Brutal

 It's week three, day 19. I get ready. False boobie in, new wig on, makeup applied. The salons are open and I'm delighted to get an early appointment to have may nails manicured and polished. A toe tidy and very fetching purple polish. A girly chat with Anne, my long time beauty therapist. I feel almost human again. In fact I feel brilliant! We call in to see Mum (she's in our covid bubble). At 84 she's had a new knee. As she demonstrates how well she can walk with crutches - I'm in awe of her. She's walked like a crooked old lady for the best part of 18 months - and there she is  - walking tall, upright and pain free. I'm so proud of her.

It's blood week, and it serves as a reminder that I'm about to embark on another round of chemo. I can hardly believe it. I don't want it but what can I do? Before I do - I plan to take to take Lily to the hairdressers for a Mum and daughter treat. She may as well use my hair allowance for the next year - I wont be needing it! While I'm feeling well, this is when I do stuff. Make meals for the freezer, scrub the shower, clean the floors. Oh the joy! But it's good the get things done. Because I'm about to embark on one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. Chemo Round 3. It's going to be brutal.

Round 2 and the Dairy Milk test

 I slowly recover and it's soon time to prepare for round 2 of the chemo. The district nurse comes, as they do every Wednesday, and takes blood to make sure my blood count is fit enough to take more chemo. Later that evening, after eating our evening meal, we get a disturbing phone call. The doctor on the line tells me my potassium levels are dangerously; high my heart could stop at any minute. I am to go straight to A&E - they will be expecting me. I grab the overnight bag and Gary drives me in. We're all worried.

On a bed in a ward, hooked up to a heart monitor, and heart tracing - more bloods are taken. Several hours later the results are in. My potassium is OK. Drama over. I can go home. Nearing midnight I ponder whether I should get a taxi home or phone and wake Gary. I decide on the latter and wake him from his slumber. He gallantly offers to come and pick me up. More bloods are taken in the morning and I'm declared fit enough to get my chemo the next day.

Friday 26th March sees me taking chemo number 2. The actual act of accepting chemo into my body is easy. I'm hooked up to various drugs via my PICC line. It doesn't hurt but the whoosh of drugs is palpable. After about 4 hours, I leave, woozy, slightly drunk and weirdly optimistic. That's the steroids talking - the large doses I'm on for three days give you a sense of well-being.

I'm up and about for day one and two - the steroids doing their job. I administer the dreaded bone marrow boosting drug. They've given me one long lasting injection, rather than 7 days of injections, to try and minimise the dreadful sides effects I had last time - horrendous bone and muscle pain. Day three and I crash. Big time. I feel so ill - I actually think I'm dying. Nothing I do helps. I try and lie very still ans every movement is painful, my body is full of drugs, my head is spinning. I did that thing where you tell yourself, if I get up and have a shower, I'll feel better. I don't. I feel worse. I'm not sure I can do this - it's too much. Gary's worried but tries to reassure me that next week I'll feel better. I find it hard to believe him. Day four is much the same. Days five to sixteen are a very very slow recovery. Each day I feel chemo-y. Full of drugs. Giddy. Joint, bone and muscle pain. Quite frankly it's rubbish and I'm finding it hard to keep positive. Everything tastes foul. Now I love a bit of Cadbury's Dairy Milk. everyday I have a bit of my Easter egg and everyday it tastes disgusting. It takes until day 18 after chemo for it to taste right. That's a relief as I'm driving Gary mad - I keep throwing milk away thinking its off.

Discharged

 Hooked up to intravenous antibiotics, I'm kept in hospital for 3 days. It's strange in these Covid times as there's no visiting, no TV, no locker by your bed to store your things. I'm living out of my overnight bag, feeling thankful that I've got my phone, charger and Kindle. A lady in the bay keeps putting her coat on and disappearing. 'Just going for a fag' she declares. I wonder what the matter with her is - she can't be that ill if she can walk out of the hospital grounds - its a fair walk.

