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    • Immunotherapy Day Tuesday 16th June 2026

      Immunotherapy Day Tuesday 16th June 2026

      It’s been a very weird week. Immunotherapy was booked in for Friday 12th June but the call I received the day before was not the news I wanted to hear. Oncology needed to send over the paperwork which then had to be reviewed, which takes three days. The chemo unit was only sent the paperwork on Thursday so they couldn’t give me a definite date yet. Bugger. Oh well, I can go back to enjoying a night out on Friday instead. Nope, Poorly guinea pig and tough decisions meant I was not in the right head-space for a night out. I was shattered.

      Saturday night we had an impromptu few hours at Katie and Alan’s, but I was still tired the next day,

      Monday was better. I had more sleep and Simon took me to the seafront for breakfast and a three mile walk. When we arrived home, the postman had been with a couple of hospital letters for me. One was for a call with oncology in September, the other was an appointment at the chemo unit on Tuesday 16th June at 4pm to start my immunotherapy. As you may have guessed, I wasn’t expecting much to happen after the current debacle. If it happens it happens; if I get sent home again then so be it.

      Katie and I had already organised to go for breakfast Tuesday morning so I told her that we should still go. I mean, I still have an appetite, and some decent food before the hospital would be a welcome treat.

      I arrived home with another rose for the garden. It was Katie’s 12 year new boob anniversary so I bought her a rose called Eyes for You, and I bought myself a lovely fragrant one called Blue for You. Quite apt as she has a lovely blue Skoda! Simon planted it for me and shortly after we set off for the hospital.

      Due to the previous cancellation, Simon wanted to stay close to the hospital. I checked in at reception and was informed that there was a 2 hour wait for treatment. I let him know and he rook himself off for a walk around the area, making sure that he was no more than 10 minutes away at all times, just in case. At 5pm I was called through, which was a surprise to me as there were three people in the waiting room whose appointments were before mine. I had to remind myself that we are all there for different treatments, and one of the ladies was only there for an injection. Did I tell you about autistic son women? When I was having chemo, I ended up sitting next to her and everything was about her autistic son and his autistic girlfriend. Well that was her needing the weekly injections.

      I was taken through to Bay 4 and given the option of the first or second chair. First was set up for my right arm picc line, so I went for that one. Got myself weighed (of course there was an increase) and settled into my chair and continued to read my book.

      I wondered if any of the staff would remember me. They did. Asking me how I was and why I was back. I told them I’m fine, it’s just immunotherapy. Everything has done its job. They came round with my treatment at 5;30pm but I still hadn’t had my obs done or been connected to a drip. Once that was all done, my half an hour of immunotherapy went ahead as planned. They asked me if I wanted any anti-sickness pills, I asked if they thought I would need them? Probably not, was the reply I got, so I decided against them.

      I was in the Bay with four other people. The man opposite me was just on his headphones the whole time. The man at the end from me was on a call and then finished his treatment and left. Now, the lady opposite was a bit weird. She had hardly any of her own teeth so her cancer may have been in the mouth/neck area. She was having immunotherapy for the first time and they were offering her anti-sickness pills. That wasn’t the weirdest part. Her phone rang, a few times. The ring tone was Lady in Red by Chris de Burgh. Nothing wrong with that I guess, but it was the ring tone for her son. Surely that’s a ring tone for your partner, not your child? Anyway, the lovely man by the window was quite funny and we had a few laughs.

      Didn’t feel too yucky afterwards. Simon drove us home and we had takeaway pizza for dinner.

      Terrible nights sleep. Not sure if it was the heat, or my arm, but I felt like I was awake every 40 minutes. Maybe I was worrying too much about feeling ill. Whatever it was, I’m hoping tonight I sleep better.

      Today was quite eventful. Had my picc cover changed at the Hockley Clinic by Sally. She’s lovely, we always have a laugh. I told her my treatment had started again which she was delighted to hear. I had a meeting booked this afternoon with HR to discuss my return to work. With everything agreed, I can start back on Monday, and only for an hour a day to see how I cope. I know it sounds sad but I’ve missed work. I’ve missed the staff, and the students, and being part of a team. The Head Teachers PA said something lovely when I saw her. She said that they have staff members that have time away from work, and they are missed, but she said she had never known a staff member leave and the ripples are felt throughout the whole school. What a compliment. And then, to top it all off, HR said that they have never had so many members of staff asking if they knew when I would be back at work. She said she could tell I was very well thought of and loved by the staff. I nearly cried. I held it together, but I nearly blubbed like a baby.

      By the time I got home, after spending far too long at school, I was exhausted. I still am. It’s 22:13 and I should’ve gone to sleep an hour ago. So I’m going now before I give myself a headache.

      But boy, I’m one excited bunny to be going back to work on Monday. That may change if I get any bad side effects from immunotherapy. But so far, so good. I just hope this thick head is just me being tired and hot.

      **UPDATE** had a terrible night’s sleep, my arm was so painful. Had the physio today and, yet again, she has worked miracles with it. I’m looking forward to a better sleep tonight.

