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.

I had asked Dan to make a Cottage pie for dinner the day I had my first chemo. I had read up that the chemo can affect your appetite and make you crave carbs so I thought a pile of mince and potato with a side of peas would be a good choice. Turned out it was a great choice on that cold, dark November evening and as we all sat around table enjoying the comfort of its warmth, we agreed that we would make it our regular “post chemo” meal. For the rest of the evening I was on constant watch for the appearance of side effects of the treatment but they didn’t really come. I felt a bit spaced out but other than that, pretty normal, no sickness or tiredness or strange food cravings. I could tell that the children were relieved to see me back in one piece and still very much my normal self (even though that meant nagging them to brush their teeth and get to bed as it was a school night). We had warned them that I would likely be feeling unwell and may even have to take to my bed for a few days. I felt a bit of a fraud as Dan and I settled in for the evening to watch some TV but expected there would be darker days to come so decided that, for now, I would take feeling “pretty normal” as a win.

I may not have felt any sickness but sleeping when you are high as a kite on steroids is interesting. It doesn’t involve much sleeping. I was warned not to take my steroids after 2pm as they can affect your sleep so I dutifully took mine before the steroid curfew. Despite my adherence to the rules they still hugely affected my sleep. I felt tired when I went to bed and got to sleep no problem but was wide awake again by 1am. I had drunk gallons of water throughout the day to help flush the chemo through my body so the number of night time trips to the loo increased. It was once I was back back in the warmth of my bed that the problems started. I just couldn’t turn off the incessant chatter in my head, it was ridiculous! It wasn’t worries or stresses that crept into my brain, it was just mundane stuff; food shopping lists, the need to send cards for up and coming friends birthdays, the kids school work, my work to do list, what would we have for dinner tomorrow, what is in my ironing basket, new walks I could try with the dog, holidays I want to go on when we can travel again….. it just went on and on and any attempt to silence the noise was futile. Before I knew it it was 4 am and I had completed two more toilet trips. I was exhausted but the chatter didn’t care.

I finally managed to drift off only to have the alarm shock me out of my much needed slumber at 6.30am. I might have been having chemo but life around us continued regardless. The kids needed to be up and get ready for school, we needed to get them to school and Dan and I both had work to do. I had made the decision to try to work as much as I could during my treatment. I am not sure if I would have taken the same view had my work involved the commute to the City 3 days a week as it had done before March 2020 but as it now involved a pretty risk free commute to an office in my garden I wanted to give it a go. I was worried that without my work to distract me I would have too much time on my hands and that would mean time to worry about my illness. Being stuck at home unable to see friends and family other than Dan and the kids because of COVID was a challenge enough without having more time to ponder it all. I enjoy my work enormously and was very lucky to have the most supportive line managers and colleagues happy to let me “suck it and see” as far as my work was concerned. I was told they were there to support me and that if I wasn’t up to it one day then that was fine. We were all fully expecting a week of fall out after each round of chemo so they had anticipated my absence. I decided not to work on the Friday (the day after my treatment) as I was still waiting for side effects to present themselves but still nothing came other than the spaced out feeling and a bit of tiredness from the rubbish nights sleep. By Monday I was back at my desk working as if nothing had happened much to the surprise of my colleagues and myself.

I am so grateful to live where we do, with doorstep access to the countryside and countless different walks. Our lock down pup, Luna was also turning out to be something of a godsend, giving us a daily reason to get out in the fresh air for her much needed walks. I had been advised that walking every day was a great way to exercise during treatment, even on days when you are not feeling great. I definitely found that to be the case. A 40 minute romp across the fields, taking in the fresh air and changing natural scenery around me was an absolute tonic. I walked Luna with Jodie as soon as I got home from my first round of chemo and at the weekend we took a lovely long walk as a family.

When we got back from the walk I noticed that my PICC line felt a little uncomfortable. On examination I could see that quite a large amount of blood had collected under the see through dressing where the line entered my arm. I showed Dan and we agreed that didn’t look good so I reluctantly called the emergency on call number that I had for the chemo nurses at my hospital. I felt absolutely dreadful bothering them at the weekend. Debbie answered the phone and after explaining the problem she asked me to send her a photo of the PICC line which I did. She called me straight back and told me that unfortunately I would need to come to the hospital so that she could have a proper look at it. So I left Dan in charge of cooking a roast and off I went.

The hospital is out patients only so not open at the weekend. I met Debbie in the car park and she took me onto the cancer ward. She took my dressing off, cleaned my arm up and examined the line. I told her that I hadn’t knocked it or caught it on anything as far as I was aware, it was pretty well protected on the underside of my arm. Whatever had caused it to bleed, it wasn’t bleeding any more so she was happy to re dress it and send me on my way. I felt really guilty for having interrupted her Sunday for something not serious but she told me not to be silly and that they would always rather I called with anything that was of concern or not right. These things have to be checked. So I walked back to my car with Debbie happy that I had done the right thing and that I was unlikely to bleed to death. As we were getting into our cars Debbie said she was glad to see me looking and clearly feeling so well generally. I told her that I was surprised but was feeling really rather good “I’d go as far as to say that I feel quite euphoric, is that normal?” I asked. She looked at me with a knowing expression and smiled. “That will be the steroids, it’s your last day on them today isn’t it?”, “yes” I replied, “well you might just be feeling a little less euphoric in the morning, be prepared” she laughed.

The big day arrived. I felt a strange mix of intrepidation, fear, anxiety and relief. I was completely fearful of what the chemotherapy would do to me and a large part of me wanted to run for the hills rather than put myself through it but,at the same time, I knew it was a necessary evil and the quicker I got started the quicker it would be over. I had done some research about what to take with me to the sessions and had a bag stuffed full of goodies; a warm scarf and socks, snacks, a book, my iPad loaded up with Netflix episodes, ginger chews, anti sickness wrist bands, a few nice toiletries (I had received so many lovely gifts from friends of hand cream, facial mists, essential oils and lip balms) conditioner, a wide tooth comb and hairband (for the cold cap) and a warm hat to wear on the way home as my hair would be wet and head presumably a bit chilly. I was ready for anything this treatment was going to throw at me.

After making sure the children were safely installed at school Dan drove me to the hospital. He wasn’t allowed to come in with me so he dropped me at the entrance reserved for the cancer ward. It felt so strange saying goodbye to him. Here he was depositing the fit and well woman he had been married to for 15 years at a place where she was to be administered a series of poisons that would have a huge impact on her health and physical appearance. I wondered how I would be feeling when he picked me up later that day and more importantly what he would be dropping off at the doors of the hospital when I got to treatment number 6?

After being provided with a hospital issue face mask and passing the temperature test at reception I was able to enter the cancer ward. I was met with cheery hello’s from the nurses and shown to my room. As far as hospitals go, the room really was very nice. It had a window that overlooked fields and trees, an inviting looking bed, nice artwork and its own bathroom. The nurse assigned to me for the day told me that she had put heated pads in the bed to ensure I was warm throughout the treatment. As I got in I was extremely glad that I had worn fairly light clothes, it was boiling! but given that I was shortly to be dealing with the -5 degrees of the cold cap I decided that was a really good thing and snuggled in. I certainly wasn’t going to need the warm scarf or extra socks!

The nurse took my temperature, blood pressure and oxygen levels, all were good so we could proceed with the poisoning. First job was medication, I was given an anti sickness drug called Akynzeo that my nurse told me was brilliant and should prevent me feeling sick during and for a few days after treatment. Anything to prevent sickness sounded an excellent idea to me so I wolfed it down. In addition to the Akynzeo the nurse explained I would also be given steroids intravenously and to take in tablet form for the next few days that should also help with sickness and generally feeling unwell.

We then moved onto the fitting of the cold cap. Before it could be fitted I had to wet my hair and slather it with conditioner to ensure the hair was as flat allowing the cap to fit as closely to my scalp as possible.The cap comprised two separate parts, the first looked like a blue gel brain filled with water. This was the part that was attached to the refrigeration unit next to my bed that would chill the liquid in the cap to -5 degrees once we were ready to go. On top of the gel brain, to ensure it stayed as close to my scalp as possible, was a sort of neoprene scrum cap that was extremely tight fitting and made tighter via a chin strap. Once wearing both parts with the chin strap tight and secure, I couldn’t decide if I looked more like a demented waterpolo player or a patient in a Victorian lunatic asylum. Whichever was more accurate it certainly wasn’t my best look and I was suddenly extremely grateful for the privacy of my room. The nurse gave me paracetamol to help with any “pain” caused by the cold cap. I was starting to feel a bit anxious about the whole cold cap process. What was I doing adding the additional stress of the cold cap to the stress of being poisoned? Had I made the right decision or should I just be embracing a bald head and be done with it? Too late for thoughts like that, it was time to switch it on!!

I had been told that the first 10 to 15 minutes of the cold cap experience are the worst and if you can make it through that the discomfort subsides and is tolerable. That advice turned out to be pretty spot on. As the machine was switched on I could hear the gurgling of the chilled water as it filled the blue brain. It was definitely cold and I started feeling it’s numbing effect on my scalp. It got colder and colder and I began to wonder just how cold it would get. Would I be able to tolerate it after all of my bravado? I don’t even like the cold, I thought back to all those times on skiing holidays that Dan had to revive my frozen hands and feet on the side of the slopes. What on earth was I doing freezing my head in a vain attempt to keep hold of a few strands of hair? Really? was it worth it? Surely it can’t get any colder? It was really starting to feel rather uncomfortable. The thought of having to keep it on my head for the next 4 and a half hours was just starting to get the better of me when I realised all of a sudden that I wasn’t really feeling it any more. The pain was starting to subside and was being replaced by a tolerable dull ache.

The nurse came back in to set up my IV line and start to administer the Dexamethasone steroid and fluids. The benefit of having a PICC line became immediately apparent, all she had to do was attach the IV line to one of my PICC tubes and we were all set. It felt as though I was being plugged in. The cold cap had to be worn for an hour before the chemotherapy drugs were administered and for an an hour and a half afterwards. The nurse explained that she would stay in the room with me to monitor the administration of the chemotherapy drugs which would take a couple of hours. I realised that I wasn’t going to get much reading or Netflix watching done unless I was prepared to look a bit rude and ignore her presence. Luckily she was lovely and we chatted easily exchanging information about our families and backgrounds, discussing the challenges of 2020, COVID, lockdowns and dealing with a cancer diagnosis amid all of that. Before I knew it the Dexamethasone and fluids were in and it was time for the chemo.

What happened next was reminiscent of the piping in of the haggis on Burns night. Another nurse came in pushing a sinister looking metal trolley on top of which was a tray holding 4 yellow plastic bags containing giant syringes holding the 3 chemotherapy drugs that I was to be given. I was asked by the nurse to confirm my name, date of birth and address and then she removed the first drug from its yellow plastic. Epirubicin was first up. There were two giant syringes of that and it was a pretty alarming orange/red colour. The nurse read out the number on the side of the syringe and the other nurse cross checked it against the details she had on her iPad. I was asked to confirm my personal details again as she checked that they matched the details on her iPad and on the syringe. It all felt extremely formal and very serious confirming again just how much of a big deal the administration of these drugs is. Once they were happy that I was who I claimed to be and that the drugs delivered to my room were the drugs I was supposed to be given, the Epirubicin syringe was attached to the machine next to my bed that would control the delivery of the drug. The nurse told me that not that long ago they would have to manually administer the drugs at the correct rate based on the volume you are being given, your weight etc which is all designed to ensure you do not have an adverse reaction to what you are being given. Thankfully now the machine was able to do the administration for them with a bit of careful programming. The orange/red liquid made its way slowly along the plastic tubing like a sinister snake creeping up on its prey. This was the one that was going to cause the hair loss, bugger!! It finally reached my PICC line and that was it, no going back.