I'm discharged with 7 days double dose of antibiotics. Glad to be home; in my own bed. 

There's one piece of chocolate cake left.

Birthday treats

By Wednesday, one week after chemo, it's Gary's birthday. Lily and I do cards and gifts in the morning before she goes to school. I have asked my Dad to go to a proper local butcher for a couple of thick rib-eye steaks. A budget busting £20 for the two - but I know they'll be good. I'm feeling awful - but hey - I'm on chemo - this is how it feels. I push myself to make Gary a chocolate cake and feel a sense of achievement as I get it out of the oven just as the District Nurse arrives.

The nurse has come to flush out my PICC line, put some Warfarin in to prevent blocking, change my dressing and take my obs. She's not happy with the results. My temperature is raised. My pulse is racing. She rings the chemo unit. I am to come down to hospital within the next 30 minutes. Suspected sepsis. And bring an overnight bag. Gary is summoned from our home office. Learning from last time I had chemo, I had an emergency bag packed. It's just easier. It means you won't be embarrassed when your husband packs for you some inappropriate thongs and a silk number you once wore 20 years ago lurking in your pyjama drawer.

Again Gary can't come in. He looks worried and upset. I'm sorry I've ruined his birthday. I go to the desk at A&E and they are expecting me. I'm segregated from the riff-raff, I have no immune system so I can't mix with others. After a wait of only 10 minutes I'm ushered into a side room. I show a special card I now carry, which has the exact antibiotics I need. Within 15 minutes I'm hooked up via my line to these antibiotics. It's incredible. The speed at which I'm treated. I feel so very grateful. I am to be admitted - no surprise there - just need to wait for a bed. Lily texts me with photos of steak, chips, onion rings, tomato and peas. I realise I haven't eaten. I'm so jealous. And Lily's had the sense to ice the chocolate cake. It looks delicious - I'm gutted. Happy Birthday Gary. I'll make it up to you.

Reality sets in

I have my chemo on the Wednesday. Thursday and Friday are a blur of drunken giddiness. A buzzing that won't stop. I forgot to mention on the Tuesday I had started on a 3 day course of strong steroids. They give you a 'Wheeeee!' feeling. A sense of euphoria that's out of place with the treatment you're on. Gary and Lily are very conscious that I am not trusted to do anything. On Friday night I have to administer an injection of Filgrastim - bone marrow boosting injection. I am to do this for 7 days. Saturday morning comes with a crash. I ache all over and the pain in my bones is excruciating. I send out for codeine to try and lessen the pain. By Saturday evening I'm really struggling. I take Gary's hand and tell him 'I can't do this'. He looks imploringly into my eyes. 'Please - you've got to.' I'm as close to tears than I ever have been. This is a side effect I didn't experience last time. To make it worse I have to give myself another injection - and 5 more after that. The next few days are awful. I can't lie. The pain in my bones is almost beyond what a human should endure. It's relentless. I feel like shit. But I'm on chemo. I'm supposed to.

Chemo Hero

 When I left the unit yesterday, I was given a large jute bag containing an equally large box. Lily was more excited than me. We opened the box. In it was every thing you could want while on chemo. A bandana hat, soft socks, dark chocolate, ginger biscuits, mouth pastilles, soft toothbrush, mouthwash, a digital thermometer, hand cream, hand sanitiser, colouring book, crayons - the list goes on. All donated to the Chemo Hero charity for people embarking on chemo. Thank you so much - a real brightener to the day. 

Chemo currency

 Its been a hectic 3 weeks. 

For starters Gary and I went to the new Seamoor cancer unit for our pep talk before chemo was to begin. We went through each of the drugs I was to receive, looking at the possible side effects. We were warned what to look out for and given advice if things seemed wrong or out of kilter. Gary was warned of personality changes in me - that's something to look forward to. It was a lot of life and death information and the subject was a big topic to take in. Asked if I had any questions on this life and death topic - I did have one - 'Does the sandwich lady still come round at lunchtime?'.

