. 

My husband drove me into Harley Street to have the scan appointment; my energy levels were decreasing - I didn't feel 'well' although couldn't put my finger on exactly why. 

We were in the height of summer in July 2019; driving through London and observing everyone in full summer mode: bustling pubs, restaurants and far more bicycles and scooters on roads and pavements than in the bleak winter months. 

The mood in the city just lightens in the summer, everyone is happier. The population is the same but everyone is rushing around at a slower pace and even making eye contact with strangers, sometimes even smiling, sometimes on the tube - shocking!! 

So I arrived for my MRI, got into my hospital gown and settled on the table ready for my scan. I had a camera on a board strapped onto my stomach, so I was weighed down and once again I had a shooting pain in my lower back - but to be honest that was constant and I just concentrated on getting through it.

 

It was the longest MRI scan I had altogether - well over an hour and I can only describe the experience as borderline torture: 

The machine was getting warmer and warmer as the minutes ticked by, I was sweating, in agony and had a board pressing onto my pelvis. My need to drink water increased due to the heat and the affects of the contrast injection and I suddenly had this feeling of being inside a coffin; my heart rate increased, I panicked, I was frightened and I really wanted to shout that I wanted to get out, but I desperately wanted to know what was wrong with me - I didn't want to delay the process. 

In the end I cried out for five minute breaks, just for air and and sip of water. 

Finally it was over, the nurse unstrapped me and said 'oh sorry, the person before you asked for the air con to be turned down and we forgot to turn it back up again'. 

Really? in the height of summer? I didn't have an answer, I didnt need to - I was probably the colour of a tomato;  I practically crawled back to the changing room like a slug - dripping a trail of sweat behind me.  

I stepped outside onto the street and took in huge gulps of hot, polluted London air - after that experience I silently begged the that whatever was wrong with me would soon be discovered. 

I felt under pressure;  the wedding was in a matter of months away and preparing for your big day is stressful enough, without a healthscare right in the middle of it all. I was also still working in London four days a week and most importantly I was a mother. 

That's what I came to understand throughout my health worries is that the world doesn't stop just because you're ill. Everyone else's life is what it was before your diagnosis. I still needed to be a mother, a fiance, a daughter, a sister, a friend and quite rightly -but my world had changed and I was finding it difficult to keep the two lives parallel - the before and the present. 

The appointment with the new(est) consultant soon came around and I was directed to a different hospital - my husband and I joked that I may visit every hospital in London by the time I had an answer. 

When we walked inside the hospital, it was as if we had travelled back in time. 

The only way I could describe the interior was 1920s Art Deco - marble walls and floors, spirally banisters, dark colours. 

We were directed to a higher floor to check in and the lift was very old fashioned and rickety - decorated in marble and gold. I felt underdressed , even in my work clothes I felt as if I should be wearing a tailored blouse with a hat, a tailored long skirt with a matching jacket - perhaps with a cigerette holder and a fox stole. 

We walked into the room to check in which was deathly silent - deorated similar to the main reception - the ceilings were high and the three receptionists were working in silence, not looking up - I was the only patient waiting - I felt like I was in a dream with the only sign that I was still in the modern world, being the view of the current London Skyline, outside from the old fashioned window. 

I checked in and went towards the top of the building to meet my next consultant. 

He was a happy gentlemen - slightly older than the rest and asked me all of the similar questions I had been asked - he was also the first person to examine me - my bum that is - I was yet to find out that I would spend the next 14 months or so, showing my bum to one health professional or another. 

He sat me down with the MRI scan results and said that something had been discovered. 

A very rare tumour, called a sacrococcygeal teratoma had been found at the base of my spine - and there is a chance this could be cancerous and would definitely need to be removed.

He went on to tell me that he was in fact retired from performing surgery and so wouldn't be able to do so himself and so that actually left just one man in the entire country who knew how to operate on the particular rare tumour I had... I didn't know if to feel lucky or afraid. 

He went on to say that the operation I needed was incredibly urgent and may be complicated as it was a miracle they even found it on the scan  - I didn't have time to worry about if this would be done before or during the wedding even, as his PA was already on the phone to the surgeon's PA and arrangements were made for me to meet with him in a few days. 

On the train on way home from the appointment - I researched the surgeon and tried to ignore the sentences that stated he was a specialist in 'bowel cancer' and 'colotrectal cancer'. 

I finally knew what was wrong with me - I had a rare tumour.

I had a rare tumour that had to be surgically removed urgently and I had a wedding - my wedding - in two months time. 

Most importantly, I had answer and if I could get through these next two months, I could get through anything.