Administration of the drugs was a slow careful process but the time flew as I chatted to the nurse (my chatting definitely picking up the pace as the steroid started to do its work…….poor nurse!) Next came the Fluorouracil followed by the Cyclophosphamide both less colourful and sinister looking and less in volume. Once they were in they put more fluids through the line and for the first time I was left on my own. My neck and shoulders were starting to get a bit stiff, probably the result of the cold cap but other than that the cap really hadn’t bothered me. I was expecting to go home full of stories of the horrors of the cold cap, how awful it had been and how I’d had to dig deep to tolerate it but the reality was that it had been fine. With the exception of that first 10 minutes it had been totally bearable. I made the most of my last hour in the heated bed. Going to the loo attached to my line and the cold cap was interesting but I managed it. Luckily I had been warned of the effects of the Epirubicin so wasn’t alarmed at the bright orange colour of my wee, only at the speed that it had become bright orange!

I was brought some lunch which I had chosen earlier, a tuna sandwich, soup and a fruit salad. Whilst I was munching that I was visited by the pharmacist who gave me a rather large bag filled with drugs; Dexamethasone for the next 3 days, Metoclopramide to be taken if I felt sick, Movicol sachets as the steroids can cause constipation, Pyridoxine as my blood tests had shown I would be susceptible to developing sore hands and feet and finally a syringe of Pegfilgrastim to be kept in the fridge until 2pm the following day and then injected into my stomach to boost my bodies white blood cell production. This is required as the treatment kills white blood cells as well as cancer cells so my white blood cell count would take a battering reducing my immunity levels. They also gave me another Akynzeo to be taken the morning of my next treatment. I was also given a cancer treatment record book which contained details of the treatment I’d had and a section for me to record my side effects. It contained a rather alarming traffic light section detailing the circumstances in which I should seek the assistance of my medical team and those in which I should call 999 and get myself to hospital. Another reminder of how serious these drugs are. I decided that I wouldn’t read all the details but keep the book for reference in the event anything untoward happened.

Well so far so good. I actually felt pretty good and the drugs had been administered without any problems so fingers crossed that remained the case. Taking the cold cap off was interesting, the blue gel brain was frozen onto my hair so I had to leave it a while to warm up slightly before carefully taking it off without ripping out my hair (the irony of that happening!!!).

I felt pretty good as I hopped into the car to go home. No sign of sickness or a the “chemo fog” that I had read about. I could have driven myself home I thought but it was nice to have Dan driving me whilst I talked at him all the way home……..steroid power……..poor Dan!!!!

I had been made aware from the day that I was told I had cancer that the treatment I would need would result in me losing my hair, all of my hair. My oncologist had made a point of telling me that hair loss was the very first side effect he discussed with all of his patients. He made it clear that of all the side effects this was the one that caused the most distress, especially for women. I had agreed with my chemotherapy team that I would give the cold cap ago but they had warned me that on the dosage of Epirubicin (the drug that causes the hair loss) that I was being prescribed, chances are I would lose my hair in any event.

I had been fairly stoic initially even possibly a bit blasé at the thought of losing my hair but as I got closer to the start of my chemotherapy it was a factor that began to take up more of my headspace. Looking back I think I was actually pretty terrified and like so many other aspects of what I was dealing with had consigned that fear to another empty box at the back of my mind but I finally had to deal with it. Time was ticking by. I did that by trying to be a bit organised about it. I spent time researching headwear, how to look after my hair whilst using the cold cap (essentially do absolutely nothing with it at all). I also made myself an appointment for a wig fitting just before my chemo started. I had read that it was better to do that before you experienced any hair loss as that can be a pretty traumatic time when you undoubtedly won’t be feeling great and probably not massively up for trying on wigs. Also better to go when you still have your hair so that the consultant can see what sort of hair you had before it’s gone.

Rather usefully for me there is a shop in Ware, which is the next town to the village where I live, that is a bespoke hair clinic catering for anyone suffering from hair loss brought about by a medical condition or treatment. Rather aptly the shop is called “ Hair to Ware”. I have walked past it countless times in the years that I have lived here and have often stopped to admire the window displays of rather fabulous wigs. Those of you who know me well will know that I have always loved fancy dress and wigs have always been a part of that. I have rather a large collection at home in every style, length and colour. Something to complete every costume but contemplating wearing a wig because you head underneath is as bald as a coot is quite a different experience.

I made an appointment for the Saturday after we returned from Norfolk. My mum and dad stayed with us for the weekend before returning home so that mum could come to the appointment with me. I was expecting it to be a pretty emotional experience and I was so glad she could come and do a bit of socially distanced hand holding. The shop was only allowing one person to attend an appointment with you as part of their COVID policy and masks had to be worn throughout. My daughter Jodie was devastated not to be able to come too. She was extremely excited at the prospect of me wearing a wig and even more at the prospect that she may be able to wear it on occasion too! Whether I would lose my hair was one of the first questions that she asked me when we told her and Max that I had cancer and I had caught her a number of times since then staring at my hair and absentmindedly stroking it when we were cuddled up on the sofa together. She had also told me a number of times that she thought I would look great with no hair. Looking at her beautiful long blonde tresses I was not at all surprised that she had such a focus on the hair loss issue. Even through she is only 10, there was a feeling of female comradery between us which was so lovely. Even at her tender years she was totally aware of the trauma that losing my hair was going to be.

I was really nervous as I arrived at Hair to Ware with mum, soaked to the skin having had to dash up the high street in a sudden down pour. I didn’t know what to expect as I rang the bell. We were greeted by the bright and bubbly receptionist who immediately made us feel welcome. Once our temperatures were taken and we had sanitised our hands we were taken to a seating area and I was sat in front of a large mirror. My hair looked shocking as it started to frizz up in front of my eyes, drying out from the soaking it received in the rain. Ironic I thought, won’t have any hair to get frizzy soon!

Our consultant Kim came breezing over and we had an initial chat about why I was there and what I was looking for. She immediately put me at ease, there was no awkwardness and she was full of great advice and tips and a total understanding of the challenges I had to come. One of the benefits of going to such a specialist shop I guess, a huge proportion of their customers are going through chemotherapy like me. She asked me lots of questions about what I wanted in my wig. I realised pretty quickly that I didn’t really know but we chatted and soon decided that whilst I was more than up for trying anything really (and actually quite excited at the prospect!) I probably really just wanted to look as much like the normal me as possible with maybe just a slightly less frizz.

Kim went away and came back with three boxes which contained three wigs to start with. One that resembled my actual hair, one a variation on my actual hair and the final one a bit of an outlier that she thought was worth a try too. It was beginning to feel a bit like a wedding dress appointment with mum sitting there and both of us actually quite excited to see what came out of each box. Before I could get too excited about the wigs themselves I had to learn how to put them on. Hairnet first, they a careful and not at all easy pulling on from front to back ensuring that the wig is positioned correctly and not sitting too high or low. I’d had my hair cut shorter than usual a few weeks before the wig appointment and in preparation of the start of chemo so it was now a shorter version of my traditional short dark blonde Bob.

Once I had grasped the rules for putting a wig on we could start the try on. The first wig was a pretty good match to my existing cut just a bit longer and a shade darker. I really liked it and it got a thumbs up from mum too. I felt like me in it which Kim said was important. The temptation for me was to go for something completely different to my usual hair, an opportunity to go a bit wild. When was I going to get to wear a wig in my real life (as opposed to at a party or a festival) again? But Kim warned me that when the hair starts to go it can cause significant feelings of sadness and even despair and that most people actually just want a solution that was going to make them look as much like their old self as possible. I could see that so had ditched the idea of trying on anything too crazy but agreed with Kim that if I went went for a sensible in my choice at this appointment, I needed to come back another time and go crazy. Kim said they’d had groups of girls in before for fittings with Prosecco and nibbles………….. I know just the girls for that I thought (you know who you are ladies!).

The next offering was interesting, darker than my real hair with some quite out there blonde highlights and interesting layering. I was wondering where Kim was going with this one given we had agreed to stick with styles not too far from my normal hair. As I pulled it into position and the full extent of the mullet became apparent I became more alarmed. “What do you think?”asked Kim. “ I think I look like I am channelling Pat Sharp circa 1992” I said. Becoming aware that Kim was a good few years younger than me and she looked a bit perplexed I asked if she knew who Pat Sharpe was? “Oh yes” she replied, “I loved his Fun House”. Conscious that my mum was looking suitably horrified behind her mask, this definitely wasn’t the wig for me and the Pat Sharp conversation didn’t have much more scope for development, I took the wig off and put it back in the box suggesting they rename the wig “ The Pat” given that they all seemed to be identified by a female name.

The final wig I tried was a blonder, slightly longer version of my normal hair. It looked like my hair but only on the best of days after a professional blow dry. One of the most amazing things about wigs of course is that they always guarantee you a GHD (great hair day) they don’t kink, frizz, get bedhead or misbehave in any way, provided you look after them. I LOVED it but there was that nagging doubt that I would feel self conscious when I put it on. I imagined my Zoom calls with work colleagues, this hair would draw attention and that was possibly not what I would want after losing my hair. I had never gone to work with hair looking this good. It was party ready, actually it was red carpet ready and as a result probably a bit too much. So with some sadness the red carpet hair went back in the box but not before I got Kim to make a note of the name of the party hair wig on my details as I envisaged coming back at some point to buy it as an alternative. We all agreed that the wig that looked most like my normal hair was the right wig for now. I was happy that I still looked like me In it, just a little bit better groomed and let’s face it, there is nothing wrong with that. I was totally focused on any small plus points as it certainly didn’t feel that the chemotherapy journey was going to be too brimming with them.

As I was making my final wig choice I noticed an advert for eyebrow micro blading. The shop had a therapist who visited regularly and who specialised in micro blading for chemotherapy patients. I was likely to loose all the hair on my body including eyebrows and lashes. I had looked into having my rather fair eyebrows micro bladed the previous year but had bottled out scared they may end up looking too dark and a bit scary. The treatment is essentially semi permanent tattooing of the brow hairs that would last about a year. Suki the therapist just happened to be in the store that day and after finishing up with a customer came to chat to me and showed me lots of before and after pictures of her clients. She was a larger than life character full of positivity and enthusiasm for her work. In a couple of minutes I was sold, the fear of brows being too dark completely gone. At least this way I would have brows. Feeling just a little bit excited, I booked myself an appointment the following week.

We left the shop with my new wig, a wig stand, wig shampoo and conditioner (who knew!!) a special wig hairbrush and a rather nice hair turban that caught my eye. It hadn’t in any way been the emotional traumatic experience I had expected. Far from it. It had actually been a lot of fun. It was great having mum there as a sound second opinion and the hour appointment had flown by. I honestly could have stayed there all afternoon trying on every wig they had. It was an absolute treasure trove run by the most fantastic positive team of ladies. I felt just a little bit in control again. I was going to lose my hair but I now had strategies in place to deal with that and that felt pretty damn good.

By the time we left Norfolk the seroma in my armpit was once again pretty large so I was extremely relieved to be able to visit the lovely nurses in the breast care team to have it drained again. Given that It had been a whole week since last having it drained, the amount of fluid that came off wasn’t quite as much as I expected so I was hopeful that by body might be starting to get the message that the fluid it was producing wasn’t needed. I was conscious that with my chemo starting in a matter of days I could really do without additional trips to hospital to get my little friend sorted out. The nurse who saw me told me that often the chemotherapy seems to just sort the problem out. I guess that when the body is being bombarded with poison it has more important things to worry about than filling a post surgery hole with fluid.

Dan waited in the hospital car park whilst I had my seroma sorted out. Our next stop was the hospital where I would be having my chemo for a check in with the nursing team, blood tests and a COVID test. Dan was able to come in with me for this which was great after missing the oncology appointment. My mum and dad had come back from Norfolk with us so were able to look after the children. It was so nice to have their help, one less thing to worry about knowing that the kids were being entertained whilst we attended the appointments.

The hospital was about 40 mins away by car so not exactly on the doorstep but I knew as soon as we pulled into the car park that the additional journey time would be worthwhile. No multi story parking carnage to contend with. Instead a lovely leafy car park with plenty of spaces and 5 of them reserved for patients attending the cancer ward (easily pleased I know but it’s the little things!!) There was a separate entrance for the cancer ward and once we got beyond the COVID checks at reception we were straight onto the ward.