The following day I go to have my PICC line fitted. This is a catheter with fixings on the end that goes in your arm and resides near your heart. A permanent line while you're having treatment it means that your chemo or any other drugs can be administered or bloods taken, without the need for finding a vein each time. Last time there was a homely nurse with a line and a tape measure, in a side room. This time I was ushered into a mini operating theatre, hooked up to a heart monitor and using ultra sound the line was inserted through a cut in my arm. When your heart goes into arrhythmia they know the line has reached your heart. They draw back a little and are satisfied it's in the right place. The entry site is sealed by a giant clear dressing and the plumbing works are tucked into a tubigrip for future use.

I'm sick on the morning of chemo. Nerves I think. I know I've done this before - several times - but I'm nervous of the new drug regime I'm about to embark on. Due to Covid. Gary can only drop me at the unit. No last minute reassuring hand squeezing. I'm facing this alone. The chemo receiving unit has 14 bays in a horseshoe shape with a couple of bays in the middle. I'm in trap 1. Opposite is a lady dressed in full sports gear. Mmmm. She's dressed like she means business. I know she's on her first round. Laptop open, phone on the go, earphones in. I count 4 flasks with her. I'm soon hooked up to anti-sickness drugs through my PICC line. Then comes chemo drug no.1. I can feel it going round my body - I feel slightly woozy. I perk up at the sight of the sandwich lady - I'll take a cheese and pickle please. Sporty lady refuses and proceeds to eat something green from one of her flasks. She tells the nearby nurse that shes from London but had spent sometime in Australia. This, in between complaining at how long her chemo was taking. It takes as long as it takes love, I want to shout. But I keep quiet. I'm flushed through with saline and hooked up to drug no.2. This one gives you a stuffy nose as well as the feeling of too many G&T's. The tea lady arrives. Sporty lady orders hot water. Oh how noble. I'm contemplating whether to have a creme egg with my cup of tea. Sporty lady then gets on the phone to the husband of her best friend. I know this because I can hear every word. She's organising a surprise birthday party for her friend. Pipe down! Oh God - don't give me Tourettes - I might start blurting out. She'll do this and that tomorrow, she tells mystery husband. I laugh inwardly - ha! you wont be doing anything tomorrow love - because you are going to feel like shit, simultaneously being driven over by a very large farm tractor. Trust me. I know. Four hours have gone by and I'm done. I call Gary, who along with Lily come a and pick me up. Why am I doing this? It's chemo currency - buying myself more time on the earth.

Tsunami

 This post is not for the faint-hearted. 

I awoke on Monday morning at 4am. My pyjama top was wet through. As was the bed, the sheets, the duvet. What on earth?? I got up and examined the evidence (you can tell my Dad is a retired copper). I was leaking, no, pouring, from my wound. I had erupted. I know I had some fluid build up but was told my body would absorb it naturally. Yeah right. I dressed the wound with a waterproof dressing, changed PJ top. Laid towels on the bed so as not to disturb Gary and tried to sleep. Half an hour later I'm wet through again. Repeat 4 times. By 7am the alarm goes off. I show Gary and we set about stripping the bed - Gary's doing his best not to faint.... I have brown apple juice coming out of me like a tsunami. Its gone through the sheet, the mattress protector and onto the mattress. I feel like crying. Gary only changed the sheets yesterday.

I ring my special hotline to the breastcare nurses at 9am. Can I come straight to the hospital? Sure thing. The use of sanitary pads to stem the tide becomes no laughing matter. Gary gets me there for 9.30am. He sensibly waits in the car. He doesn't need to see this. The kindly, efficient nurse Karen works quickly and before I know it I have a tap inserted into the wound. This tap is turned on the the fluid flows out into the measuring bowl. It's surreal. I have bodily fluid being pumped out. I am a beer keg that's just been tapped. Lots of squeezing and pushing. She's determined - every last drop - and it's done. I have been drained. We calculate over a litre of fluid. Large steristrips to mend the breach in the dam wall and two enormous waterproof dressings to contain the leaks. This may build up again, I'm told. Come back tomorrow if you are leaking otherwise we'll see you on Thursday at 3pm. If this doesn't heal - we may have to postpone your chemo. Oh no you wont! - I chime. I've got to be good - got to rest up again - be a lazy bum. That doesn't stop me putting washing on to boil!

