Is cancer out?


Walking in a daze from the Genetics appointment to head to the hospital, I thought my head was going to explode. If I hadn’t been in turmoil about getting the result, I was now! Thoughts spun through about implications of all of this, whether my cub would have to endure difficult conversations and actions to take when she was eighteen, whether wider family would be affected and how it would affect them. I nearly turned back round at one point, walked back into the hospital, saw the lady and told her to ‘sod it’ I don’t want to know. As we both got in the car, we were silent. It was the most bizarre journey to get the next lot of news. We had nothing to say but dwell in our own thoughts and potential outcomes.

Once we had parked up we made our way in to an empty waiting room, and waiting Pauline. It was the quietest I have ever seen the waiting room, and after Pauline had checked that my lovely consultant was free she tool me through to check the wound initially. Dressing removed and that was all fine, but a blip of a moment when she said had I noticed the pea lump where the original biopsy had been taken. I had, but was naively ignoring it as just part of the healing process. When she called the consultant into the room, while there was slight panic in me, I was also assessing whether he had good or bad news. I mean, its difficult to tell when someone is poking about at you boob level whether they have good or bad news I discovered!

After declarations that it seemed to be scar tissue, and would be fine (no surgery needed – I mean if there had been my head would have exploded!) I was lead through to the clinical office. I have never been praying so hard in my life and I’ve not thought that praying would work since I was thirteen years old and worked out that church was a bit hypocritical.

‘There were clear margins this time’ were the next words I heard. I should have leapt off the chair and hugged him. I should have felt ecstatic. I should have been grinning from ear to ear. I should have done a lot of things. But I sat, as per usual, nodding. So the Cancer is out. That lump is gone. There was a recap of the previous surgery around the nodes – two out of seven cancerous. Less than three is acceptable. Still bugs me a little bit that the line has been drawn at three. And all I continued to think was I should be feeling happier than I was. This was the news I had waited just over three months for. This was absolutely the best result I could have hoped for. Cancer was out of my body. It was gone. I was clear. Why wasn’t I feeling wonderful.

Well, maybe the next ten minutes shadowed it a bit. A discussion about chemo, there would be six lots, every three weeks. Starting likely four to six weeks after the operation so the wound could heal. I would get a letter through the post to meet the Oncologist at a closer hospital to home. I would return to see Pauline and my lovely consultant in February to talk about next steps as I would have Genetic results by then. I could talk about those results and depending on the news I can consider mastectomy or just get them sorted out to match! I had a little internal giggle again. There was a lot of time mentioned, and head mathematics clearly worked out that Christmas this year is going to be a little bit f**ked. Also likely to be finishing chemo at my big Birthday in March. Oh, then I’d forgotten, there was radiotherapy. And to be honest I haven’t got a bloody clue what that actually entails. At least I kind of know that chemo is injected full of some fancy drugs that ruin your immune system while attacking the bad cells. Radiotherapy – not a clue. I’m going to live in blissful ignorance for a while yet.

My poor head (and the man cubs) is battered by the time we leave the hospital to head home. And we have to explain it all to the parentals who are looking after the cub. I honestly think we need a dictaphone to these conversations as we never remember half of it, and I always get asked questions that I don’t have the answers too. ‘When will you start chemo?’ – I don’t know.  ‘So cancer won’t come back?’ – I don’t know. ‘What happens if you do have BRAC gene?’ – I don’t know (might piss off a lot of people?). And on it went. Until I had closed down completely.

But at the end of the day, Cancer was gone. Today was the end of one long journey, and the start of the new journey. Cancer may be out of my body, but this journey has utterly changed me already and I’m sure it will continue to do so for some time.

Genetics Analysis… phew… brutal!



Well today is the day, second time round. Has my lovely soft voiced, limp handshake consultant got this damn cancer out of my body. That’s going to have to wait a while, as I need to go to work! It is school half term, so I escape in early light with the car and leave the cub and her daddy sleeping like angels. All the while I am silently bricking it. I had no meetings / commitments to be going in for other than the fact that I had taken the last two days off as leave to see my best friend and her family; and that I work full time, which means I actually need to do some work! I had totally loved my two days with the bestie though, we had spent time together, laughed, joked and were happy – watching our cubs enjoying life as they always do and none the wiser of what the next stage may hold. And that had been fine.

The drive to work was the most brutal I have ever felt in terms of turmoil of emotions. I knew by the end of the day I would have a result. I just didn’t know how I would cope with either. Don’t get me wrong, cancer being out would be the preferred result; but would I feel better. I didn’t know yet.

