Debbie was right, I did feel a little less euphoric once the magical effects of the steroids had worn off. I was left with a slightly foggy, spaced out sensation but I still didn’t feel anywhere near as awful as I thought I would and no sign of any sickness. I had noticed that I got pretty breathless as I made my way up any inclines on my daily dog walks with Luna but any concern about that was completely overshadowed by the joy I felt to be able to get out and walk her. I certainly wasn’t expecting to be able to do that in the immediate days after treatment.

I was back at my desk on the Monday morning finding work a welcome distraction from the constant self analysis of how I was currently feeling and the worry about how I may be feeling in an hour or so. It was great to have the interaction with work colleagues (albeit only via Zoom) and in some ways I felt grateful to be in a situation where working from home was the norm. I certainly don’t think that I would have felt quite so keen to work if that had involved cramming onto a commuter train twice a day to get to and from the office and dealing with the hustle and bustle of the City. I was very conscious of the need to shield myself as much as possible from the risk of catching COVID and any other bugs that could cause me significant harm whilst the chemo slowly reduced the level of my white blood cells and therefore my ability to fight off infection. So being able to wander 10 metres from my back door to our outdoor office in the garden was a godsend. Knowing that if I did start to feel a bit rubbish my bed was only a stones throw away and that my team at work were supporting me 100% was a real comfort.

My family, friends and work colleagues continued to be a brilliant support. Not being able to see anyone was unbelievably difficult. All I really wanted were hugs, to be told it would all be alright and to know I had support outside of my own four walls. After my first treatment the messages, cards, flowers and the most thoughtful gifts from amazing friends and family started to arrive on a daily basis. Wonderful neighbours dropped off home made dishes for us to pop in the oven to save us cooking. The kindness we received from people was truly humbling and was a huge source of strength for me. Even though I wasn’t able to see anyone in person, the knowledge that people were thinking of me, had my back and were in my corner fighting this thing with me was truly heart warming and empowering.

The biggest challenge I faced over the next week or so was the effect of the chemo on my mouth and throat. Chemotherapy works by stopping or slowing the growth of cancer cells which grow and divide quickly. The problem is that it also harms healthy cells that grow and divide quickly and that includes the lining of your throat and mouth and your intestines. By day 5 after my first treatment I started to feel as though I was getting a sore throat, it hurt to swallow and that began to affect my eating. It hurt eating even the softest pasta or a yoghurt and anything with any raised level of saltiness or spice was a complete no no. Very annoying for someone like me who really loves their food. The only real relief I found was in ice lollies so we stocked up and they became a soothing treat after I had forced a meal down.

My chemotherapy nurses told me that chemo patients usually start to notice hair loss around 16 days after their first treatment. Although I had used the cold cap during my treatment the nurses had advised me that given the dosage of the Epirubicin that I was being given I was very likely to lose my hair regardless of the effects of the cold cap. Despite that warning I was still hopeful that somehow I would keep hold of my locks. In the same way as it attacks the cells in your mouth and throat chemo also attacks the rapidly dividing cells that cause your hair to grow. I had been advised that the hair loss usually starts around day 16 after the first treatment. I smiled to myself when they told me this thinking that’s a bit specific but, sure enough, on day 16 post my first treatment I woke up to find a fair few hairs on my pillow and plenty more in my brush after brushing my hair. For the next few days, if I ran my hands through my hair, it would come out in large clumps. The cold cap hadn’t worked. Even though I had been told it was unlikely to work given my dosage of Epirubicin I was devastated.

Nothing really prepares you for losing your hair and as much as I had prepped myself for it, bought my wig and various head covers, stocked up on special shampoo and conditioner, told myself that I would embrace the baldness, see it as an opportunity to look completely different……it was awful. This wretched illness, not content with threatening my life was also trying to take away my identity and there was nothing I could do about it. Up until now I had been able to be a cancer patient in disguise. From the outside anyone looking at me still saw me, a 49 year old mum of 2 but now they would see a cancer patient and I hated that. I hated that I couldn’t control it and as the handfuls of hair came away my originally stoic outlook started to crumble. This came to a head late one evening whilst I was talking to Dan, I had been joking earlier about my hair loss and Dan said something that really just carried on the joke I had been making about having a bald head. It was too much, I lost it screaming at him and accusing him of having no sensitivity. I was going to be bald and ugly, I was devastated about that and he thought it was ok to laugh at me? How dare he.

Poor Dan, he didn’t know what to do but hugged me whilst I cried until I felt like I couldn’t cry any more, until my eyes were red and swollen, a really attractive addition to my patchy haired look. It was good to get it out, to accept finally that losing my hair was going to be awful and that I didn’t need to be strong or resilient about it any more. Dan now knew how I really felt. I was worried that he would stop loving me, that he wouldn’t be able to see beyond the bald head and that once I looked like a cancer patient, like the rest of the world, he would start treating me like one. I couldn’t bear that, I needed him to keep treating me as me, his wife and best friend.

Most people don’t realise that it is not just the hair on your head that chemo destroys but any hair anywhere on your body and it seems to disappear in a particular order, after the hair on my head started to go it was closely followed by body hair which frankly feels like a small moment of relief in the middle of a particularly horrid nightmare. I was able to put my razor and all depilatory products away. Particularly great for the armpit from which my lymph nodes had been taken out as the scarring there was quite significant and I certainly wasn’t going to tackle that area with a razor or any hair dissolving creams. As a result, the armpit hair that had started to grow back post op was becoming a bit of an eyesore but literally overnight was all gone leaving only baby soft (but still pretty butchered) skin.

Next to go was the hair in my nose. You may think that would be ok and not cause too many issues but you would be wrong. The hairs in your nose perform the pretty important role of defender against any harmful dirt or debris which may otherwise get into your body system. The also draw up mucus by a capillary action which means that your nose can produce mucus without it constantly dripping out of the nostrils. By doing this they maintain the moisture in t(e air that we breathe in. So take the hairs away and you are left with no defence against nasties in the air that may cause you harm and the juxtaposition of a very dry and crusty nose that also drips constantly. Brilliant.

Last but not least you lose your eyebrows and eyelashes. I has been told by a friend also going through breast cancer treatment that she didn’t lose her brows and lashes until the end of her treatment so I held out hope that the same would apply to me and that at least for a short time more I would be able to layer on the mascara to give my face some definition beneath my patchy hair and above my dripping crusty nose.