Tuesday morning. I've had a dry night - like a baby. May this continue.

A little prick...

 Part of the deal to having chemo, was to have my Covid vaccine. Despite now being classed as 'Extremely Clinically Vulnerable' I didn't come up as such on the NHS covid vaccine site. My records hadn't caught up with the list yet. I phoned the GP's surgery and was met with the stern phone message warning of 'DO NOT PHONE THE SURGERY FOR YOUR COVID VACCINE - WE WILL CALL YOU'. I ignored that, obviously. When answered, I simply explained my dilemma. My oncologist had requested I had my jab ASAP. Waiting for the computer to say NO - I was most surprised to hear '5.10pm on Saturday at the Leisure Centre?'. Crikey. Just like that.

So it was on Saturday, that I went for my jab.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Just a little prick.....!

Chemo Cocktail

 When I was ill before, that is back in 2011 when I was first diagnosed with cancer, several friends did mad things. Things like 10k runs, ran marathons, and jumping out of aeroplanes, all in the name of charity. They wanted to raise funds in my name for my chosen charities. I split the funds between my local hospice and a new cancer unit about to be built at North Devon Hospital. It was with some irony that I entered the Seamoor Unit on Thursday. Set away from the main hospital building, I admired its sense of calm, its newness and seemingly cheerful staff. I raised a virtual glass to those friends who had selflessly faced their own fears and raised funds for such a unit. At least I'll get my monies' worth!

After initial checks, height, weight, BP, pulse, oxygen levels I a called in to see Dr Stephens the Oncologist. I was surprised to be greeted at the door by Stephen Merhant wearing a mask. I suppressed a giggle wondering where his sidekick Ricky Gervais was hiding. Come on Jane, this is serious. A matter of fact type of doctor, we discussed my previous experience with chemotherapy. I had tolerated it quite well. That's not to say it was easy. It wasn't. It was bloody hard. It got harder and harder each round you had but I never failed at it. My bloods each time were good enough for more and I never abandoned nor postponed any of the treatments. Dr Merchant, sorry, Stephens explained that the evidence for chemotherapy in recurrent cancer is much weaker than primary cancer. Mmmm. That's not brilliant then. But its the only tool in their toolbox. Furthermore I can't have the chemo combo (FEC100) I had before because I've reached my lifetimes' limit. So my chemo cocktail this time is TC (Docetaxel and Cyclophosphamide). Four rounds with 3 week intervals. We went through the side effects. Nausea, hair loss, sores, bone-marrow suppression, bleeding, anaemia. And yes I was made aware of the important risk of chemo related toxic death. On that cheery note - I signed my life away.

So Saturday 27th Feb Covid Swab

Monday March 1st Pre-chemo appointment

Tuesday March 2nd PICC line inserted

Wednesday March 3rd First round of chemo

Bring it on......I love a cocktail.....cheers! 

Dodging a bullet

 A week after surgery and it's time to go back to the hospital. The first challenge was washing my hair. With the instruction to keep my dressing dry, I'd been having a weird half shower (bottom half) and a wash in the sink for the top half. My hair had to make do with dry shampoo and wearing in a pony tail. The advantage of this Covid lockdown number 3 of course, is that we can't go out and we can't have any visitors - so who's going to see me? So I lean tentatively over the bath with the shower in hand and give my locks a well deserved wash. Bliss.