We were greeted by Vicky who took us straight into one of the treatment rooms and got us settled in. Another nurse brought us tea and biscuits and we were told that whilst in the room we could take off our masks. Result! Vicky ran us through the treatment that I would be having and the potential side effects (a useful recap for me and very useful for Dan to hear from the horses mouth) three rounds of FEC followed by three of T and a shed load of potential side effects. Nothing different to what I had been told by the oncologist. Next they took the blood they needed for the full set of tests they undertake before a chemotherapy session to ensure you are well enough to survive it. White blood cells, platelets, neutrophils and haemoglobin levels are all carefully monitored throughout the treatment. In addition to the COVID test they also wired me up for an ECG just to ensure there were no issues with my heart before the treatment began.

Vicky asked me whether I was interested in trying the cold cap when I had my treatment. I’d heard about the cold cap before as a friend who underwent the same treatment for breast cancer years ago had used it successfully and managed to keep her wonderful head of curly hair. Losing my hair was another of the issues that I had managed to put in a carefully sealed box in my mind, parked there for another time, for when I absolutely had to deal with it. The thought of losing my hair was terrifying and I really hadn’t focused on it for too long. Vicky talked me through the details. If I wanted to give it a go I could but she warned me that, on the dosage of the chemo drugs I would be given, I would be likely to lose my hair even with the cold cap. Despite that minor detail I was intrigued. I’d heard that most people can’t tolerate the cap but how cold can it really be? (-5 degrees apparently!) . So the theory is that by putting a tight fitting gel filled scrum cap on your head when having chemo and cooling that gel to sub zero temperatures, the blood flow to the scalp is reduced and therefore the amount of the chemotherapy drug in your blood to reach your hair follicles is also reduced which can prevent or at least lessen the hair loss. I would need to wear the cap for every treatment and for at least half an hour before and for an hour after the treatment has been given. It sounded insane to be honest but given the insanity of the whole situation I found myself in I decided that I may as well give it a go. “In for a penny” and all that. If I have to go through this hideous experience I may as well try everything. Worst case scenario is that I can’t tolerate it (I thought about how cold my hands and feet get when I go skiing……… I am going to hate having a cold head!) in which case I stop and gracefully accept my bald headed fate.

Last topic for discussion was the dreaded PICC line. Vicky explained that they require all of their patients to be fitted with a PICC line which is essentially a more permanent cannula positioned in your arm to allow the medical team easy access to your veins for the purpose of putting the poisons in and taking blood out. I mentioned in a previous post that I am not the biggest fan of needles and cannulas make me feel a bit queasy so the thought of having one in my arm for 4 months wasn’t great. That said I could see the sense. Even though I was only having 6 rounds of treatment I was now one arm down not being able to use my right arm for anything post op due to the risk of developing Lymphoedema and in addition to that I would need bloods taking every three weeks. Vicky also said that in the event I was rushed to hospital with any complications due to my treatment hospital staff would be able to start treating me very quickly. I parked that bit of info in that other box in my brain marked “Not happening”. Vicky gave me the details of the PICC line doctor that would fit the line for me. I was amazed to hear that I would have to go to a hospital in the grounds of Mount Vernon to see him. I thought that something as straightforward as having a line fitted would be done by the nurses. Apparently not, this poor doctor appears to have cornered the market and was an industry specialist in the fitting of these lines. Who knew?

After a bit of a debacle over the appointment timings I found myself driving around the M25 the following Tuesday to have my line fitted by the PICC specialist. The hospital was an hour away so a decent schlep. The doctor came to get me from the waiting room and took me into what looked like a science lab with an operating table in the centre. All of a sudden this felt like a bit of a bigger deal than I had given it credit for. Whilst I lay on the “operating table” the doctor took X-rays of my upper left arm and chest and then used an ultrasound to check the positioning of my veins. There was a bit of confusion over what sort of line they were putting in resulting in the doctor sending his assisting nurse off on what seemed like a wild goose chase to find the kit he needed. He was eventually happy with what she brought him and unpacked it. It seemed like a crazy amount of kit for such a small job. I asked him if all of that was going in my arm as he was measuring out lengths of the tubing? “We need 52cm of tubing for you, that’s what we have been measuring on the scans” WHAT!!!! I thought it was just a cannula? Some sort of needle plugged into a vein in my arm? Apparently not, the tube was going to be inserted into my veins and would run from mid way up my bicep to just outside my heart. I felt a bit queasy, good job I was lying down. I quickly clarified whether he would be putting me to sleep or giving me some sort of anaesthetic before inserting half a metre of tubing into me? Just a small local anaesthetic to numb the top of the arm but no need for anything else.

To be fair it was all fairly painless, I think the thought of 52cm of tubing being pushed through your veins was far worse that the reality. I was quite mesmerised watching him studying the ultrasound in the dark and guiding the tubing where he wanted it to go. He finished off by attaching some sort of clip under the skin that he told me would help stop it being pulled out (yuck!) It was all finished in about 30 minutes and after making me sit in the waiting room for 15 mins to make sure I was ok and giving me some final instructions (no shower for a couple of days and then after that it would need to be covered every time I showered as I wasn’t to get it wet) I was allowed to leave.

It felt really strange having what were basically two long tubes with plastic nozzles on the end hanging out of my arm and it was starting to throb a bit as the anaesthetic was wearing off. I wondered if I was ever going to get used to it? As I drove home I started to feel a bit odd, was it palpitations? That’s what it felt like, oh god, had he made a mistake measuring the tubing? Should it have been 50 cm instead of 52 and was that extra 2cm now tickling my heart? Should I go back or am I just imagining it? I was on the M25 by this point so turning back wasn’t that easy. I started imaging the pile up I would cause if I dropped dead at the steering wheel so I did what any sane, rational, 49 year old would do, I pulled over to the slow lane, reduced my speed to that of a snail and rang my dad. I kept the conversation going all the way home just to ensure that if I did cause the mother of all pile ups due to dropping dead at the wheel someone would know. Thankfully I made it home without incident.

The easing of lockdown restrictions over the summer brought well needed opportunities for socialising with friends again, albeit still in limited numbers. The hospitality industry and its customers benefited from the Governments “Eat out to help out” scheme and whilst we were still all wearing masks in shops and on public transport there was a sense of things starting to get back to normal.

As we moved into the Autumn things changed. Possibly the consequence of the freedoms we had been afforded over the summer but infection rates were on the rise particularly in the north of England and there was increasing talk of the need for further restrictions to be imposed. During the summer we had booked a week in Norfolk with my parents for October half term. Mum and dad had volunteered to be part of a COVID testing programme so were being tested every other week so we had decided that the risk of them passing the virus onto me would be minimal. I was desperate that we would be able to go as my chemo was due to start the week after.

In the weeks before half term the Government introduced a new tier system across the country in an attempt to deal with the rising infection numbers. I watched the news with growing dread and kept in touch with my parents trying to work out what we would do in the event that they, we or all of us were unable to travel.

To my enormous relief we managed to get to Norfolk. Worried that the owner of the property would sniff out their northern heritage and ask them to return from whence they came, my fastidiously law abiding mum contacted the property owner directly and in an act of full disclosure warned her that they were coming from the “infected north”. She was not remotely concerned about that and was happy to proceed with our booking. Mum could relax. There would be no dramatic banishings on arrival.

Mum and dad were already at the house we had rented in Blakeney when we arrived. It was so good to see them in the flesh rather than on a Zoom call. The house was perfect, located just on the edge of Blakeney with a garden that backed onto the rugged coastal path. The views were beautiful, Autumnal Norfolk skies, seabirds and the salt marshes that stretch for miles and miles. Mum and dad had a bedroom in an annexe in the garden whilst Dan, the kids and I were in the house with Luna. We were very conscious that even though we had been able to get there we still had to be extremely mindful of the risks and ensure that we were taking as many precautions as possible. The last thing any of us needed was COVID but least of all me with chemo looming. So there were no hugs, we had separate bathrooms, identified where we would sit in the lounge and stuck to those seats. Mum even ensured that she kept the cutlery and crockery she and dad were using separate from ours. All so strange but we were together and that was all that mattered.

North Norfolk is one of my favourite places, we have been back time and time again and it never disappoints, I love the calming effect of its rugged natural beauty and big skies. We had an amazing week just being together, talking, laughing, eating delicious food and sharing a few too many glasses of wine and for those few days I was able to put my cancer and treatment worries out of my mind. Fresh bracing air and the company of those who mean the most to you is a wonderful tonic. We wrapped up warm every day and headed out. We explored Blakeney harbour and the kids went crabbing catching a massive haul in the pouring rain one day. We walked the coastal path from Blakeney to Cley and in the other direction to Stiffkey many times, Luna racing ahead through the marsh land trying to catch just one of the thousands of marsh birds teasing her whilst I put the world to rights chatting with dad. We enjoyed Holkam beach in the glorious sunshine (Not a bad beach for Luna’s first beach experience!) the kids leaping from the sand dunes and racing out across the flats to find the waters edge in the retreating tide. We walked from there to Wells, past the beautiful beach huts and made a short pit stop for much needed hot chocolates at the beach cafe. Happy, happy times.

Of course it wouldn’t have been a trip away with my parents without a car related incident. Whilst driving back from Holkham we drove through a rather large pothole and when we got back to the houses saw that the tyre had developed a huge bulge in it as a result. Luckily Blakeney is serviced by probably one of the most beautiful garages I have ever seen run by the nicest people (check it out if you are ever there) and they were able to order in a new tyre for us. Minimal fuss and inconvenience. Result!

Those of you who were brave enough to read my post op post will be aware that, following my surgery, I was still struggling with a rather massive seroma in my armpit that despite regular draining was refusing to give up. I had been having it drained twice a week in the weeks leading up to our Norfolk trip so the trip was going to be a test. We had already decided that we could come home early on the Friday so that I could pop over to the hospital on Friday afternoon and have it drained then. The big question was would I last until then? Mid way through the week the seroma was pretty huge but I was determined to last. I wasn’t at all keen on the idea of giving up a day of my precious holiday driving to and from the hospital.

On the Wednesday we were away I received a call from a very friendly nurse called Vicky, one of the chemotherapy nursing team at the hospital I would be having my chemotherapy at. She confirmed that they could fit me in for my first session for the following Thursday. They needed to see me to run through a few things and also to do my pre treatment blood tests and COVID test before then and by the end of the week if possible. She also told me that I would need to have a PICC line fitted (under the NHS I had been told this was an option but for the private treatment it was a requirement) and she would try to get that arranged for either the Monday or Tuesday. All of a sudden it was all happening. We decided that we would all head back to Hertfordshire on Thursday night rather than Friday morning. Dan was able to come with me to the hospital appointment with Vicky which we scheduled in for Friday afternoon as soon as I had been to have the seroma drained.

On our last night after dinner mum and dad told Dan and I to go and have a drink together in the local pub whilst they stayed with the kids. It felt a bit strange stepping out of the house together, we hadn’t done that for such a long time. We wandered along the road to the Kings Arms, put on our masks and checked in with the NHS app. We were shown to a table in the main but very small bar area. Strange experience sitting at a socially distanced table waiting to be served. I imagined what this pub would be like in normal times, full of a mix of locals and tourists, squashed in around tables and sitting at stools at the bar. With the new regulation spacing out of tables it was amazing they were open and generating any sort of profit with two bar maids serving what I could see were only about 10 table in total.

The friendly barmaid brought us our drinks and we sat and chatted reflecting on a lovely week and wondering what the next few months will bring us. Whilst we were chatting an older man came in and joined the man sat opposite us drinking a pint of ale. They were clearly regulars and Dan recognised one as the mechanic from the garage that had sorted our tyre. It was impossible not to over hear their conversation as we were sitting directly opposite them and were on the only tables in that area of the pub other than one more occupied by a couple enjoying pie and chips. They chatted about a fuel delivery arriving the next day and how they were going to staff it. Somehow our conversations overlapped and we started chatting to them. It felt wonderful, the first time we’d had a conversation with genuine randoms in months! We ordered another drink.