    • Tuesday 9th June 2026

      Tuesday 9th June 2026

      This should’ve been a blog all about the immunotherapy yesterday but unfortunately, due to problems between the chemo unit and the oncology department, I was turned away from the hospital as there was no prescription for me. The pharmacy said my oncology doctor hadn’t filled in the paperwork so there was no funding for my prescription, my oncology department said the paperwork is there as I had a break in treatment for my surgery and radiotherapy. They assure me that treatment will go ahead on Friday, and I should make sure I get the chemo unit to check on Thursday that everything is definitely in place for me.

      I didn’t mind the disruption yesterday, they assured me that my appointment for Friday afternoon will definitely go ahead if the prescription is there. So in my head I’ve been thinking only three more infusions to go, with three weeks between them. I was wrong. I got my hopes up and had them come crashing down again.

      My oncology appointment went okay. It wasn’t with Dr Algurafi. He said his name, but it wasn’t one I recognised, and then my brain forgot it a few seconds later. He asked about radiotherapy. I said I think I have coped well seeing as it is only three weeks ago. My breast has shrunk in size (as to be expected) and I don’t get much pain from it. I try and remember to put creams on daily. The skin on my nipple started peeling off last week, but not in a weird weepy way, just a general dead skin removal with new skin underneath. I have felt tired, but not too exhausted. He asked me how I got on with the chemotherapy previously, I said that I struggled with the sickness but I eventually learned how to cope with it and I took the tablets and had control of my bowel movements. He said immunotherapy is not like chemotherapy so it doesn’t leave me vulnerable, and I am being booked in for six rounds of it, every six weeks. My heart sank. Treatment finishes in November – he said. I nearly cried. I’ve already had eight – I said – I thought there were just a couple left. It seems I was wrong. Six more to go.

      I asked for a fit note. Leave it for a few weeks and see how you feel – he said to me. But I know how long it takes them to get letters sent out so I asked him if they could get it started now. He said that he thinks the letter should come from my GP and I should contact them about it. And that was it. Meeting done.

      After a quick call to the GP’s receptionist (who agreed with me that it should come from oncology and not the GP), I filled in a request for a fit note and emailed it to the surgery.

      Back when I had my first meeting with Dr Algurafi, he said that my treatment would take a year. I came to terms with the fact that 12 months of my life would be given up to hospital visits and appointments and treatment. November is not a year. It’s 16 months. I want my sleep back. I want to have a shower without having to wear a cover on my arm. I want the picc line gone and I want a normal arm again. I will speak with the nurses in the chemo unit and find out if my veins look like they will cope with cannula’s again. If they say they will, then I’m requesting a picc line removal as soon as humanly possible.

      I thought I would be excited after my oncology meeting. I’m left feeling extremely melancholy. I have had plans change on me, appointments move, blood results that are too low, machines that do not work, but the timeline has always stayed the same. Today, it changed. I need time to process and adjust, just like I did at the beginning, and to accept the fact that I will not be out of active treatment this year.

      https://www.cancerresearchuk.org/about-cancer/treatment/drugs/pembrolizumab

    • Sunday 7th June 2026

      Sunday 7th June 2026

      Life after cancer is weird.

      Friday night, I went to my first gig in 11 months and I learnt a few things about my new self. I don’t look ill. I look weird, just not cancer ill. I was very aware that people may have been looking at me and thinking – did she actually choose to have that hair cut? I have too much hair to be wearing one of my hats, but not enough hair to have a style as such. It’s thick and bushy and just there. But so is my facial hair! I thought I looked like Noddy Holder…

      I realise now that I actually look more like Monkey…

      … maybe the eyebrows are not as accurate, but I have thought about wearing headbands and this is all I can visualise.

      What I am not seeing is what got me here in the first place. The doctors appointment, the mammogram and ultrasound, the biopsy, the second ultrasound and biopsy, the MRI, the picc line surgery, the 12 rounds of paclitaxel, the 4 rounds of carboplatin, the 8 rounds of pembrolizumab, the 40 tamoxifen injections, the 4 rounds of epirubicin, the 4 rounds of cyclophosphamide, the second mammogram and third ultrasound, the 18 blood tests, the lumpectomy day surgery, the 10 rounds of radiotherapy, the 34 district nurse visits, and the untold amount of pills and creams on top of that (anti-sickness, steroids, thyroid, pain relief, diarrhoea, cooling gel, soothing lotion, daily creams) and all the other forgotten things that got me to this date. The NHS has spent hundreds of thousands of pounds to keep me alive, and all some strangers saw was a tubby woman with a weird haircut. I say tubby woman, a waiter, the other week, directed me to the men’s toilet. So maybe I do look more like Monkey or Noddy Holder?

      My point is, I had a brilliant time and no-one, apart from my friends, knew what I had been through recently. Just like we don’t know what those strangers had been through to get where they are today. Some scars are hidden, some are invisible, some have healed so much that it’s hard to see where they are anymore. But we all see our own scars and we all carry them with us. So why are we not kinder to each other?

      I’m not an expert on cancer, I’m an expert on what I went through on my journey. My advice may not help someone else, but kindness and thoughtfulness will. They were the things that kept me going during my darkest times. The messages from friends, the cuddles from my family, the gentle touches and hugs from those who came to see me, the gifts, the compliment from a stranger telling me what a lovely colour my hair is, being told that I am in peoples prayers and thoughts. All of it. The human kindness and empathy that I received filled my heart. And this tubby woman is so grateful for everything; especially all the breakfast, lunch, dinner dates, walks, evenings out, evenings in, and those who popped in to see me on their way home from work or who were just passing by. So much kindness and so much love.