What I kept dismissing was the little Genetics appointment in between. I had no pre-conceived ideas on that appointment at all. After bailing work early I picked the man cub up and passed over actual cub responsibilities to her Nannan and Daddit (affectionate names for the parentals).

We arrived at our little Community Hospital and before long we were in a small cupboard (which appeared to constitute an adequate environment to discuss serious Cancer conversations!), with a lady who decided that her first question would be ‘do you know why you’re here’. At that point I was caught on the back foot. Erm, I was surely there because I had Cancer, and I was under 40 and I had no family history. None. Which still confuses me. So I said just that!

Thereafter, the lady launched into a twenty minute spiel, with no pause for breath – I didn’t even get a moment to do my usual nod and ‘mmm’. There was a barrage of words, half that I didn’t understand, Angelina Jolie was mentioned more than three times, seventy percentage points were raised in varying degrees of severity against certain scenarios. She mentioned I was triple negative a couple of times which I need to go and look at. They want to look for the BRAC 1 and 2 gene and another M?? Gene. Ovarian Cancer and full removal of all associated body parts was mentioned. There was a 50% chance of something that would lead to that. And then the absolute punch paragraph in her ending speech was that I might upset relatives if I did have a dodgy gene as my sister would need to be checked, my cub could opt to get checked at 18, the parentals could be checked to see where it came from so then it could spread to wider cousins. And I could cause a lot of upset. Because all of those folk who could possibly be affected could end up making a decision about a full mastectomy.

Final question – did I really want to get checked?

By this point my head was exploding again. I was staring at Ryan willing him to say just anything, but he looked equally as shell shocked as I did. I mean, what should I say, is there a right or wrong way to deal with this. As we paused for breath, the charming lady (I mean I hadn’t even caught her profession!) was talking again. I could wait until all treatment was done, it was going to take at least three months to get the results anyway, I could wait another ten years, the offer was on the table and wouldn’t be retracted, legislation could change in testing and even if it did they couldn’t retract it as they’d offered it now. These head explosions were off again!

In all honesty, by this point it felt like she was trying to convince me NOT to go through with it. She mentioned again about upsetting folk. She mentioned that the cub would have to live with whatever decision I made. But surely she had a right to know what she was living with.

Honestly, this appointment in my journey was the worst by far. I was so confused with what was required of me, but what I wanted to require. I would quite like to know whether I have a gene, or it is just my lifestyle that might have caused this cancer. If it is the former, my cub needs to know this, if it is the latter, then my cub also needs to know that.

After finally agreeing (I mean, I just said take the bloody blood sample) to be tested, I had the actual blood sample taken and we were done. Walking out of the cupboard, in a daze, done. I’ve never been so confused in my life. I have no idea what has just happened. But my head now needs to process whether I have got cancer out of my body. I can’t dwell on this. But I am damn sure I will return to this craziness and try and deal with it in the future.

I’ve still got this.

The insanity (and emotions) of waiting AGAIN!



Wound check booked in for the 12/10. And follow up booked for 24/10 (two weeks – again. 2 weeks. Just the natural timescale of things in this bloody cancer journey).

How is it possible that two small weeks, 14 small days, can break every faucet of your sanity and have you wishing time away more than usual. Its just so hard. And I am certainly more than bored with this now. I am also feeling significantly better. I haven’t taken any painkillers today which would have been unheard of last time. What a difference not having those pesky lymph nodes out.

I feel quite flat today still. I still can’t quite believe it might be out. I’ve put a good face on it, but I’ve no where to turn. The FB group I joined is a baffling arena. A lot of words I don’t understand and if I Googled I probably would, but that rabbit hole isn’t worth exploring. Someone did say that they were at the end of their treatment, and that was when emotions hit. When will that be me? Although I did have a chuckle with someone when they said their hair was growing back brown and curly after being blonde and straight. I told her I hoped to go the other way!

Fuelled by a bit  (make that quite a bit!) of dutch courage, tonight is the night I have shared my FB blog page onto my personal page, with my FB friends (which includes real friends!). It was the first time that I felt like I could share the word and be strong enough to deal with the fall out. It felt like I could own this, even though I was feeling a bit down. I needed some positivity and I wanted to share the message. It was also quite cathartic.


Received the nicest gift from a beautiful soul – a book entitled ‘F*** you Cancer’ and a wee acorn bracelet. I’m going to use the picture on an older related post which I am about to release, as it’s appropriate, but the absolute sentiment nearly broke me. My breathing started getting out of control again. And I had dark thoughts early doors about those damn lymph nodes. Why does your mind do that to you? Sneak negative thoughts when you want to feel a bit happier.