The men were both local boys and in the short space of an hour we had heard both of their life stories. In exchange we told them a bit about us and in the course of doing that I told them about my diagnosis and that I was starting chemotherapy the next week. It felt odd saying it all out loud. It was the first time I had told a stranger what was happening to me and all of a sudden I felt extremely vulnerable. They were clearly affected by what I said. They didn’t know me from Adam but I saw sadness and sympathy in their eyes as I told them how lucky I had been that I had found the lump when I had. When we left they wished us both well and said they’d be thinking of me next week. It marked a real turning point for me. Since meeting with my oncologist and being talked through the treatment and it’s delightful side effects I had pretty much put it all out of my mind. I had been able instead to fill it with thoughts of going away and enjoying time in Norfolk but now I had to focus on what was to come. I had acknowledged it with strangers, it was happening and I needed to get my head around that.

I am not very good at being ill but one of the most challenging aspects of my cancer diagnosis was the fact that I wasn’t really “ill”. Well at least I didn’t feel or appear ill in any way and now that the cancer had been removed wasn’t I even less “ill” ? I certainly felt it. What I couldn’t quite get my head around was the fact that the next stage of my treatment was very likely to make me ill and even if I was extremely lucky and didn’t suffer too badly with the side effects it would make me look ill. Nothing says “cancer patient” quite as much as a bald head. This frustrated me enormously but I knew that chemotherapy was a necessary evil and I was just going to have to deal with it.

As I was planning to try to get away at half term I had asked at my post surgery appointment whether there was any chance of getting to see the Oncologist before I went. Time frames were tight but amazingly I got a call on the Friday afternoon to say the Oncologist could see me at 9 am on the Monday morning but had no other appointments free that week. Brilliant! But as soon as I put the phone down I remembered that Dan had a really important meeting arranged for the Monday morning. How ironic, Dan’s work had pretty much dried up after lock down and this was the first bit of activity since then. The meeting had been arranged for weeks and clients were travelling from the West Country to attend. He had to be at that meeting. I decided very quickly that I would see the oncologist on my own. I wasn’t going to miss the appointment and Dan wasn’t going to miss his meeting. To be honest, I had attended the majority of appointments on my own so far due to COVID rules so this was just one more. Dan wasn’t at all happy but I convinced him it was all fine and we would sit down together before hand and put together a joint list of questions. I would be in charge of the notebook at the appointment and would take notes so that I could report back.

The only problem I had was getting there. Dan would need the car to drive to his meeting so I would need get myself to the hospital some other way. I initially hatched a plan that involved borrowing a neighbours car and driving myself there but I refer you back to my earlier blog post and my hatred of the hospital car park. Imagine replaying that scene with me driving my neighbours lovely BMW which whilst smaller than our tank was still a sizeable vehicle. Thankfully whilst out walking the dog with my friend Nicky she offered immediately to drive me to the hospital, do some work in the car whilst I was in my appointment and then come and pick me up when I was done. Result!! The perfect solution and I get to spend time chatting to her on the way there and back.

Monday morning came. Nicky picked me up bright and early and off I went armed with my notebook filled with questions that Dan and I had put together the night before. I was ready to get this next phase of my treatment underway. Dan had given me a bigger hug than usual before I left. I knew he wasn’t happy that he wasn’t coming with me but I kept reassuring him that it was no problem, I would be absolutely fine on my own.

It was so nice chatting to Nicky on the journey over to the hospital, we go back a long way and conversation is always easy but as we got nearer to the hospital I could feel a slight tension in my stomach. Was there something about this hospital that did that to me? I wasn’t sure. The hospital buildings loomed into sight, as usual the car parking situation was dire but Nicky was just going to drop me and come back when I was done so I started directing her to a small drop off area that I had noticed the last time I had been there. I could feel a sense of anxiety starting to rise in me. I was starting to panic as Nicky was looking for a safe place to pull over. Tears were starting to fall down my cheeks. I wanted to stay in the car with Nicky and head off somewhere nice for a coffee and a chat about nonsense, forget about all of this cancer crap and go back to how things were before my wretched diagnosis. Why me? Why did I have cancer? Life is so bloody unfair. The tears fell and, unable to hug, Nic and I held hands and rode out the moment together. “You’ve got this” she said through her own tears. I took some deep breaths and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see the oncologist with mascara down my face! I had to get it together. A few more deep breaths and one last big squeeze of Nic’s hand and I got out of the car trying not to look back. God only knows what the group of taxi drivers watching us must have thought as they saw me emerge from the car with my blotchy face. Luckily I had to put my mask on so half of my face was covered as I headed to the Cancer Centre.

It annoyed me hugely that even via the location of my appointment I was being labelled a “cancer patient”. I didn’t want to be a cancer patient. In this world where you can identify as just about anything you like I wanted to identify as me, Kirsty Berryman, wife of Dan and mum to Jodie and Max I didn’t want to be labelled by my illness. I liked the anonymity of my previous appointments, arriving for scans and consultations where I could have had any number of things wrong with me. I hated the fact that from now on I was going to be a cancer patient and as if that wasn’t bad enough, very soon I was going to look like a cancer patient whether I liked it or not.

Getting into the Cancer Centre was no easy feat. COVID restrictions were tight and I had to undergo a once over by a nurse before even getting through the door. Once in I took a seat in the large waiting room and got out my book.read my book. Two other women about my age were already waiting. They both had the tell tale cropped greying wirey hair, regrowing after chemotherapy. They chatted with staff that walked by, clearly regulars in this waiting room. I guess I would become part of the furniture too after 3 months of regular visits for my treatment. As I waited more people arrived, a couple looking extremely unwell and needing help to their seats. My name was called by a nurse who introduced herself and took me along a corridor to the oncologists office. The oncologist was a cheery Spaniard who welcomed me in and immediately apologised for having to wear a mask. I had got used to it to be honest but it was odd to be having such serious conversations with medical advisers whose faces were half hidden by a mask.

We discussed my diagnosis and he explained that my cancer had been graded a 2/3 but that there was only a very small amount of evidence of grade 3 . Even though that was the case he was recommending treating my cancer as a grade 3 to ensure the best possible outcome. He was at pains to reassure me that the purpose of the chemotherapy was to ensure that any possible cell mutation that was already underway but not detectable on the scans that I’d had would be caught. Chemotherapy was the belt and braces to hopefully ensure that the cancer doesn’t return, He told me that he was recommending a course of chemotherapy treatment known as FEC-T. I’m sorry…….stop right there, did he just say FEC-T? seriously? my cancer treatment is called FEC-T? That’s quite amusing. I tried to keep a straight face whilst scribbling notes furiously into my pad.

What I hadn’t really appreciated is that there isn’t just one chemotherapy regime for the treatment of breast cancer, there are lots and what is recommended for you will depend on lots of things related to the type of cancer you have, it’s aggressiveness and lots of other factors but also on what they are trying to achieve. They will also look at other factors like your age and fitness levels. My oncologist told me that because I was young (really?) and very fit and well (I try my best!!) he was recommending relatively high doses of the FEC-T. He explained that FEC-T was a combination of chemotherapy drugs, fluorouracil, epirubicin, cyclophosphamide and docetaxel. I would be given 3 cycles of FEC followed by 3 of T and each cycle would be 3 weeks so all 6 cycles would take about 4 months provided there were no delays. I would also need 3 weeks of radiotherapy after the chemotherapy was completed and that would be daily radiotherapy sessions. He suggested that we didn’t worry too much about that for now but focus on the chemotherapy.

We then moved on to the potential side effects of the chemo. My oncologist started straight away with hair loss, he said that as I was a female this would be one of the hardest aspects of the treatment to deal with. He made the position quite clear. Given the drug regime I was being prescribed there was no doubt that I would lose my hair. He seemed very sorry about that, I said that it was something that I had appreciated would happen and that, whilst it wasn’t great, in the general scheme of things it was just another necessary evil to ensure that the cancer doesn’t return. He didn’t seem convinced by my acceptance of the situation and reiterated that I would lose ALL of my hair which meant not just the hair on my head but also all body hair including brows, lashes and the hairs in my nose!

He then explained that it was important that we discussed the rest of the potential side effects and he ran through the rather extensive list; allergic reactions, the drug leaking outside your veins, the risk of developing an infection (particularly sepsis) bruising and bleeding,anaemia, nausea and actually being sick, feeling tired, diarrhoea, constipation, sore mouth and throat, heart burn, loss of appetite, changes in taste, skin changes including dryness, sensitivity and rashes, soreness and redness of the palms of your hands and soles of the feet, numbness of the hands and feet, nail changes, damage to the kidneys and liver, eye problems, muscle and joint pain and headaches. Just as I thought he was finished he moved on to the less common side effects, changes to the way your heart and lungs work which would need investigation and monitoring. Fantastic! But he still wasn’t done, one more for the road, “you are pre menopausal aren’t you?” he asked, I confirmed I was and he told me that the chemo would most likely bring on my menopause and that I should expect that to be fairly brutal as it would happen very quickly rather than over time. Brilliant!! Where do I sign up?

I had been scribbling furiously in my note pad, so much to take in but what was I going to do? Tell him that now that I had heard the details of just how grim this treatment is likely to be I’d rather not bother? I had to go ahead with it so therefore I would have to take the side effects on the chin whatever they throw my way. I knew it wasn’t going to be an easy ride but suddenly the seriousness of the treatment and the diagnosis hit home. They were basically going to poison me and I just had to hope the side effects weren’t too bad. I felt numb, we moved on to talk about whether it would be worth my while using my private health cover for the chemotherapy. We discussed the pros and cons, ultimately the treatment would be the same wherever I had it but what would be different is the environment in which I would have the treatment. The Cancer Centre on the NHS, or a private hospital not far away where I would have my own room. Given the COVID risks, the prospect of privacy whilst I went through the treatment and the fact that I wouldn’t have to contend with the hideous parking situation at the hospital not to mention the mile long queues for blood tests, it was an easy choice for me. I decided there and then that I would prefer to have the treatment privately.

I was then introduced to one of the McMillan nurses who I was told would take me through the paperwork that I needed to sign and provide me with some other information I would need before starting my treatment. The nurse was from Dublin and immediately started talking to me about the FEC-T in her Irish drawl. I couldn’t help myself, “stop saying I’m FEC-T, I know I’m FEC-T” She laughed and admitted that this was a regular problem given her accent. We dealt with all of the form signing I needed to do. Signing my life away! She then gave me information about wig prescriptions and lots of leaflets for head covering suppliers. She gave me the email address for the oncologists private secretary who I would need to contact to arrange to have my treatment and to go and visit the private hospital. She also mentioned that they would likely need me to have a PICC line fitted in my arm through which t(e chemo would be given. She explained that with only one arm available for a cannula after my surgery (due to the risk of developing Lymphoedema in my right arm) it would be worth having a line fitted. I didn’t like the idea of that at all, a cannula type fitting in my arm for 4 months, yuck!

I finally made my way out of the hospital and messaged Nic to say I was done. She pulled up and I got into the passenger seat. I was exhausted. Information overload to say the least. We didn’t need to talk about it, she had picked me up a cup of tea and some biscuits so we drove home chatting whilst I sipped my tea and munched on a biscuits. I’d survived it. Another job done.

I’ve always recovered from surgery quickly, possibly to do with the fact that I am a Virgo and like good order so give me a set of rules to follow, some do’s and dont’s, and I’m in my element especially when I get to see the positive results of my rule following.

This time was no different, I followed my post op advice to the letter taking things easy, doing my daily exercises as directed by the poster now hanging on the front of the fridge, monitoring the wounds to make sure they were healing ok and avoiding getting them wet which meant a week of baths rather than showers. I was pretty amazed at the neatness of the scar on my breast. Whilst it was a decent size at about 2 inches long, it looked as though someone had drawn it on using a fine felt tip and a ruler. Even at this early stage of healing it was barely noticeable and certainly isn’t going to be causing me any problems when I am back to wearing all those plunging necklines the breast surgeon seemed to be worried about!