      What I have learned is how much one small gesture of kindness can mean. It can make the forgotten feel seen, and that can completely change someone’s day. Don’t put off that text/call, do it now. If someone pops into your head, tell them you’re thinking of them. We are all so different and we all have hidden scars that we cover every day, or demons that we battle with. Kindness is universal.

      Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see – Mark Twain

    • Thursday 4th June 2026

      Just a normal day. Not much going on. Simon is painting the skirting boards in the hallway, Hannah has been at work all day and Emily went to uni to collect her art work and then started work at 4 o’clock. It has rained a few times.

      My mind is not having the best of days. It was exactly a year ago today when I attended my breast clinic appointment and my whole world collapsed. I had told Simon that he didn’t need to come with me, they were only going to discuss what to do about my breast cyst cluster. Emily wanted to come with me, so I wasn’t on my own. I drove us there.

      I can remember everything about that day. I was at work in the morning. Nicola had told me to leave at lunch time. She said it was better to take my time and get there relaxed and less stressed. I wasn’t worried at all. I am your typical menopausal woman with breast cysts. They are just taking precautions.

      “I am surprised to be telling you that they are cancerous cells” is what Mr Thomas told me on that day. See, even they thought it was just a cyst. That radiographer took a biopsy because she didn’t like the look of the wall of the cyst in my right breast. Funny how I had gone in for a cyst on my left breast and they had aspirated that one just fine. No problems there.

      “Do you want me to check the cluster on the right?” is what she had said.

      “Might as well, whilst I’m here” I said.

      It’s Triple Negative Cancer.

      https://www.cancerresearchuk.org/about-cancer/breast-cancer/types/triple-negative-breast-cancer

      Who knows why I got it, I don’t really match the criteria. It happened. It threw my life upside down, but I’m still here. I don’t feel brave, or strong, or a warrior, or a survivor. My life has been on hold, whilst everyone around me has carried on about their normal day to day business. Yes, my family has been affected, but only by my presence and the inconvenience of having to do things for me. They have mostly been spectators. I’ve been on a journey that I would never want any of my friends or family to ever have to go through. I sit here, a year after my diagnosis and I don’t feel like me. Maybe that’s because I am still having treatment, maybe I’ll feel different when the immunotherapy is done and the picc line is out. My gums and my hearing haven’t recovered, my eyesight has been on a downward spiral, my waistline has increased, and my fitness has decreased. Mentally, I swing from happy to sad, and back again within the space of minutes. I look at this body every day and I don’t see myself anymore, I see a body that has needed medical science to keep it alive. I am truly, truly grateful for everything they have done for me. But I still haven’t come to terms with the “why me” part of it all yet.

    • Monday 2nd March – 20 days post-surgery

      As you can see, it’s been a while since I last wrote anything about my treatment. A few things have happened, so this may be a long one.  

      Most notably is my new hair. I’m really pleased and proud of the growth. As you know, the main reason for me doing the scalp cooling (cold cap) was to give my hair follicles the best chance of regrowth. I didn’t do it to keep my hair during treatment; I did it to make sure I kept my hair. I’ve seen some amazing women go through such harsh treatments and get a full head of hair back, but I worried about the chance of getting alopecia. I was relieved that it’s growing back all over my head, it didn’t at the start, but it is now. 

      The day before surgery was another weird day for me. I was nervous, yes, but I wasn’t upset like I was before the first chemotherapy. I did over think everything again. I worried about it going wrong, about not waking up afterwards, about being in so much pain afterwards, about them finding more cancer hidden. I managed to fall asleep, but I was awake just after 4am. I listened to podcasts and waited for Hannah to wake up so that I could be with her before she went to work. I know she was worried about me. She didn’t talk to me about it. In fact, neither of them has spoken to me about their fears, even though I told them to. I’ve tried to get them to be more open with me as I have with them, but still, they stay quiet. I can’t cope with the not knowing how they feel, it makes me more worried about them. Bloody kids. 

      Anyway, I said goodbye to Hannah and then got myself dressed and ready. I had to be at the hospital at 7:30am so we knew there wouldn’t be much traffic. I said goodbye to Emily and off we went. Simon wasn’t allowed to come in with me, so he dropped me off outside and I walked into the reception alone. 

      There were lots of people sitting around with their hospital bags close to hand. We all sat patiently waiting for our names to be called. The woman with the wheeled suitcase stood out the most to me. How long was she staying in for? I thought this was day surgery. She then got a two-litre bottle of water out of another bag. We were called through four at a time and guess who got called through with me. Of course it was suitcase woman. She was struggling to pick everything up as quickly as the rest of us, so I asked if she needed any help. Thankfully she didn’t, but she did explain to me that most of her case had make-up in it. I thought she was joking; she wasn’t. 