With my hair washed and dried; make-up on and a falsie in, I feel almost human again. We (Gary and I) arrive at the hospital, temperature checked and wait in the waiting room. We do have to wait a good 45 minutes which is not great. I'm very nervous. If there's cancer in my lymph nodes, I know that my future is very uncertain. I have a raft of questions ready to ask. We're called in and Mrs Conway is waiting. As we sit, she speaks immediately. There are no nasties. There is no cancer in the lymph nodes. I repeat. No cancer in the lymph nodes. I am so relieved, I can't tell you. The rest is a blur. She wants to see her handy work, remove the dressings. She's pleased by what she sees. I daren't look. She tells me I'll be passed to the oncology team and the next treatment will be 4 - 6 months of chemotherapy.  We leave the room and there's a spring in my step. 

I've dodged that bullet. And I'm smiling. Glad to be alive.

Oncologist 11th February.

 

Making a right tit of myself

It's a 6am start on the day of the operation and I'm understandably apprehensive. It's a dark rainy morning. Both Lily and Gary want to take me to the hospital. With the Covid restrictions, they can only drop me off at the door and I trot in with my little bag. Dressing gown, slippers and biscuits. You can never have enough biscuits. I get to the ward. Temperature taken. Wristband on. A short wait and I'm ushered to my bay. A lady comes in opposite. The nurse sees to her first. They need to take her blood pressure so she's asked to remove her coat and scarf. Then cardigan number 1. Then cardigan number 2. Then cardigan number 3. Then a sweatshirt down to a blouse. I swear she's one of those Russian nesting dolls! I sit bemused.

My surgeon Mrs Conway comes to see me. We discuss the operation and she helpfully marks the offending boob with a big black arrow. She marks the right hand side with SN (Sentinal node). I'm second on the list but Mrs Conway is not happy with that. I am to be first. The anaesthetist comes in and explains the procedure. Did I also want two nerve block injections into my pectoral muscles whilst I was asleep? Yes. Why wouldn't I?

Because Mrs Conway has spoken - the staff are summoned into action. Theatres are changed. Staff changed. Suddenly I am being prepped at speed. Gown on. Obs done. Fetching blue stockings fitted. I walk to the operating theatre. I hop up onto the bed and the rigmarole of finding a vein begins. Three different staff try and four attempts later - they're in. The anaesthetic begins like too many G&T's. Woohoo - this is fun! And then I'm gone.

I wake up in recovery. Well that's a relief - I survived the operation at least.

I wake again and I'm back in the bay, Did I want tea and toast? That was quick - I've only just woken up. Tea and toast arrives and despite my mouth feeling like a camels hoof, I do partake. Would I like to sit in the chair? Christ - there's no peace for the wicked, They want you up and moving as soon as you can blink. I feel OK though. Obs are done but my blood pressure is low. I drink some squash and then some more. Reinforcements are sent for. That good old medicinal favourite - Lucozade. It's early evening. Would I like to get dressed? Sure thing. As I do, I look down at where naughty left boob used to be. A dressing from my cleavage, round my rib cage to my back. I feel sad. I feel sad for the lack of symmetry. I'm lob-sided. I feel sad that Gary's best man Neil will never be able to rest his beer bottle in my cleavage again....

Reminding myself why I agreed to this, I dress gingerly. I can go home. Major surgery and I'm done in a day. Major surgery to prolong my life. Major surgery to make a right tit of myself.

Lymph node biopsy results next Thursday.