My arm pit was a slightly less appealing sight. The scarring was pretty significant running the entire length of my arm pit and was very swollen to either side. In addition to that I had absolutely no sensation in the armpit, shoulder and the back of my arm. I was warned that would be the case but also told that the sensation should return in time. Having discussed this with a girlfriend who had similar surgery 7 years ago and still has no sensation back, I am not holding my breath. Looking at the positives, if you are going to loose sensation anywhere, your arm pit isn’t a bad candidate really. I don’t use it for much. Dan also reassured me that, the scarring in my arm pit was at least hidden and not visible until I raised my arm. The scarring should also improve with time. I remembered my c-section scar looking pretty gruesome to begin with but is now barely noticeable, or is it just barely noticeable to me because I have lived with it on my body for so many years?

The first couple of weeks post op went smoothly the pain lessened, my range of movement improved with the exercising and my stitches were removed. I started to experience something odd called ‘cording’ a strange sensation in your arm that feels as though someone has attached a tight cord from your wrist to your shoulder that restricts your arm movements. This was relieved slightly by the exercises creeping my arm slowly up a wall as far as I could reach. At my post op appointment with the breast consultant I was advised that the surgery had gone well, that they had achieved removal of the margin of tissue that they needed around the lump and that of the 28 lymph nodes they had removed only 2 were cancerous. I couldn’t get quite as excited about this as the consultant seemed to be. Great that only 2 of the 28 were defective but the fact that 26 nodes were fit and fell was little comfort given they were now in the bin rather than doing their quite important lymph node work in my armpit. This was of course great news, no need for any further surgery in relation to the lump, no more nodes to be removed and there was more visibility on the question of the spread to the nodes. The consultant was very pleased with the outcome and would see me again in 6 months to follow up.

Around the time of removing the stitches I started to notice a strange sensation in my arm pit which was odd considering I had no sensation in my arm pit. I felt as though I wasn’t able to hold my arm flat to the side of my body because something was in the way. On examination I realised that was because a pretty sizeable swelling had developed. I was advised over the phone by the breast care nurses that it was likely to be a seroma which I had been warned about. A seroma is basically a pocket of fluid that collects after surgery. Your body’s way of trying to fix a problem I guess and fill the hole that the surgery has left. I was advised to keep an eye on it and that my body should eventually realise that the fluid isn’t needed and start reabsorbing it into the surrounding tissue.

My body clearly wasn’t ready to stop trying to solve the problem of the missing lymph nodes and continued to send fluid to the site …… quite a lot of fluid. After another few days the lump in my arm pit was really quite huge, causing quite a lot of discomfort and bluntly just getting in the way. It felt as though I was carrying an apple around in my pit and was extremely uncomfortable at night when I was trying to get to sleep. I rang the nurses again with an update and they told me to come in.

I arrived at the hospital with my ever growing arm pit friend and the nurses took a look at me. As soon as they saw the size of the swelling I was given lots of sympathy and told immediately that they would drain it for me to relieve the discomfort. Oh god, I felt a bit queasy but I was so desperate for some relief from the discomfort that I hopped on the bed as directed without question whilst the nurse went to get the equipment she needed. She came back in with what looked like a trolly of torture implements including the biggest syringe I have ever seen. I asked her the one question that was concerning me “is this going to hurt?” She reminded me that my arm pit was completely numb so I wouldn’t feel a thing. Result!!

After removing my rather attractive post surgery bra and getting myself into an arm raised position on the side of the bed (my dignity has learned that it needs to take a back seat once in a while) the nurse inserted the 5 inch needle of the syringe into the middle of the swelling. I held my breath but miraculously no pain at all. She then began drawing off the fluid which was an amazing dark yellow colour, I was fascinated as the fluid just kept coming, 140 mls in the end. I was so fascinated by what I had witnessed that I asked the nurse if I could take a photo of the full syringe, she laughed and let me take a snap. One for the family album!

The relief was amazing and I could hold my arm flat to my body again. The nurse warned me that the swelling might continue for a little while but I could come back in if it got uncomfortable. She also gave me a small heart shaped pillow that she told me would make sleeping more comfortable. The pillow was heart shaped so it could slot under your arm with the dip at the top of the heart nestled into your arm pit. I couldn’t quite see how it would help but accepted it gratefully. Like the floral drain bag I had been given pre surgery it had clearly been made by a kind volunteer. The nurse told me that they are extremely popular and go like hot cakes when they come in. I tried it that night and it worked a treat, I’m not really sure how but it seemed to support my arm and keep it away from the wound somehow. Comfortable sleeping restored, hurrah!

Unfortunately my seroma friend wasn’t keen to call it a day after one draining session. It was almost as though the draining made him a bit mad and even more determined to fill the post surgery hole. The nurses had told me that there is much debate in the medical world as to the benefits of draining seromas or whether actually the removal of fluid encourages more to be produced but where the seroma is causing discomfort there is a balance to be reached. A few days after the hospital visit the ‘apple in my arm pit’ sensation retuned but very soon gave way to more of a grapefruit sensation. I put up with it as long as I could but eventually had to go back to hospital for another draining session. This cycle continued for a few weeks with the sensation progressing slowly but surely a small watermelon.

By the week before October half term the nurses had up scaled the syringe they were using and were drawing off multiple syringes full of fluid and having to deposit it in a measuring jug. The volume they were collecting increased with each visit hitting a massive 450mls at the peak! The nurse advised me that was the volume of a can of coke and that they rarely saw seromas this large in an armpit. Not exactly reassuring but I took it as an accolade of sorts. I did get some strange satisfaction from the fact that I seemed to be doing the whole seroma thing properly, no faffing about with small insignificant seromas, going large or going home! As pleased as I was to be crowned ‘queen of seromas’ by the breast care nurses, I was due to be going away to Norfolk (COVID rules permitting) for a much needed weeks break over half term so was keeping everything crossed that the seroma would finally give up its hole filling fight and accept defeat. I didn’t fancy the idea of driving backwards and forwards from Norfolk to get it drained.

Concern about the increasing size of my seroma was soon replaced with a new fear. I received my appointment to see the oncologist. I knew it was coming of course but receiving the call to confirm that appointment introduced a new focus for me. Chemotherapy, the next phase of my treatment and the part that I was most fearful of. I had read the leaflets that the breast care nurses gave me but that was it in terms of research. Unusual for me who would normally be all over the detail, I really didn’t want to know too much. My breast surgeon had given me the headline points, I would likely need 6 cycles, one every 3 weeks and I would loose my hair. Whilst I had the surgery to focus on I had been able to parcel up the limited chemo information I had in a locked box in my mind. Now the surgery was done and dusted I had to retrieve the box and open it up and that meant dealing with the fear that I had of chemotherapy, what it would do to me and how I would cope with it.

One of the most humbling aspects of my cancer journey has been the overwhelming kindness of friends and family. As word got out about my diagnosis the messages, calls, cards, flowers and gifts started flooding in. A cancer diagnosis is tricky, there really is nothing anyone can do or say to make it go away or to make it any easier to deal with but somehow the words and gestures of others soothe the situation somewhat. not being able to see people in person, have a hug, a cry on someone’s shoulder has been enormously challenging but knowing that I have people in my corner, fighting with me in spirit is hugely empowering and has kept me going even through the darkest times.

I have had a few surgeries in my past; two D&C’s after my first two miscarriages, two c-sections, a hernia op and a perctaneous chilectomy on my right foot and open Akin procedure on my right toe to correct what was essentially a bunion. I have also had to undergo 3 bone grafts on my jaw bone in the last couple of years in an attempt to grow the bone so that it is able to hold a tooth implant. As a result the thought of having breast surgery really didn’t bother me too much. I wasn’t too fearful and felt extremely relieved that I could have it so quickly and that essentially the surgery would result in the removal of the cancer. We focused very much on that aspect when talking to the children and it seemed to really help.

I read up about what to expect from the surgery in the many pamphlets that I had received from the Breast Clinic. I had been given a poster of post op exercises to start as soon as I got home which I dutifully stuck up on the fridge door in readiness. I packed my hospital bag. I’d been given an afternoon surgery slot and although I kept being told I would be an outpatient and sent straight home afterwards, I packed overnight stuff just in case. I’d been told that the operation would take a couple of hours and I was asked to arrive at the hospital at 1pm so even if I was on the operating table by 2pm and off by 4pm surely they wouldn’t be sending me straight home then? My previous experiences were that you need a good couple of hours to get over the general anaesthetic and start feeling normal again.

My operation was scheduled to take place at a private hospital in Hitchin. One of the benefits of COVID was that all breast surgery was being carried out in private hospitals at that time. I had private health cover but no need to use it for the surgery. My surgeon made it very clear that if I went private the only winner would be his wallet. His private lists had only just been re-opened and I would wait much longer than a week to have the surgery so it was a no brainier.

Surgery day arrived. I said goodbye to the kids as they went to school, reassured them again that my procedure was all very standard and after it I would be “cancer free”. They were as cool as cucumbers and went off to school without any fuss or even a backward look or bigger hug than usual, one of the problems of downplaying everything.

Dan was able to drop me off in the car park of the hospital but that was it. He wasn’t able to come in due to COVID rules. We had a hug in the car, I was determined to stay strong. I didn’t want him to see any fear. I wanted him to be totally on board that this was just the next essential step to beating this thing and being well again. I looked at him as we sat in the car park and thought, I bloody well hope I see you again, I hope I don’t drop dead on the operating table. The thought of my life being cut short like that was unbearable but I couldn’t let those fears in. It felt so strange to say goodbye and wander into the hospital on my own with my overnight bag. Of course the beauty of this all happening in 2020 is that you are never alone for long thanks to social media and instant communication. From the minute I was shown to my room I received non stop messages from wonderful friends and family. Well wishes for the surgery but also lots of humour that kept a smile on my face and my mind off what was coming.

I didn’t have to wait too long after being shown to my room. I was visited by the anaesthetist who talked me through the risks of the general anaesthetic I would be having and got me to sign my life away on a number of consent forms. Most of the information went in one ear and out the other. A bit ridiculous really, what was I going to say “you know what, after hearing those risks I’d rather abort the surgery and take my chances with the cancer.” As far as I was concerned there was no choice to be made. Next to visit was my lovely surgeon, he was in excellent spirits and we had a general chat about the procedure and what exactly he would be doing. His aim was to remove the lump from my breast and then tackle the slightly more challenging task of removing a large number of the lymph nodes in my arm pit. He talked about the need to remove the lump and a sufficient margin of tissue around it to be certain that all of the cancer was removed. This can be tricky and if sufficient margin isn’t removed first time he would have to operate again. Fingers crossed he gets it right first time. As he left I asked him to look after me and to do as neat a job as he could. He smiled and told me he would take the best care of me. I totally believed that as he left my room in his scrubs and clogs humming to himself.

Time for me to get dressed in another double gown combo, I had the hang of it now. One last look at the breasts that I know so well wondering what I would see after the op, how much change and damage there would be. I was so relieved to be able to have a a lumpectomy and not need a mastectomy but I was very aware that the lump they were removing was not small and would cause a change of shape and size in my right breast. I was just going to have to wait and see. Contact lenses out and glasses on, ridiculous fern green compression socks on (looking good my friend!!!!) just as there was a knock at the door. Time to go down to surgery, they were all ready for me. I only had to walk a short distance down the corridor to surgery. I was taken into a small room adjacent to the theatre where I was greeted by the anaesthetist who had visited me earlier. I could hear my surgeon somewhere on the other side of the double doors chatting to his colleagues. Just another day in the office for him I guess! On my side of the door the trolley was ready for me so I hopped on as instructed. They fitted me with a cannula through which they delivered the pre-med whilst asking me questions about my family whilst also telling me that I would start feeling sleepy. Whilst I was telling them about Max and Jodie a wave of wooziness swept over me. I tried hard to keep focused and keep talking. Who knows how long I managed to keep going, I suspect not long…… but I love a chat so I know I will have tried my hardest.