      We were taken to the nurse’s station where there was a board on the wall with numbers and names. I think I was C17 or C18, something like that. C was the bay/ward, and the number was the bed. There were seven beds in C; four on the left and three on the right. I was second on the left, the make-up lady was third on the right and safely in the corner. We were told to put the surgical gowns on and sit and rest on the beds. I was given a wee pot, with my NHS number on it and told to leave it in the toilet. A short while later a nurse came to tell me that I wasn’t pregnant. I could’ve told her that. Having chemo, losing your libido, and suffering with vaginal dryness, do not make me feel like a woman at all. But I guess they must double check. 

      On our ward, myself and the lady in the next bed up from me were having to go to the breast unit to have a guide wire put in. I was told that they needed to do this so that it would be easier for the surgeon and they wouldn’t need to open me up too much. One of the surgical team came in to go through the paperwork with me and do all the pre-surgery checks, and to draw an arrow on my hand on the side of surgery and an arrow near the lump. I had no idea where the cancer was as it’s hiding within a cluster of cysts, so she put an arrow roughly where I thought it might be. I got dressed again and waited for one of the breast care nurses to come and collect us.  

      Suitcase woman was walking around in her flimsy dressing gown and fluffy mules. She had broken a mirror in one of her eye shadow sets when she had closed her case, so was quite vocal in asking where the bin was and kept telling everyone about it. Then took a call from someone and had it on loudspeaker, which just annoys me. There’s no need for that, put it up to your ear. I heard a nurse tell her off as it was nil by mouth, only water, and she was drinking flavoured water. She said, “it’s only lemon squash”. They explained that water means water, not adding squash to it. She then disappeared for a while, and two nurses went searching for her. She was outside having a fag. I could tell they had their hands full with her. 

      The breast care nurse came to get us just before 9am. We walked over to the Nightingale Centre and I went in first.  

      I was told to lie down on the bed and had another ultrasound to find the titanium marker. It took her a while as the arrow was nowhere near it. As soon as it was found, they gave me a local anaesthetic so that I wouldn’t feel the guide wire going in. I didn’t look, I never do, so I was a bit surprised to find the end of guide wire pointing out towards the centre of my chest. Maggie, the breast care nurse, then had to cover the end in gauze stick it onto my breast, I then went for a mammogram to make sure it was in the right position. Thankfully the local anaesthetic was doing its job, and it was the easiest mammogram ever. I then had to get dressed again and wait for the other lady to have the same thing done. We got to talk whilst waiting for Maggie to take us back to the day surgery unit. Her name was Patricia and she had been booked in for surgery on the same day her husband was being released from hospital after having bowel cancer surgery. She was being picked up by one of her sons and she was going back to stay with him while she recovered after surgery. It then turned out on top of the surgeries they had just moved back into their family home after they were forced to move out after having a fire, and there was no water last night so her sons were trying to get that sorted whilst she was at the hospital. So much going on in that family and she was still smiling. 

      When we walked back to the ward, all the other women and their beds had gone. Patricia and I got dressed into our surgical gowns and surgical stockings, and shortly before 11am the surgical team came to get us. They told me that I was going to have a surgical block which means that when the general anaesthetic wears off, I will have a local anaesthetic to help with my pain relief. I had no idea what the difference between that and what everyone else was having, but I was happy to have whatever they could give me. I was then asked to undo the back of my surgical gown and lie down on the bed, and then I was wheeled into theatre. 

      The room where they administer the anaesthetic has connecting doors to the theatre. The staff were walking in and out and the angle of my bed meant that I could see there was already someone in there having surgery. Thankfully the door didn’t open too much after that, but it didn’t help the fear and panic that starts in your head. Usual things: is this the last time I will see another human? what if the electricity goes off during surgery? But I wasn’t alone enough to over think too much. The staff were making conversations with me that were about the weather and the usual things to keep me talking and not thinking. A canula was fitted in my left hand and I was told that a relaxant would be administered before the general anaesthetic. The bed was lowered down flat and I was attached to a drip, and I could see that something was injected in through the drip feed. At the time, I wondered if they would tell me before it went in, but the next thing I knew I was coughing. I heard a nurse saying to me that my throat may be sore as a tube had been put in to help me breathe. I could also feel that my legs were wrapped up. I could feel pressure on my calves, and I thought they were taking my blood pressure on my legs. It wasn’t, they were there to help my circulation during surgery and were removed now that I was waking up. I did try to open my eyes, but I was told to rest and take things slowly. The nurses were putting my arms into the surgical gown and one of them made a comment about the bruising on my chest. I didn’t want to look under the gown after she said that. I would wait until I got home. She asked if I wanted a drink and went off to get me a jug of water. Within minutes, another nurse asked me if I wanted lunch and she went to get me a tea and an egg mayonnaise sandwich. 

      Those drugs are good. I couldn’t feel any pain, and I was very happy to be in the hospital! They pulled the curtains back from round the bed and I sat up to eat my lunch.  

      My Aunt Tracey had been in touch with me before my surgery to say that her friend Debbie was booked in to have surgery on the same day as me. She sent me a picture of her, and I had said I would look out for her. So, imagine my surprise to find the lady in the first bed looked just like her. Remember how I said that the drugs were good? Well, I leant towards her and asked her if she happened to know my Aunt Tracey! We spent the next few hours talking. Debbie was lovely and we chatted and laughed and it made the time fly past. Once she had eaten and had then been to the toilet, she was allowed to go home.  