Hide and seek

 Gary and I travel down the M5 to the Royal Devon and Exeter hospital. The nuclear medicine department beckons. Its not that scary - just sounds a bit futuristic. The idea is I have a shot of nuclear substance which will show up lymph nodes during the operation. If the cancer is going to travel anywhere it does so via the lymphatic system. We get to the waiting room and I change into a gown covering my top half. I'm shown into a treatment room where I'm to receive the injection. Why did I think this was going into my arm? No. It's a direct hit into naughty boob. I'm not going to lie - that hurt a bit. A dressing is put on and I am to sit in the waiting room with a rubber ball. I am to squeeze said rubber ball and move my arm rotationally to get the nuclear substance to move through my body. That's OK except there are others in the waiting room not doing this. I feel a bit of an idiot. But needs must. A gentleman arrives at the front desk and clearly can't see the waiting room just behind him. In a Brian Blessed voice he gives his personal details to the nurse very clearly. And loudly. "I'M HERE FOR SOMEBODY TO LOOK AT MY SCROTUM". That's it. Gary and I have gone. We're laughing because we're not supposed to be. Tears rolling down our masks. 'I wonder where he's going to get his injection' I hiss. 'More to the point' says Gary 'hows he going to get it moving.....'

I'm called in to the scan room. On the movable bed. I'm pulled this way and that. Many pictures are taken. Many poses made. After a good 40 minutes I return to the waiting room. There's a problem. I'm leaking apparently. Leaking radioactive substance. I'm redressed and told to repeat the ball clenching exercises for a good 30 minutes. Crikey I shall look like a lob-sided Popeye at this rate. Eventually I'm called back in. The first time round the substance hadn't moved round my lymphatic system far enough. This happens when you've had previous surgery as I have had, The lymphatic plumbing goes awry. More scanning. This time for a good hour. 'This is interesting' says the radiographer 'your first lymph node is on the right hand side not the naughty left. Your body has re-plumbed itself and sent it all the way over to the other side. But you've got some on the left so that's OK - they are just playing hide and seek. 

The results are in...

I'm called back to the hospital a week later. I take Gary with me. I may get news I might not like. We wait to see Mrs Conway. Both Gary and I have nervous tummies. The 'What ifs' are swirling round our heads. We are ushered in. Mrs Conway speaks. It's triple negative again. The most aggressive of breast cancers. Already grade 3 so well advanced. We need a full mastectomy and chemotherapy. No radiotherapy this time as apparently I've had my quota. Nothing to do with NHS supplies - it's to do with how much my body can take. We discuss reconstruction. They don't do it in Barnstaple so I'd have to go to Exeter. But there's a waiting list and no beds in Exeter (Covid) and with this being aggressive cancer, we don't have the luxury of time. I accept my fate. I'll be a one tit wonder. 'Just one tassel for me Doris!'. At first glance of my scan there appears to be no spreading 'Yay' - she'll confirm later. What's the likely outcome? I ask. It's more than likely this will come back a third time. I find this news hard to swallow. What? I'll have to do this again and again? 'Well at least you know what you're going to die of,' Gary offers helpfully.....

I know I need to tell my friends. I write to some, I call some, I email some, I message some. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but I want them to hear it from me. Like all good friends - and I'm lucky - I've got a few, they rally round, send amazing messages of good hope, of practical help and good dollop British humour. I need that. One friend Paul, who I've known since infants school, suggests I tell 2021 that I got a cooling off period and a better deal to take me to 2022. A fine idea.

I'm going for a nuclear scan on Tuesday 19th Jan at Exeter. A nuclear substance injected in so they can locate the lymph nodes during the op, for removal. The naughty cancer travels to the lymph nodes first if its going to spread. Full  operation scheduled for Wednesday 20th Jan. Taking Gary with me for the scan. You know. Just in case. I don't want a bit part in Holby City even if my acting skills were realistic.

Wish me luck!

Drama Queen

I'm off for a CT scan with a contrast dye. I've been before, several times. Nothing new.