Next thing I knew I was awake and in the recovery room very aware that I had come round and said something random but not sure what it was. Seems to happen every time I come round from a general anaesthetic. Who knows how many secrets I have shared with random hospital staff!! A nurse passed me my glasses and asked me how I was feeling? Ok I think but within a few minutes I had pretty excruciating pain in my right breast. They immediately gave me morphine which kicked in pretty quickly and that was that, pain free and felt pretty good!! I have a vague recollection of my surgeon popping in to tell me that he was happy that everything had gone well and he would see me in a couple of weeks for the follow up consultation but that might have been a morphine induced hallucination. They wheeled me back to my room and told me as it was late they would keep me in overnight. The wounds were dressed so I couldn’t really see how much damage had been done. I was exhausted but the morphine buzz kept me awake most of the night. Thank goodness for my iPad and Netflix. Dan was able to collect me first thing next morning. It was so good to see him. I think we both felt a huge sense of relief. First milestone ticked off, operation done just fingers crossed that it had gone to plan and I wouldn’t need another trip to theatre but for the time being it felt really good to know that the cancer was (at least in theory) no longer in my body.

My MRI scan was all clear. The most fantastic news after two weeks of tense waiting. I was given that information over the phone before attending the Breast clinic to get the results which gave me back a bit of control and made attending the appointment a lot less stressful. With a clear MRI and CT we knew that the they hadn’t found evidence of cancer anywhere else in my body so we could now focus on the breast lump and lymph node and finally get things moving. I was able to take Dan with me to see the consultant which helped and at least gave me someone to have a chat to whilst we waited to be seen. As before he came prepared with his trusty notebook and pen, ready to take down any important information that we may need later.

The waiting room was quite full when we arrived, a mix of women of all ages, shapes, sizes and cultures. Most on their own but a few couples like us. You are only allowed to bring someone with you to significant appointments, usually at which “news” of some sort will be given. The tension on the faces of some of the couples was obvious. Looking around that waiting room made me realise how indiscriminate cancer is and how many people are affected. One minute going about their normal lives and the next thrown into a world of chaos. No one is immune.

Two nurses sat at the reception desk behind their protective perspex screens. Instructions on the screen asked you observe social distancing and to stay behind the line marked about a metre from the desk. With your mask on, standing a metre from the desk and with a Perspex screen to penetrate, it wasn’t easy to announce your arrival, and here began the rather comic episode. The nurse couldn’t hear you so you had to step a bit closer to the desk which resulted in the nurse getting quite riled and pointing at the sign whilst asking you to please step back . Worse than the crime of getting too close was that of producing your appointment letter and trying to pass it to the nurses through the perfectly positioned, post box sized gap at the bottom of the Perspex screen. This always resulted in the enormous agitation of the nurses who then shouted back at you that they didn’t need to see the letter in a voice that suggested that you may have just tried to pass them something like illicit pornography. This was made all the more hilarious as all appointment letters from the Breast Clinic were headed “Please bring this letter to your appointment” in bold. By this time the entire waiting room had put down their phones and books and were watching you instead.

You were then asked to confirm your name, date of birth, address and finally why you were here whilst the entire waiting room of patients listened in to you shouting out your answers. You could see the discomfort rising in every patient that went through this process but none more so than in the case of a lady that day who must have been in her 80’s, very frail but immaculately turned out in her Sunday best, wearing her mask and desperately trying to convey the information she was being asked without being overheard. You could see she was suspiciously eyeing the waiting room as she gave her address, I can only assume she was checking that no one was making a note of it ………. maybe with the aim of nipping out of the hospital to burgle her house whilst she had a mammogram??

The situation got even worse when they asked her for her date of birth. At first I though that maybe she had forgotten it she became so flustered desperately searching her bag for something. In fact her reaction was one of complete and utter horror. There was no way in the world this lady was going to announce her age to a waiting room of strangers, the very thought of it! her indignity was palpable. She finally found a pen in her bag and something she could write on and was able to write her date of birth down. OMG she was going to try to post it through the gap in the perspex screen!! the entire waiting room held their breath ………. the nurse accepted the scrap of paper. With the information exchanged and all COVID safety rules breached, she had reached the final stage of the check in process. A decent sized queue of patients had now built up behind her. “And are you here for a mammogram or a consultation?” shouted the nurse. “Mammogram” responded the lady as the last shred of dignity she walked in with was torn off her. “Oh” said the nurse “in that case you will need to check in with my colleague” and pointed to the nurse sat at the desk next to her. You could feel the sharp intake of breath from everyone sat in the waiting room, surely they are not going to make this lady go through the whole checking in process again?………….Yes they did.

I watched this comedy scene play out time and time again as each new patient arrived, Dan and I assessed the situation from our seats in the corner of the waiting room. What would McKinsey make of this if they were asked to undertake an inefficiencies audit? They would have an absolute field day. How can the nurses go through the same routine with each and every patient every day and not realise that with a few small tweaks to the process things could run so more smoothly giving them back what I am sure would be valuable time in their day not to mention sparing patients the ordeal. Where to begin? maybe ask the patient at the start why they are here to ensure they are at the correct desk to begin with? Or maybe even have a sign above each desk so that patients can put themselves in a queue behind the right reception desk to begin with? No funding for signs I guess? I decided that once my treatment was over that would be my gift to the clinic, two large signs “Mammograms” and “Consultations”.

We were called in to see the consultant before I could give the matter any more thought. I really liked him. No nonsense and straight to the point as ever. He immediately put us both at ease which is no easy challenge from behind a mask. He was delighted that the scans had come back clear but reminded me that he hadn’t expected anything else. That morning he had discussed my case at the weekly meeting of medical minds (my terminology obviously, it is actually called something far more technical but I rather like MoMM) and the general consensus was that we now get on with the surgery ASAP. No reason to delay and he had a slot in his diary the following week. He mentioned that there had been some discussion about how the surgery is undertaken given that my lump was in the upper inner quadrant on my breast. The worst place because the scar may then be visible if I was wearing a low cut top. I am sure he didn’t actually say this but the message I came away with was that some young upstarts at the MoMM had suggested the possibility of using some newfangled surgical methods given the location of the lump but his view was that we “don’t mess about”. We get in now and get the lump out. He reminded me of a WWI battle commander, planning an attack, pacing the command room with a handle bar moustache. I was strangely comforted by that and his no nonsense approach. I told him that at 49 my low cut top wearing days were probably drawing to a close (at least the kids will hope that is the case) so I was happy to go with his recommendation, get the bugger out and get it out quickly.

Dan was furiously scribbling notes as he ran through the details of the surgery. I was lucky that my surgery would be a lumpectomy rather than a mastectomy, the removal of just the lump rather than the whole breast. He would perform wide incision surgery on the breast to remove the lump which he suspected was of a decent size (about 4cm in diameter) and would then perform a grade 2 clearance of the lymph nodes in my arm pit up to my shoulder. They would check the lymph nodes removed to see if any more of them were cancerous in addition to the one they knew about. If they discovered cancer in a certain proportion of my nodes (everyone has a different number of lymph nodes……. who knew!!!) they would need to go back in and undertake a full clearance of all of the nodes in my right arm. He seemed pretty confident that wouldn’t be necessary and to be honest, at that stage I had no idea really what your lymph nodes do other than some vague recollection of GCSE biology lessons and something about draining. He didn’t seem at all concerned about their removal, reassured us that he had performed these procedures many, many times over his many years of practice and made a final comment about how he had undertaken more procedures during his own professional career that the total number undertaken by all of his fellow experts at the MoMM put together. Their suggestions that morning had clearly annoyed him.

And with that we were ushered off to the comfy consultation room for a sit down with one of his nurses to run over the fine detail around the surgery. More booklets were produced, I was given a rather odd home made bag on a long strap that I was told I could carry my post op drain in if I needed one. I don’t know what I found more offensive the thought of having a drain or having to carry it around in a bag made of a slightly dubious lilac floral material but I accepted the gift graciously. She then gave us what felt like never ending information about the possible after effects of surgery; pain, discomfort, nausea, bruising, swelling, infections, haematomas, loss of sensation, scarring, stiffness, something weird called cording where tight cord of tissue develops down your arm causing pain and restricting movement and something hideous called a seroma which is a collection of fluids in the body, likely in my case to be in the arm pit which should eventually just be reabsorbed by the body. Nice!

We then moved on to the risk of developing Lymphoedema, more leaflets required for this one and I was given a card to carry in my wallet that I could produce to people advising them that I was at risk. This would be a risk for the rest of my life. Lymphoedema is a swelling of the arm, hand or chest caused by a build up of lymph fluid in the surface tissue which occurs as a result of the damage caused to the lymphatic system by the surgery. This swelling can occur at any time, weeks, months or even years after surgery. I was advised that post surgery I would need to take care of my right arm. No blood pressure to be taken on that side, no bloods or injections and I was to avoid getting sunburnt, insect bites, cuts or injuries of any sort on that arm. My mind boggled at how you actually do that in practice but I thanked the nurse for her time and took the leaflets to add to my ever expanding “cancer” filing at home. As we wandered back to the car I put all of the after effects information we had been given in a box in my mind marked “not going to happen to me if I can help it” and we headed home.

Dan and I had agreed that the right time to tell the children about my diagnosis was after we received the results of my MRI and CT scans. Looking back I’m not sure whether that decision was driven by a rational and logical analysis of the situation we were in or by the acute fear we both had of telling them. I suspect the latter but whatever the reason, it had served as a convenient way for us to kick that can down the road for a little bit longer.

I spoke with one of the breast care nurses a couple of days before my MRI scan and during that conversation she asked me how the children had taken the news. When I told her we hadn’t told them yet she pointed me in the direction of some very useful information on the Breast Cancer Now website about the best ways to tell children of different ages. Whilst we were talking a couple of comments she made really caught my attention. The fact that children are more perceptive than we give them credit for and will often pick up on tensions and anxiety even if you think you are hiding those things from them. They also often overhear snippets of conversations that you may think you are having privately and form their own conclusions based on those snippets. The thought of Max and Jodie worrying about things they had half overheard or that they suspected was even more challenging than the thought of them worrying about their mum having cancer so Dan and I agreed that we would tell them as soon as they were both home from school.

Telling the children was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. The guilt I felt was overwhelming. Here were our two children, happily enjoying their carefree, fun filled lives, and here I was, the bearer of news that was going to shatter their perfect lives introducing uncertainty, fear, and sadness. All the things that as a parent you try desperately to shield your children from. I didn’t want my children to hear the words I had to tell them. I wanted to wrap them both up, cover their ears, hug them close and tell them it will all be ok but how could I do that when I don’t know that will be the case? How could we give them the certainty? How could we make sure that the fear that had crept into our lives didn’t creep into theirs?

Max came in from school and started heading up to his bedroom muttering something about having had a good day (minimal details as usual). I called after him telling him that Dad and I needed to have a chat with them both before tea. I heard his footsteps stop dead on the stairs. A chat could mean only one thing……..they were in trouble.

They both came into the lounge looking terrified, what had they done that warranted a formal sit down? I tried to be lighten the atmosphere telling them not to worry, they weren’t in trouble but the fear didn’t leave their faces. I could feel the anxiety rising, did we really have to do this? Was there a way that we could get through this whole hideous episode without telling them? Visions of hospital appointments, bald heads and post chemotherapy sickness flooded my mind. Of course it wasn’t possible to keep this news from them. We had to bring them inside and make them part of the support crew. I was really going to need them and so was Dan. They are brilliant kids, I told myself that they will deal with this in the same way as Dan and I are dealing with it. They will cope and they will be stronger and more resilient for having been through it. So I took a deep breath and told them. “I’m afraid we have some bad news, mummy has got cancer.”

Max immediately put his head in his hands and started to cry. I don’t know if Jodie was more surprised by my words or her brothers reaction but as soon as she saw her brothers tears hers came too. Dan and I were acutely aware of the impact hearing the C word has. The children’s experiences of cancer in their short lives so far are limited and sadly not positive. They have watched Stand up to Cancer with us, witnessing tragic video montages about families who have lost parents, children or sometimes both to cancer. In our own lives we have 2 friends who have lost children to cancer. Jodie still carries in her school bag a picture of her and the daughter of one of my friends who sadly lost her battle with cancer a few years ago. They are both aware of what cancer can mean. So our immediate focus was on ensuring that they understood that mummy’s cancer had been caught early and was of a type that the medical world know lots about and most importantly, it can be cured. We didn’t mention to them the need for more scans, the anxiety we were experiencing, the fact that we still didn’t have all the facts. We had decided that we would cross those bridges as, when and if needed. We focused only on the positives we could focus on and they seemed happy with that.