      I sat on the bed after that, trying not to listen too much to the suitcase woman being sick. I did try to talk to Patricia, but she was resting a lot and looked like she was in pain. I remember looking at the clock when I woke up and it was near 1pm. It got to 3pm before I remembered that my phone was in my bag and I should really message Simon to let him know that I was awake! The nurses disconnected the drip and took the canula out of my hand. I got up to go to the toilet but couldn’t work out how to tie up the back of my surgical gown. Thankfully the nurses must’ve taken pity on me and they came over to help. Once I had been to the toilet, they said I could get dressed and someone could come and collect me. When I was leaving, suitcase woman was still being sick. I said goodbye to Patricia, and they let me out of the ward. 

      I got a big hug from Emily when I got home. I’m sure I ate all my dinner too. To be honest, I can’t remember much of the journey home, let alone remember what I ate. No wonder they tell you to have someone with you for 24 hours after surgery. I think I slept okay that night. Things became more real when the pain started in the afternoon. 

      When I was discharged from the hospital, they asked if I needed some pain relief. I had said yes, just in case I needed something stronger than paracetamol. I still had the co-codamol that Simon bought for me when I was having the back pains with immunotherapy. I knew that I would struggle with my bowels and pain killers will block me up even more, so I opted not to take anything and to see how I would cope. I am now 20 days post-surgery and I still haven’t taken anything for the pain. I wouldn’t say it was a bad pain. It’s uncomfortable, it’s sore, it’s continuous, but it’s manageable. 

      There was a clear plaster under my armpit and one under and covering my nipple. I was told that I could remove the platers after 5 days. The district nurse, Carolyn, had said that I could always ask them to remove the plasters for me on the Monday. I wasn’t brave enough to do it. I left it for an extra day and thought I would see which district nurse it was and maybe ask them. It just happened to be Carolyn, and she was more than happy to help me. She was brilliant. She took off the plasters off so gently and she was so lovely. I feel lucky to have had her support. Otherwise, I would’ve left the plasters on for another week at least. 

      I am now nearly three weeks post-surgery and yesterday was the first time I have looked at myself, properly, in the mirror. I’m know I’m lucky that they have only taken a small area and the consultant was right when he said it wouldn’t look too different. It’s smaller, it’s a bit mishappen, but I still look like me. I am happy, but I still have that fear in the back of my mind that it could be the start of a few more surgeries on it. Now, I wait for the results to come back. 

      More waiting. 

    • Monday 9th February – Surgery Eve

      On 12th January I had an appointment with Mr Thomas, my consultant, where he did another ultrasound. This was unexpected as I had only just had a mammogram and an ultrasound 10 days previously. He then looked in his diary and said he would like to book me in for breast conserving surgery on 3rd February. Simon suggested that this may not work as both him and Hannah were booked onto a tour at the Tottenham Stadium. Mr Thomas changed the date to the 10th. I still can’t believe my surgery was changed because my family went on a football stadium tour! I asked about my immunotherapy as I was booked in on 13th January for the next course of it. He said that this would continue until surgery and will be postpone afterwards until I was strong enough to continue. We then sat with the breast care nurse whilst she went through everything I needed to do before surgery. She gave me a bottle of antibacterial wash to use which I expected to smell like dettol, it has no smell at all which I found quite surprising. She also said that she would apply for a surgical box from Little Lifts, which turned up a week or so later with more amazing stuff to spoil me with. More Moo Goo cream too, just as I was running out of it. 

      By the time we got home from the appointment, the chemo unit called to say that my immunotherapy has been postponed as they want me to build up my strength before the surgery. So that was a bonus. 

      On 21st January I had a telephone pre-op assessment where they asked me hundreds of questions about my health and what tablets I take, then booked me in for a hospital appointment the next day to have an ECG, a breath test and a blood test. So off Simon and I trotted to the hospital again. ECG was done, no problems there. I was a bit concerned about the breath test as I didn’t think I had enough puff in my lungs to do it. As it turns out, my lung capacity is normal, I just get out of breath when I walk around. I was then given a blood form and told to wait with the others for a blood test. I asked if she could take it from a picc line, turns out she wasn’t so I said I would get the district nurse to do it when she comes round on Monday. How can staff at the hospital be unable to do blood tests from a picc line? I was told a picc line would be the safer and easier option. I don’t want to keep being stabbed with needles if I can help it. The pre-op nurse said that my thyroid levels were high and I should get it checked by the doctor as my medication may need adjusting, so I’ll do that after surgery. In the meantime, I was more concerned about my low red blood count as my last blood test showed that it was at 97. We asked her what a normal person is and she said 130. If it comes back the same, they will book me in for another blood transfusion. 

      I received no phone call after the blood test was done so I can only assume they were happy enough with my levels. 

    • Wednesday 7th January 2025 

      Day 21. The end of 24 weeks of chemotherapy. Normally I would be getting myself prepared and my bag packed for a visit to the chemo unit in the morning. There is no visit tomorrow. I’m all done. My immunotherapy continues Tuesday 13th January. I’m hoping the side effects of that are a lot less than what I have had to deal with. I’ve never had it on its own, so I’ve never knowingly experienced what they are. Will I miss the chemotherapy? Hahahahahahaha, nope.  

