THERE IS A MASS IN THE HEART. I actually don’t even really recall the word ‘mass’ being said, I was focussing more on waiting to hear the results of the bunch of scans I had post chemo and to find out what was next, which we now know was radiotherapy. But as radiotherapy was ending, people naturally wanted to know what was next.

I was given four options as to what the mass could be:

1. It was my cancer – although he thought this was unlikely as the PET scan hadn’t lit up anywhere near my heart
2. It was a blood clot – unusual to have it where it was but not unheard of
3. It was just my heart and it was a bit weird, and;
4. It was a myxoma – a rare cardiac tumour – which he told me was unlikely as it would be like being struck by lightning twice.

By the end of the week, after all the tests, I went to see the cardiologist Friday night and was told I had an left atrial myxoma. It’s a rare type of cardiac tumour which is benign and is usually found in the top chamber of the heart. About 75% of them tend to be found in the left chamber (atria) and grow on the wall that separates the right and left sides of the heart.

I was happy to hear it was benign, which means it doesn’t spread around the body like cancer does, but they do have other complications. They aren’t a solid tumour and therefore pieces of it can break off and end up in the blood stream – causing strokes or pulmonary embolism. In fact, I was told I was lucky as most people only find out they have myxoma when they have had a mini stroke!

I got back to the flat and told mum and dad. Mum cried and said she wanted them to stop finding things. I laughed. Looking back, I think I was in shock, I mean, it was super unlucky but that is what made it so funny. 

So, the stage was set, I was told, they would get a crowbar and jimmy open my chest to remove the tumour, but that it would be done after radiotherapy. My first concern was training for rowing the Atlantic.

It did mean having a ton of other access points – namely through the femoral artery and jugular, and whilst it would still mean a 4-6 week recovery, I would be able to lift weights a lot quicker due to the sternum not being cut. After 40 minutes talking to the surgeon, I decided I liked the cut of his jib – a nice nautical reference for those in the know, and by the end of the day, I had a date and was due to go in on the Thursday for the operation.

My throat is raspy and sore from the tube that’s been down it, I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus. Here you have a dedicated nurse – mine is Sally – such a wonderful lady and she puts up with a lot from me. I’m on Fentanyl because I have a not so stellar reaction to Morphine as Dana and Louisa will attest – I get super-hot, itchy and my skin feels like it’s on fire, which meant that dana and Louisa ended up wiping me down with wet wipes when we found this out! 

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The next few days pass in what feels like a blur, I’m asleep way too much apparently, which sees me coming off the IV Fentanyl and it being put on PCA – which is Patient controlled analgesia – I find myself clicking that button way too much, but there is only so much you can get out. On day 2, a lovely antipodean physio comes round to announce we are getting out of bed. The idea terrifies me, not least because I am attached to so many things, but also because of the pain, but I’m told its essential to protect the lungs, and so, with a number of people assisting, I somehow make it to the chair.

I’m also forced to cough and deep breath every time the ward doctor comes round, which is broadly met with the phrase ‘now cough properly’ or ‘now breathe deeply’. It’s not just me, I hear it from the other patients too whose shallow breathing is a result of the pain.

My chest drain is filling up and filling up and I’m told that I’ll have to go on the CPAP machine (Continuous positive airway pressure) if my breathing doesn’t get deeper and I can’t cough. Sally tells me that this is not fun after surgery and will hurt like hell because of the chest drain. She convinces me that I need to start breathing deeper for the doctor when he comes round if I want to avoid it. So, when he does his next round, I breathe as deep as I can and muster up the weirdest fakest smile, which sees a reprieve from the contraption.

Fast forward to Saturday and they take one tube out of my neck, which felt like it was being tied off – I had all the weight of Sally on me to stop the bleeding for what felt like an eternity. They also removed my chest drain and I was moved to the ward.

On the ward, I’m starting to feel like hell, I’m off the Fentanyl and all they can give me is paracetamol as codeine etc are morphine derivatives. At around 730pm, they take me down for a chest x-ray, wanting to check all the air is out of them. I persuade the on call duty doctor to give me a sleeping tablet, however, when he arrives back with my medication for the evening at 11pm, and I’m knocking it back, he says my surgeon and his tag team are coming into see me and the drain is going back in.

My surgeons number two’s favourite phrase was ‘this might hurt in a minute’, I genuinely would have had at least a tenner for the number of times he said it. He also kept saying, relax – having someone put a tube between the lung and the chest wall is not relaxing. I mean it wasn’t pleasant when I woke up with one in me, but even less so, when someone is putting it in and you’re awake. Anyways, I like to think I must be super strong, because I managed to bend the tube – which was not ideal, as it meant it had to come back out and go back in again. Honestly horrendous, I couldn’t speak, it literally took my breath away, and if I did say anything, it was a 4-letter f word, followed by a mumbled sorry and a delightful nurse asking if we should give her anything more than paracetamol – after she said it a second time, I found my words – ‘give me the drugs’. The reason the chest drain was going back in was because of a pneumothorax (collection of air), this or fluid can cause issues with breathing and can stop your lungs from working properly, so I went along with it – not that I had much choice.

As I lay there waiting for the drugs to numb the pain, my surgeon asked if I wanted to see the tumour. He’d said he’d sent it off for testing to ensure it wasn’t cancerous but to him it looked like typical myxoma – and there on his phone it was for all to see – what a strange world we live in but I was keen to see what it looked like! Finally, at 1am, I slept – uncomfortable as I was, the drugs took over and did their thing, and I fell asleep listening to the antiques shop on Headspace.

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The next few days were a combination of the physio coming to get me out of bed and force a totter up the ward hall, sleeping, more scans of the chest and a 2 hour session that involved the nurses washing me, changing my dressings and bed and getting into my PJs.

My fave phrase post my first shower was ‘you look so pretty now’ – which made me laugh but for which my ribs and lung were not grateful for.

And so, a week after I arrive, I get the chest drain removed and I finally leave hospital. The staff were amazing, literally unbelievable and I was pain in the backside. That said, by this time, I’m glad to get out of there, to breathe in fresh air and see people other than the hospital staff. 

I still feel like I’ve been run over, I’m swollen, out of breath, cannot walk for more than 5-10 minutes and even that is at the speed of someone triple my age, but in any event, am happy to have had the surgery.