Very soon the tears stopped and I was amazed how quickly our words we were able to pull them from despair to acceptance and even some positivity. The reality is that kids are pretty resilient and able to deal with far more than we give them credit for. Jodie immediately asked me whether I would lose my hair, I told her I probably would and she gave me a hug and told me not to worry about that. Dan joked with them that we have so many wigs in our fancy dress boxes that I would not be short of options if I did lose my hair. They laughed and all of a sudden the mood was lightened. They both hugged me and told me it would be alright. Bless them! I immediately felt a huge sense of relief. We had told them and we had all survived but better than that, I knew that I had their support and that we would get through what ever lies ahead together. The sit down ended with Max asking “Are we done now? It’s just that I have a call with my friends at 7”. Normal service was resumed!

I was told by a friend that the survival rate for women with stage 2 breast cancer is 92%. That should bring a significant degree of comfort but at 3 am when you are wide awake and the fear has taken over, all you can focus on is the 8% not the 92%.

Contemplating the possibility that you may not be around to see your kids grow up and make lives of their own is a very surreal thing. You feel as though you are living someone else’s life, not your own. In those first few weeks post diagnosis it was all that I could think about. What if the scans showed that the cancer had spread? We already know that it has spread from the lump to a lymph node so there is every possibility that it has moved on from the lymph node to another part of my body surely? and if that is the case there will I be in the 8%.

When I was told that I had cancer it was a shock but I didn’t break down, there were no tears. Dan was sitting next to me but thankfully not within my eyesight as I tried to focus on the information I was being given by the consultant. I didn’t hear any of it. Dan had a notebook and was writing things down as we had agreed. All I could think of was what is going on in his head? Poor Dan, he has just been told his wife has cancer, is that what he is writing? CANCER and maybe underlining it? I was so glad that I couldn’t see him, I think if I had made eye contact the tears would have come. I wanted to run out. Put my fingers in my ears and run away from the news I was being given. Maybe then it wouldn’t be real. I could feel the panic stating to rise in me. I took a breath and tried to focus on the words coming out of the consultants mouth. How many times a week does he have to do this? What an awful job.

We sat in silence in the car after that appointment, Dan held my hand. We had walked the dog that morning and already discussed the very real possibility that we would be given this news so there wasn’t very much more to say. We had discussed what it would mean, that we were strong and would get through it and Dan had reassured me that going through something like this would only make us stronger as a couple and as a family. Oh my god, the kids!!!! How were we going to tell Max and Jodie that their mum has cancer? The panic started rising again. I couldn’t think about it so had to put it out of my head. That is a strategy have learned in the last few months. If the thought is too awful just park it for a while, put it in a box in your mind and come back to it later, it will still be there so you don’t need to think about it immediately.

I rang my mum and dad from the car on our way home from the appointment with the consultant. I felt an enormous sense of guilt making that call. As a parent myself I can only imagine the pain you must feel to be told that your child has a serious illness, even when your child is 49 years old and a parent themselves. I knew that the impact of the pandemic would make the news even worse. My parents live up north so our get togethers are not that frequent in normal times but the impact of COVID has meant that this year they have been mostly via telephone on Zoom calls. I knew how much it would torture my mum not to be able to leap into action, come down south and help in any way she could, but worse than that, not to be able to give me a mum’s hug me and tell me it will all be alright. I knew how much it would hurt my dad to know that I was facing a problem that he can’t provide an instant dad’s solution to. Their little girl has cancer and I so desperately wanted to protect them from that news. I was able to keep it together whilst I told them and they bravely received the news, giving me their reassurance it would all be fine but I could hear the strain in their voices. I knew there would be tears as soon as we hung up the phone at both ends of that call.

After the initial shock of the diagnosis had subsided and I had passed on the news to those I needed to I became filled with a rather strange sense of acceptance. I thought about my life a lot whilst walking the dog and chatting to friends. I found huge comfort walking with a friend who had been through a similar experience, she understood the thoughts that had been racing through my head which reassured me that I wasn’t totally losing the plot. I had gone from being frozen with fear at the prospect of my life coming to an abrupt end to being bizarrely accepting that even though 49 would be young to be departing life, I have had a really good life. I had a wonderful childhood and upbringing, I have a wonderful husband and two gorgeous children who have made my life complete. I have a fabulous set of friends some of whom have known me forever, some who have known me a shorter time and some I have made through work but they have all brought so much joy, laughter and love to my life. I have travelled and seen and experienced fantastic parts of the world as a result. I don’t have any regrets and whilst I would love to have the chance of lots more years of loving life, if it has to stop now I have had 49 years of living life to the max and have loved every minute.

The flip side of dying now of course is what I would leave behind, two beautiful kids with no mum, a fantastic husband who would need to deal with so much more than he deals with already on his own and my own mum and dad devastated to have had to bury a child. I couldn’t bear to think of it. I found my mind wandering as I walked, thinking of the letters I would write to the kids and Dan or would I be able to hold it together to record a video for them? What music that would be played at my funeral, who would be there, would I get a good turn out? It all came out one morning after the kids had gone to school, we were stood in the kitchen and the tears came. I asked Dan “what if I die?” He held me and told me I couldn’t die “who will I move to the Dordogne with if I you die?” he asked and we cried it out together.

I had reason to call the Breast Clinic the Friday after my CT scan to ask a question about my MRI scan the following week. Whilst talking to the nurse she pulled up my records and said “I can see that your CT scan results are in, would you like them?” she caught me off guard, I don’t know, do I want to know the results? What if it is not good news? But of course I said yes, and I held my breath. “It’s all good, it’s all come back negative, lungs, liver, stomach…….” I stopped hearing, the news brought a sense of relief the level of which I have never felt before. It gave me the much needed hope that I might just make it into that 92%, I may not have to write those letters to the kids and I might just make it to the Dordogne. She told me after that they never give bad news over the phone. I still had the MRI results to go but for that weekend Dan and I took the small win, it was something to tick off, a process we would get very used to.

Being told you have cancer is a massive blow but what I found most challenging about that initial diagnosis is not what they are able to tell you but what they can’t yet confirm. For a control freak like myself who had prepared for bad news, all I needed was confirmation of the extent of what I had and a plan of action so that I could take that away and act on it. I have a long standing joke with my best friend about 5 point plans, we have made them for every life challenge either of us has faced, getting a boyfriend, getting rid of a boyfriend, what ever your challenge a 5 point plan will always help. What I needed now was the mother of all 5 point plans. I needed desperately to regain the control that I had lost the minute I heard the word “suspicious”.

I realised at the diagnosis appointment that, whilst the diagnosis itself was a devastating blow, it was also just the beginning of another phase of waiting and anxiety. My consultant couldn’t give me any certainty, he couldn’t tell me it would all be ok, he could only tell me that they had found cancer in my breast and one lymph node and they needed now to understand whether the cancer was anywhere else in my breasts and whether it was anywhere else in my body.

Whilst my consultant was very clear that he ‘wasn’t expecting’ to find it anywhere else. I now needed to have a CT scan of my whole body and an MRI scan of both of my breasts. I was reassured that these scans would be be done as quickly as possible but warned that getting them scheduled and obtaining the results may take some time. I would just need to wait for the appointments and results to come through. In the meantime, as my pathology results had shown I was oestrogen receptor positive, I was given Tamoxifen, a drug used in cancer treatment to block oestrogen activity which could be “carrying” the cancer. This would act as a safeguard whilst we waited for the scans and before the cancer could be removed.

The appointments came through quickly, CT scan on 16 September at my local General Hospital and an MRI back at the outpatients hospital where the breast clinic is located on 22 September (the day after my 49th birthday).

I arrived at the General Hospital early for my 9am scan. First challenge was to get my car parked somewhere it wasn’t going to get towed away. One of the few benefits of the pandemic is that hospital car parks (well at least those I visited) are not charging. Hurrah! one less thing to stress about. Judging by the significant volumes of traffic already parked on grass verges on the road approaching the hospital entrance, I thought my best bet was to head to the multi story car park.

I found myself physically ducking as I drove into the entrance. Slightly tight on headroom to say the least as I entered the darkness. I really wasn’t ready for the run the gauntlet challenge that awaited me. 8 levels of the narrowest tightest turns I’ve ever experienced in a car park. Every sensor on the car screaming at me each time I had to climb another floor, I just had to turn the steering wheel, close my eyes to the crazy amount of scrapes and paint I could see on the walls and barriers and hope for the best. Dan is going to kill me if I hit anything! cancer or no cancer. It started to dawn on me as I climbed higher and higher that the chances of me ever finding a space in this tower of terror were minimal and even if I did, the parking bays appeared to have been measured out to accommodate only the very smallest of vehicles, definitely not the gas guzzling hulk of an SUV I was driving. Even if I did manage to shoehorn myself into a space, I wasn’t sure I would ever get out of it. I started to sweat.

For a second I thought about just getting out of the car and abandoning it. I heard myself shouting out “I’ve got bloody cancer, I don’t need this stress” as I threw the keys to the ground and walked away. Thankfully I managed to keep my composure for one more floor, almost on the roof and I thought I could just see some spaces through the gaps in the concrete. Yes, spaces, I could see them…….. just beyond the sign that said “Staff parking only”.

Are you kidding me? Is this someone’s idea of a joke? I could see a couple walking towards me from the staff parking only area, they didn’t look like staff so I wound my window down. “Is it ok to park here?” I asked. Just as the man was about to respond the lady with him leant forwards and said. “We park here every week and haven’t got into trouble yet, it’s the only floor that ever has spaces”. She had no hair. Just a completely bald head with no eyelashes or brows. She was a cancer patient……..just like me.

Finally inside the hospital I found my way to imaging. I checked in with the receptionist taking care to stand behind the COVID lines on the floor, heating up nicely behind my mask. I was given a shopping basket and two gowns and was told to take them to a dressing cubicle and change down to my pants putting the first robe on front ways and the second backwards like a dressing gown, presumably to ensure that I didn’t give anyone a cheeky flash as I wandered back into the waiting room. With my modesty preserved by the layers of gown, I took a seat back in the waiting room and almost immediately my name was called by a cheerful male nurse who took me into a small room and fitted me up with a cannula through which they were going to inject a contrast during the scan. I hate needles and I really hate having needles in me for any period of time. I just want them to be out.

I was deposited back in the waiting room where I started to think about how many injections and blood tests I might have to have over the next year. Before I’d had time to think about it too much I got distracted by the other people socially distanced from me in the waiting room. A sweet looking elderly couple and a very poorly looking man in a wheelchair. He didn’t look good at all. That’s the worst thing about hospitals, they are full of sick people. I overheard the couple talking in hushed tones about how long they had been waiting, it was only 9.15am. How can people have already been waiting ages? What time did these two get here? (They probably arrived at 5am to get a space in the car park) The pandemic has meant that patients must attend hospital appointments on their own unless there are exceptional circumstances. I was glad that this lady was with her husband, he was extremely frail and struggling to hear, it broke my heart.

My lovely male nurse finally came back and whisked me off to A&E telling me I would be waiting hours for the CT scanner in imaging due to some complications with a patient they were currently looking at so we were going to use the scanner in A&E. I was extremely grateful for my double gown combination but rather less grateful for my lack of bra as we flew along corridor after corridor, past lots and lots of people. The quick way to A&E apparently. Once there he left me on a chair outside the scanning room.

On the other side of the corridor was a very poorly looking old lady in a bed, she was starring at me. I distracted myself by reading a poster on the wall reminding patients going in for scans that they needed to remove all jewellery. She was still staring at me. I panicked, I had taken off my watch and knew I could get my wedding band and engagement rings off but my eternity ring had been fitting very snuggly in lockdown. I gave it a tug but it wasn’t budging. I tried licking the finger (no easy task with a mask on) but still no joy. Why is she still starring at me? I spotted a water fountain so wandered over and held my finger under the water jet. It made no difference it was stuck fast and now with all the pulling my knuckle was red and throbbing. No chance whatsoever of getting it off now. Would they have to cut it off? Whist I was contemplating the likely outcome of my stuck ring, two porters arrived and wheeled away the lady in the bed. Where to who knows but it deprived her of her ring side view of my erratic finger antics.