      It all feels so surreal as it only felt like a few ago that I was sitting on the edge of my bed, crying, because I didn’t think I had the strength to go through it all. Now, after sitting on my bum and taking the tablets, I know that I could. I coped. I had a wobble at the beginning because I had never been through it before. For some reason, when people hear chemo, they think of sickness and frailty. I have never felt frail. I’ve just been me. Same old miserable, moany me. I’ve always been positive about the treatment because that is my nature. Why would cancer change that? 

      There are times that I have been scared that the treatment wasn’t working. I wasn’t scared about getting worse and feeling ill. I was more upset about missing out on seeing my girls grow up. I want more years with them. More years to make great memories together. Not sadness and heartache. 

      They say that going through a cancer diagnosis changes you. I hope it does. I’d like to have longer legs and curly auburn hair. Oh, and smaller nostrils. Will it make me stronger? I thought I was always strong. Will it make me more carefree? I doubt it. All I know is that so far, I don’t feel any different. 

      I’ve missed out on nights out; I put my recovery first. Now I’m looking forward to having the freedom to go out and be me again. I just have surgery and radiotherapy to get through first. I just hope I don’t have to stay stuck in this house again. I mean, I love my house, I really do, but I would like to choose to stay at home rather than feel like I must stay home. I’m looking forward to that. 

    • Sunday 4th January 2026 

      I was hoping to have written this blog on Saturday, but things went a bit pear shaped and I had to rest. I’ll tell you about that later but first I’ll fill you in on the other events that have happened before that. 

      Day 11, Sunday, Clare popped in for a little while to see me which was an absolute treat for a Sunday. Hannah didn’t have a match, so I wasn’t really doing much (apart from reading). 

      On Monday, Day 12, the in-laws came over for dinner as we hadn’t seen them all over Christmas. I didn’t cook; we had fish and chips from the shop round the corner and just sat chatting for a while. They left before 8pm as they had to get back to call Simon’s uncle. I was happy with that as Garry, and I, had organised during the day to listen to Ship Full of Bombs Indie Night In, hosted Al, that had been announced that morning. It was a lovely, funny, musical evening but I must change my facetime/music listening set-up as there is now the bonus of a WhatsApp group chat. It used to be Twitter, but it’s a bit of a ghost town over there. 

      Tuesday, Day 13, was another impromptu event and we all went to Manzano lounge for lunch with Steve, Liz & Nicky. It was so nice to see everyone after the very quiet Christmas that we had. Only Simon and Steve were drinking whilst us girls were all on the teas and coffees and juices! 

      Day 14, New Years Eve, saw Liz, Nicky, Tom, Clare and Brodie coming over to our house for a get together. My head was quite hot all evening, which it has never done before, but I didn’t think too much of it. It was just so nice to feel normal and do what we usually do on New Years Eve. Clare and I weren’t drinking, so we had a bottle of the Kylie non-alcoholic prosecco. It was ok. Tasted more like a fizzy grape juice. I couldn’t taste the prosecco but then again, my taste buds are still not normal. It did feel nice to have a wine glass again. The 0% Fevertree Gin and Tonic is a winner for my taste buds. 

      Speaking of alcohol free, if it’s a drink that contains no alcohol, is it acceptable to have one at 10am? I like tonic water, but the gin and tonic have a better taste to it, and I would rather drink that then just the tonic. What am I asking you for? I will drink whatever I want to drink, when I want it, because you can’t see what I’m up to! 

      Thursday, Day15, was a bit of a tidy up and rest day. The tree is now down, and most of the decorations are back in their boxes. I have been struggling to sleep this week as I’m getting anxious about my upcoming appointment at the hospital. I tried to do things to take my mind off it, but that never works, so I still went to bed worrying. 

      Hospital Day, Day 16, Friday 2nd January 2026 is a day to remember for all the right reasons. Simon, Emily and I got to the Breast Unit nice and early. I assumed we would be sitting in the waiting room, but we were told to go down the right-hand corridor and to take a seat in that waiting area. That was something new and different. My appointment was for a mammogram and an ultrasound, so checks had to be made as my last mammogram was on May 6th. It’s dangerous due to radiation exposure so they had to get permission from the doctor first. I was called into the room, told to take my top and bra off, and then my right breast was then clamped in the machine and had its x-ray picture taken again. I got dressed and went back into the waiting room. Within minutes, I was called in to see the radiographer, where I had to strip off again to have the ultrasound done. I’m not sure why I wasn’t given the usual burgundy top to get changed into, but it is what it is. As the radiographer was doing the ultrasound, she said that she had already looked at the mammogram and – the treatment has worked beautifully – was how she broke the news to me. She said if it wasn’t for the titanium marker that had been attached to the cancerous cells, she wouldn’t have found where it was. She turned the screen to me, like I was an expectant mother, and showed me the titanium marker and the area where the cancer had been found. She said that all that was there was either a small lump, or a scar in my tissue where the cancer once was. That will all be cut out, and hopefully many of the breast cysts will go too. I came out of the room and gave the good news to Simon and Emily. I then called Hannah to let her know too. Simon then took Emily and I out to Scott’s of Southend for a celebratory lunch. Unfortunately, Hannah was off to work so she couldn’t join us. We will have to go out to dinner instead.  