I gown up, one at the front and one at the back. Trussed up like a Christmas turkey. This is the scanner that's like a giant polo mint. A cannula is inserted into a vein and I'm hooked up to a blue dye that will permeate my body and show up any cancer that's lurking. I feel a bit warm. The scan takes place and I'm told to swing my legs over the side of the bed. Crikey - I do feel a bit hot. The radiographer takes me to a side room where I'm to wait for 30 minutes - just in case. As I get to the chair I feel I'm going to faint. Whooosh! Gone! The next thing I know I'm on a trolley with several people talking loudly and running me to A&E - which happens to be next door. Into a resus room. Lots of people shouting things about me. It's like a scene from Casualty. I'm trying to communicate but I can't speak. Do I know where I am? My brain is saying Hospital. My mouth is saying 'H.....H......H....' Oh God - I've had a stroke. Doctors and nurses are doing things to me. I'm being attached to drips, attached to monitors. Then I'm stabbed in the thigh with adrenaline. More monitors . More questions. Why can't I speak? I'm stabbed in the other thigh with more adrenaline. Now I'm shaking. What's happening to me.

Time passes. Jane - you've had an anaphylactic shock. You must be allergic to the blue dye we gave you. Do you have any allergies? No! Not until now. Jane this was very serious - it could have resulted in death. Flaming Nora. I only popped out from work for a quick scan! We're keeping you in for 24 hours as a precaution. What? In a Covid ridden hospital. Overnight. Must be my lucky day.

Gary is informed. He's shocked of course. He rings my employers a Lord and Lady. He reaches his Lordship and explains the situation. His Lordship ring down to the office and tells my colleagues I've been electrocuted in the scan!

I'm such a drama queen!

  

Six years on...I'm back...and so is the cancer

 Yes folks - it's true. The naughty aggressive triple negative breast cancer has decided to make a return. In the middle of a pandemic no less.

How did I know? Itchy boob. What was left of my boob after last time's surgery had two big scars on it. They were itchy and I was annoyed. Then I felt it. 'What's that?'. Scar tissue? Or a lump? Mmmm. Has it been there always or is it new? I pondered this scenario for 2 or 3 days, telling no-one. Then I made a GP appointment. That's fun isn't it during Covid? The doctor will call you back. I was at work. Good job I've got my own office. GP calls back and thankfully agrees I should be seen. 2 days later off I trot to the doctors. Masked up. Hands sanitised. I've whipped my top and bra off before the curtain is even drawn. I'm a dab hand at this. The doctor can feel something too. She's put me on a 2 week fast track at the hospital. But we've got Christmas in the middle. My appointment comes through for 29th December and I confess to Gary, Mum and my best friend Julie.

29th December. 9am. North Devon Hospital. On my own because I'm only going for tests. Matching bra and knickers. My surgeon Mr Groome has retired. I'm seen by a lady consultant surgeon Mrs Conway. Whip off the bra. She has a good feel. Yes - there's something there. Mammogram follows. Ultrasound next. Mr Polish. Biopsy now. Remember that? Knitting needle with a gun on the end? Numb boob. Bang, Bang, Bang. 3 goes at it. Do I have any questions? How's it looking? I ask - not expecting an answer. 'It's not looking good'. I'm a bit stunned. Back to the consultant. She looks at me and says 'I'm sorry - you have a recurrence of your breast cancer.' Wow! I wasn't expecting that today! Shit! This is for  real! 'Will it be triple negative again?' 'More than likely but we'll know more next week. And I want you to have bloods and a CT scan so we can see if it's spread'. 

I'm in a daze. And on my own. I managed to get to the car. I must phone Gary. 'It's bad news - the cancer is back. I'm sorry'. And I am sorry - I don't want to put this on anyone. I must go to Mum and Dad's. I arrive, walk in and shake my head. Mum bursts into tears. We hug. We've been denied hugs by the Covid rules (my parents are 84) but we cling on to each other. My Dad finally emerges from the kitchen 10 minutes later.. Dad - I've got bad news - the cancer has come back. More hugs. Two fingers to Covid.

And now Lily. My gorgeous precious 15 year old daughter, whose greatest fear was my cancer coming back. I sit next to her and tell her. God give me strength. She sobs, clinging helplessly to me. This is heartbreaking . Then questions. A 1001 questions and I try to answer all of them truthfully. An no, I can't guarantee I wont die. I'm so sorry.