I was called in by a nurse who looked about 15 and was taken into the scanning room. She told me straight away the ring was no problem as my arm wasn’t being scanned. Annoying! The scanning room looked like a space lab, clean and white and there in the centre was an ominous looking donut shaped scanner with a high narrow bed pointed into its centre. I was asked to climb up onto the bed and lie down on my back, easy enough I hear you say but surprisingly challenging climbing up high when your top layer of gown had been taken from you so very aware of my flashing potential and also trying to ensure the cannula in your arm didn’t get caught any where. I finally got into the right position. They moved my arm so that it was above my head and attached some tubes to the cannula. “Have you been warned about the effect of the contrast?” Asked the nurse. No, I said, “ Nothing to worry about, it can just make you feel as though you have wet yourself when it goes in”. Great! I clarified that it would just be a feeling rather than a reality. Thankfully that was the case.

The scanning didn’t take long. Reassuringly the staff all cleared the scanning room to take their seats in the control room safe from the killer rays I was going to be zapped with. They left me on my own with my mechanical donut friend who spoke to me as it whirred around my body. It told me when to hold my breath and when to release. It was strange thinking it was taking images of every bit of me. What could it see? Could the staff in the control room see my insides on screens in their secret room? Were they all talking about me, saying “oh look, poor woman, there is cancer everywhere”. Just as my imagination was starting to run really wild, the nurses voice told me over the tannoy that they were going to inject the contrast. Bit of a disappointment really, I did feel a slight warm sensation in my groin but nothing as dramatic as feeling as though I had wet myself.

The scanning was soon done and I was released and reunited with my shopping basket of belongings. I was told that results could take up to a week but my consultant would be in touch. I made my way back out of the rabbit warren of corridors, past wards and socially distanced queues of people waiting for blood tests, sanitised my hands for the 20th time that day and headed back to the car. One scan done, one more to go, but first, getting out of this god forsaken car park in one piece!

My MRI scan the following week was a similar experience without the car park horror. Another donut scanner and high bed to climb onto. The main difference was the amount of time the scanning took, over half an hour! And for that whole time I was laid on my front with my breasts rather unceremoniously dangling into two ready and waiting holes in the bed. As if that wasn’t enough, I had to enter the donut head first and keep my mask on throughout and on top of that I was given earplugs and a noise cancelling ear can headset which I was told would protect my ears from the scanning noise. Really? is it that loud? The nurse setting me up asked if there was a particular type of music I would like to be played into the headphones whilst being scanned. I felt massively under pressure, what sort of music does one choose in this situation? I went for broke, “surprise me” I said. Turned out it wouldn’t really have mattered what I said as the music was completely inaudible over the crazy grinding of the MRI scanner as it sliced and diced images of my breasts. I think I caught a bit of Titanium by David Guetta at one point, but I could have been mistaken.

Reunited with my clothes once more I made my way out of the hospital. So that’s it, scans all done. Nothing more I could do but wait for the results and keep everything crossed that my consultants expectations became a reality. I had been very good and not googled much since my diagnosis (I learned my lesson years ago when I self diagnosed systemic lupus when I actually had dermatitis) but one thing I had gleaned from the small amount of information I had read was that if the breast cancer was secondary, it was treatable but not curable.

I don’t think I will ever forget those words or the impact they had on me. They came out of my consultant‘s mouth like a punch to the face from left field before Dan and I had even sat down. At least there was no stringing out of the bad news, or dressing it up which I suspect would have been more painful and, to be honest, I had prepared myself this would be the likely outcome.

I found the lump whilst taking a shower on holiday in the Cotswolds. A week away with friends in August 2020 after months of COVID induced lock down, separation and no socialising. We were so relieved and excited to just be somewhere other than home, enjoying the company of friends.

To be honest, finding the lump didn’t cause me that much alarm. During a routine ‘Well Woman’ check in 2015, I was told that my breast tissue was “extremely lumpy.” Apparently this is not uncommon. I was referred to a breast specialist at London Bridge hospital who examined and scanned me within an inch of my life. His conclusion was that I had “extremely lumpy” breast tissue. Whilst this was “nothing to be concerned about,” he advised that I would need to be exceptionally vigilant when checking myself and also warned me that, because of the lumpy nature of my breast tissue, I may not be able to detect changes as easily as other women. As a result I have always checked myself regularly.

I presented myself again in 2018 with what I though might be a lump. Again the conclusion was that it was just lumpy tissue and nothing to be concerned about.

In March 2019 I was called in for a routine mammogram when my local health authority conducted a trial screening of 50% of the women in my area aged between 47 and 50, the three years before the NHS regular screening programme begins. I was given a clean bill of health as a result of that screen.

So when I felt a really quite sizeable lump in that shower in the Cotswold I didn’t panic, I didn’t tell Dan or the girlfriend we were away with that I was worried, because I wasn’t. I just quietly told myself it would be another false alarm and diarised to ring my doctors as soon as we got home, which I duly did. I carried on with our holiday oblivious of the outcome and challenges to come and enjoyed every special minute of it.

The nurse at my doctors practice saw me the same day I contacted them immediately on my return from holiday. She referred me to the Breast Clinic at my local hospital without question. “You have a lump and it needs to be investigated, you have done the right thing by coming in”. I felt a bit embarrassed, ‘here she is again with her lumpy breast tissue and her over active imagination, wasting our time during very challenging times.’

I arrived for my mammogram at the breast clinic in my local hospital on the afternoon of 9 September, a strange experience during COVID times. Face masks and social distancing were compulsory. I had to attend alone which was no problem as in my mind I would be in and out, another quick check and confirmation I have the worlds lumpiest breasts and then home to pick Max up from school and cook the kids tea. I had barely discussed it with Dan, just another one of ‘those’ checks, it would all be fine, another thing to tick off the never ending to do list. I was more focused on what I would cook for tea. Months of lock down and eating every meal together had led to major appetite apathy in our house.

The consultant was upbeat as he perused my notes commenting on my previous referrals and their outcomes. I was almost apologising for being there as I climbed onto his examination couch. He examined me and immediately concluded that he thought it was a cyst and nothing to worry about but as it was quite nodular he would get the radiographer to have a look at me after the mammogram as an extra precaution.

Whilst waiting for my ultrasound I receive a WhatsApp from one of my closest friends who I am going away with in a couple of weeks. A rearranged girlie weekend to Bath. I message back telling her that I am at the breast clinic with “another” lump, “just a cyst”, “fingers crossed”. We then confirm arrangements for our weekend away.

The mammogram was the usual comedy situation, me with my fairly ample bosoms trying to get into the most awkward positions whilst a nurse half my height tried to manoeuvre me and my ample bosoms into even more more ridiculous positions whilst clamping each breast between two flat Perspex plates and, once in them, squeezing the Perspex plates as tight as humanely possible in order to get an acceptable image. Surely there is an easier way? I made my usual comments about how I can’t imagine how they screen more flat chested women and we both have a laugh in order to fill the awkward time. Once the mammogram is done I am given my belongings back and sent on my way to the ultrasound waiting room.

The ultrasound was a scarily familiar experience. Unfortunately I already had a fear of them. I suffered 3 miscarriages whilst trying to have children and 2 of those miscarriages were ‘missed’ and discovered during scans at 12 and 9 weeks. So I am no stranger to bad news at an ultrasound appointment. In fact, I associate ultrasounds with bad news and never enjoyed a single one throughout my two successful pregnancies. But this time was different, It was far harder, I was in there on my own.

I recognised the intense quiet of the radiographer as she scrutinised the image on her screen. The quiet seemed never ending, her repeated examination of my lump and armpit didn’t feel normal. I knew that something wasn’t right. I recognised the hushed discussion with the nurse present in the room, originally there to take notes but suddenly her role took on a new importance. She was needed to go and get stuff, to find things with urgency in drawers behind my head where I couldn’t see. I desperately wanted to shout out “ Hey, what are you seeing there? Anything I should be worried about?” What stuff are you looking for in those drawers? But I knew that isn’t the way things are done at ultrasounds. Their job is not to give news, its to examine and take images of things that don’t look right. You have to let them get on with that without the interference of emotion, questions and feelings.

So I just stayed quiet and accepted what was happening around me whilst the dread and the recollection of my previous experiences during pregnancies started to slowly seep back in.

The radiographer eventually told me that she needed to perform a couple of biopsies, she had concerns about the lump and was also unhappy about the look of one of my lymph nodes. No problem I said, do I need to book a separate appointment for the biopsies? It was almost 4pm and I assumed everyone needed to get home and there would be a special clinic for biopsies. No, we will do them now she said. Bloody hell!! You mean take samples from the inside of my body now? How will that happen? will it hurt? do I need an anaesthetic? will I be ok? Can I drive home? Should I have someone here? The questions suddenly came tumbling out. She answered them all except whether I would be ok.

The biopsies were taken. I tried my hardest to read the face of the radiographer but she wasn’t giving anything away. I suspect an art learned from years of practice. She told me lots of things that went completely over my head, something about putting a metal clip in my breast and warning me of loud clicks as they took samples of tissue from my breast and arm pit. Once they were finished I got dressed and was sent back to the waiting room. When I got there it was empty, everyone else had gone home, clinics were finished. I was eventually called in by a lovely breast care nurse who apologised that the consultant had left already but said that she could see me. She took me into a room filled with cancer information leaflets, calming art and comfy chairs. She sat me down and told me that the radiographer was “suspicious” of what she had seen, both the lump and one of my lymph nodes. She couldn’t say any more than that but advised me not to go home and start searching the internet. I don’t know what it was but I knew at that moment, I had cancer. They see patients every day, they know what they are looking at, they know why things look “suspicious.”

So cancer it is and not just any old cancer, a grade 2/3 invasive cancerous lump in my right breast and just for good measure a metastatic carcinoma in at least one of the lymph nodes in my right armpit. Bugger!!! As the husband said “you’ve done it properly” I haven’t just had a ‘brush with’ or ‘flirted with’ the idea of cancer, I went for broke. I had leapt in with my (not so massive) size 5 1/2‘s, and all of this in 17 months since my last mammogram.

2020 has thrown out challenges in abundance for the whole world. The arrival of COVID-19 on our shores in February brought with it challenges beyond the imagination of any of us. We have all had to learn to deal with change, isolation, loneliness, fear and uncertainty. In a strange way, the perfect preparation for receiving a cancer diagnosis.

I decided to write this blog primarily as a way to record my experiences for my own reflection in the years to come but it also provides me with an easy way to keep family and friends up to date. If my blog also serves as a source of reference or support for others embarking on a similar journey then all the better. What I have been amazed about is how much writing it has helped me to deal with the challenges I am facing. Putting my experiences and emotions in black and white is having the most amazing calming and healing effect. Long may that continue.

I want my blog to provide an honest no holds barred account of everything I have experienced, the procedures and treatment and also the rollercoaster of emotions that comes with any cancer diagnosis. So I apologise in advance if some of it is a hard read and if I lay myself too bare on occasion. I hope that I can also show that, even in the darkest of times, you can find hope, positivity, humour and inspiration.

My diagnosis has impacted not only me but everyone else that I share my life with. I have been truly humbled by the amazing love and support that I have been shown by my wonderful family and friends. Thank you to each and every one of you who has reached out, messaged, called me, sent me cards, flowers, wonderful gifts. Thanks to those who have cried with me, laughed with me, held my hand, drank tea (or a large wine) with me and just been there. I have been surrounded with more love and support than I know what to do with and for that I will be eternally grateful. It has given me the strength to put on my boxing gloves each day and kick the arse of the Big C.

One final word of warning, I am not writing this blog in real time. It has been difficult to keep up the pace and I have found 5hat letting time pass and reflecting back has made the writing easier. Thanks for taking the time to read it. Please sign up to be notified about new posts and feel free to share it with anyone you think might appreciate or benefit from reading it.