      By the evening, I was struggling with a sore throat. I didn’t think anything of it as sometimes it is the side effect of the immunotherapy. I was very cold at bedtime, so Simon had to stay cuddling up with me to keep me warm. My extremities were frozen. When I woke in the morning, Day 17, Saturday, my cheeks were bright red, and I wasn’t feeling right. First thing I did was to take my temperature and one ear said 37.7 and the other was 38.4, which instantly put me into a panic. I know it’s Day 17 but that doesn’t mean that my immunity is enough to fight off an infection. By 11am, I had been taking my temperature every 15 minutes, and it hadn’t gone under 37.5 so I called the emergency number for advice. It took them an hour to return my call, and I knew what they would say, if it hasn’t gone down, I will need to go to A&E. I was put on hold for a few minutes whilst they nurse checked with the doctor, so I checked my temperature again. 37.3. I told the nurse the new reading and he said that if it goes up again, I need to go straight there. I said I would, but I really didn’t want to. It was the thought of going in and being stuck on a ward for a few days that scared me. I don’t want to be observed; I wanted peace and quiet to get better. 

      My body told me it was tired, so I took myself off to bed for a nap. When I awoke, my temperature was still under 37.5 and it continued to gradually go down as the day went on. This morning it is back to normal. Just a bloody shame that I had to cancel a Saturday night out because I was worried that getting a cold was going to lead to sepsis. The chemo nurse had said to me yesterday that I am still in the vulnerable stage and I must look after myself. I’m just glad that it happened now and not a few months ago. It would’ve postponed my treatment. I’m hoping it doesn’t affect the immunotherapy on the 13th. I don’t want to take a cold onto the chemo unit. I had a few coughing fits during the night, my nose is a bit sniffy, but that is about it. I will stay home and look after myself until it’s gone. 

    • Saturday 27th December 2025 

      Day 10 and this round of chemotherapy has done everything just slightly early, which has thrown me a little bit. Even down to the diarrhoea that started in the morning instead of the evening. The fuzziness started Thursday instead of Friday along with the strange aches and pains in the legs and the indigestion (I dislike the indigestion as it makes it feel as if there is something constantly stuck in my throat/chest). It didn’t ruin Christmas for us though as everything was very dialled down. It all felt relaxed and exactly what I needed. I didn’t get breathless once and Simon and Emily helped so much in the kitchen. I mean, it was only left-over vegan turkey, with jacket potatoes, cauliflower and broccoli cheese, and glazed carrots. But I wasn’t on my own in the kitchen. Simon and Emily went out to see Nanny and Granddad, whilst I did not much, and for the rest of the evening we just all lay on the sofa watching tv and eating cheese and crackers. It was weird not having Hannah with us, but she had her Christmas Day with Tom and his family. It was perfect for us. 

      I had to give in to the painkillers last night and had a couple of them at 2am. I thought I could cope, I wasn’t using the hot water bottle either, but I could feel myself curling up into a ball which is what happened the first time I had the pains. I’ve only taken paracetamol twice in the past 22 weeks and both times it has made me dizzy about half an hour afterwards. It’s no doubt in the long list of side effects that paracetamol might give you, but I only ever usually take it for a headache or cold and used to think it was connected to that.  

      The other difference to this round is my family. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I have been more determined to do things, or maybe I look better (the jury is out on that one), but they have been expecting me to do more than I have done previously. Yes, there have been days where they have had to do a lot for me, and I have always been very grateful for the help. But Simon thought that I would like to go to the Southend United Boxing Day match. Then today, he made a comment about having to go shopping on his own (the girls are at work) as if I have always gone shopping throughout my treatment (I haven’t on this week as I’m only allowed to see one or two people at home, not the busy aisles of a supermarket). Maybe, to them, they saw my last chemotherapy day as the last day of treatment and it’s all over. Unfortunately for my body I have been treating Day 21 as the last day, as that’s when I would’ve been back to the hospital for the next round. So, for now, I’m trying to take it easy on my body and not push it too hard. It’s coped so far, I don’t want to exhaust it when the end is in sight. I just don’t want a set back and need a blood transfusion because I pushed myself too much because my family has left me doing too much. 

      It’s weird how much I am acutely aware of how my body is and what I need to do to help it now. On a normal day, I would eat my breakfast, go to work, get a rumbly stomach at 11am, ignore it, carry on working without any drink or food, eat before leaving work (or if I was getting angry), come home, have a cup of tea, then wonder why I was grumpy git. It’s as if I was just taking advantage of my body as I thought it was perfectly healthy. Funny that. 

      Now, I am seeing a regular physiotherapist to help my body cope with strains it has on through chemotherapy. She knows instantly the weeks that I have been feeling sickly as my back curls more inwards. My legs become misaligned when my back has been at its worst. And she is now helping me with my right arm as my bicep muscle is now constricting the tendons down it as I spend most of my time trying to protect the picc line from any danger or harm.  

      My fluid intake has never been this high in years. I drink all the time, even if I don’t like it or if it tastes weird, I move on to the next drink until I am satisfied. I drink more to flush through the toxins in my body and get them out quicker. I drink more to keep my bowels softer as the other option is bloody painful. I drink more because I don’t want to be told off by the nurse again, who said that my blood levels were down as I hadn’t kept myself hydrated! The only downside is that my bladder never tells me that it is full, but the elastic or the button on my waistband does. I used to say that I had the bladder of a camel. I now realise that my lack of fluid during the day was not something I should be boasting about. 

      Even though my back and thighs are still hurting today, the fuzziness is lifting. It is starting to feel like my body is mine again and it’s making me feel a bit itchy to start planning things. Chemotherapy has always been hanging over my head as the thing that has stopped me from doing things/going places. I didn’t want to catch germs and affect the treatment, so I only went to small places with few people. Now I can start thinking about going on a train to London, going to a pub, or even going to a gig. But the thing I have been craving the most is to be able to book something without having to check the calendar to see if that is on the right week. Most of my replies to people’s invites have been – sorry, it’s not my good week. Or they check with me first to see what date I can do before they even book anything. The freedom to do what I want, when I want, is tantalizingly close. 

      The frustration of not knowing dates for surgery or radiotherapy is annoying as it is still putting all my plans on hold. Yes, I have a plan. Not big life changing plans, but when you’ve been self-isolating and watching people get on with life, it really makes you want to get out of the world and explore places that you have put off going to. I mean, these are not life-changing things. I’m not suddenly going to sell everything and move abroad, but I’m not going to sit at home every day. There are loads of local walks that I have never done. I used to go to the gym late at night as I was at work during the day, now I can see what I’ve been missing! And I need to go back. I have done a lot of resting, a bit too much.  

      Mantra for the next part of my life:  

      Do something for you, every day. 

    • Tuesday 23rd December 2025 

      I’m hoping this is the last time that I feel like this. The ups and downs of chemotherapy have been tough, and sometimes they are manageable. And then there are days like today when I don’t want to go through it all again, but I am already on the rollercoaster, so I just get on and cope with it.  

      I went to bed at 10pm last night and I’m pretty sure I fell asleep shortly afterwards. But sleep didn’t stay; the hot flushes started so I had to throw the covers off to cool down. That didn’t last long so I had to cover myself over again. And then the hot flush came back. You can repeat this all night and include in the dream that I had where I needed to get myself a drink, but I didn’t wake up in real life and bit myself on the cheek quite hard. So that woke me up as it really hurt, and then I was worried that I had damaged the inside of my mouth. I struggled to get back to sleep and was worried about keeping Simon awake, but he was already struggling with his own inability to have a good night’s sleep. A bad night’s sleep doesn’t really set you up for the day very well. 

      Breakfast was a struggle. I woke up thinking that I’m hungry, so I took the anti-sickness pills so that I can eat, but my tastebuds have gone and there is nothing that I want to eat. I eat something bland as food needs to be consumed, but what’s the point of eating when you can’t taste anything. It all seems pointless, and that is where the problem is. Everything is an effort. Water doesn’t even taste right. Tea doesn’t taste right. I can manage some sparkling water as that tastes better, but there is no joy in anything. Food tastes strange, but my stomach rumbles and I want to eat, but I don’t know what to eat to help. I had some toast with cream cheese and cucumber on the top and couldn’t taste a single morsel of it. I currently have a peppermint chewing gum in my mouth as that is the only thing I can taste right now. 

      My hands and skin feel so weird. It’s like every nerve ending is a bit numb. I can feel something in my fingers as I type, there are electrical pulses that I can feel occasionally but most of my body doesn’t feel like I’m connected to it. My hand rubbed against the side of my face as it felt a bit sore, but it felt more like a swollen cheek that had no idea what was being brushed against it. My skin is soft, but dry, and needs covering in moisturiser. I need to have a bath, but I don’t want to get cold getting in the bath, so I stay wrapped up in my dirty clothes because being uncomfortably cold is worse. My eyes want to stay closed, but my brain wants to be awake. I want to read my book because I have got to a good bit, but I don’t want to read as I can’t concentrate on what the words are saying. I could watch a programme, but what’s the point as I will fall asleep whilst it’s on. I could lie on the sofa and stare at a screen, but I don’t want to. There are lots of things that I want to do, but I just don’t want to do them as everything seems pointless. I don’t have the energy to do anything or the inclination to even try and do anything. The lethargy of chemotherapy is the hardest part for me.  

      The hospital told me the other day that my red blood cell count was low again. When I had the blood transfusion, it took my levels up to ninety-nine. It has since gone down to eighty-seven, then eighty-five, then up to eighty-seven, but they want me to give them a call if the tiredness is back as they will get me booked in for another transfusion. I would rather not have that as it made me feel a sick last time. I am trying to make the effort to get up and get dressed and do things around the house, but it is hard. 

      My fingernails have gotten too long, and they are annoying me, but I can’t face cutting and filing them. My nose is so cold and there is not one item of clothing that I can wear to help keep it warm, and it annoys me. Socks feel weird on my feet, but I need to keep my feet warm, so I wear them and my slippers. I’m hungry, I can’t taste anything, then my stomach gets bigger and my jogging bottoms get too tight, and then I hoist them up over the stomach bulge and don’t like how I feel. 

      I just feel like I’m moaning about anything and everything because there is nothing that can be done to help. It won’t last much longer. I know it won’t last much longer, but I wish it would stop soon.