I had the wound check today and had to take my mother. She was not invited in to meet the lovely Pauline though! All positive at the check, and still another possible empty promise that I might get results back quicker (this is me remember, I will not hold my breath!). I still have cording which I need to keep doing exercises for, and I am still numb under my armpit. Its still the weirdest feeling putting deodorant on but apart from that I don’t even notice it.


I am off to a wedding. And I am really excited, but also couldn’t feel less attractive or more tired. The child got a last minute invite which I am grateful for as she will keep me distracted, and I cannot wait to see the dress. As work colleagues we have lived the planning of this wedding over the last few weeks, and I’m sure this is dress number 7! Could be more! The lead up to going to the wedding was also hilarious as the cub asked me why her daddy hadn’t married me. Then asked him why! And said that if he loved me he should and she would like a wedding! She might break him yet!!

P.S The dress was gorgeous, I mean absolutely stunning. Perfect night for a perfect couple.


I’m back at work. I feel better, and it is constantly on the back of my mind that I am using up sickness absence that I may need with chemo. Its all fair and well the hospital saying ‘take months off’ but it doesn’t pay the bills. Plus I am absolutely demented and need the distraction. Work is so busy at this time of year and I thrive on that. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I spend my days dealing with the most bizarre situations that I would need another blog to deal with! But the social interaction and daily chuckles keep me from sinking into a hole of self doubt, a wallowing place where I doubt everything I feel and could get close to Googling the life out of my symptoms. I have avoided that so far and I am determined to keep doing so! (I so avoid it, that when pregnant I was no where near prepared for the actual labour bit, when they check how far along you are. Any other mama bear knows what I mean, but I still remain in complete shock about that situation!).


I’m starting to feel like a fraud. I don’t have a visible disability. I don’t feel unwell (now). I am functioning physically as I always have done. I am mentally a bit battered, but for all sense and purpose nothing has changed. Which means when I see friends, I struggle to articulate how I feel. The answer to everything is ‘I’m fine’, but that isn’t really the case. I am changed. I have changed. I have a scar that will remind me always that cancer was taken out of my body. And I have a numb armpit! That wasn’t something I ever expected at the start of this journey!! And at some point I will need to tap into counselling. Something I never thought I would do, but something I now know I will need. It does feel like the psychological impact of cancer is underestimated in its entirety. I don’t know if I would get it if I asked for it. I may well. But it hasn’t been offered (apart from a nod to it in case we wanted to consider fertility issues at the start and that I might get it when chemo starts). At this moment we are dealing with the ‘cancer’. Which is good and I am happy with that. But reading the FB group page I joined, it seems common that second surgery is a thing. Which is devastating for all concerned.


The night before the consultant appointment. It doesn’t really have the same ring as the Night before Christmas does it?!! I also have the genetics appointment tomorrow so it’s going to be a busy day of information overload! I feel mad at Cancer tonight. Annoyed that I am living this damn journey and some self pity is creeping in, which isn’t something I need. Even if the Cancer is all gone tomorrow, I still have to go through chemo. Which I still can’t get my head round that this is when I will ‘look’ ill, but actually be Cancer free. What do I say to the cub then? I am fine – just dealing with a gruelling regime to make sure it doesn’t ever come back. Again, I don’t fully understand it

But I’ve got this. Always!

The conversation piece!


P.S. Up front! Which is the wrong way round but after much deliberation I have decided to put this main script up front. Purely because I do not want to cause offence, but need to clarify why I have had a laugh with this post.

All of the below makes me sound ungrateful. A complete b**ch towards those people that actually ask the question. And I probably need to put some context to some of it. Cancer is a funny one, people have not known what to ask and I can see them struggle with it. And in all honesty, I would probably have fallen into at least one or two categories below before I became ‘that person with cancer’. It’s the fact that my brain isn’t in that sane place that everyone usually is (if you ever could have said I was sane!).

Where usually you do your usual pass in a corridor or on the stairs, someone says ”Morning, you alright’ and to be fair you could have either had the best morning in the world, or a raging fight with everyone in your life and your response will still be typically British, ‘yeah, fine, how are you?’. That’s just what we do isn’t it, but as I have found, cancer changes everything. I never thought it could, but by god it does. It delves into every part of you and my head is in a strange place where jealousy is becoming like the green eyed monster.

I’ve never thought jealousy was a good trait, I still don’t. And lets be fair, we all have moments (when someone has splashed the cash you don’t have and got the dress/shoes/bag/item that you really wanted), but its usually dashing. However, it is now a little more permanent. I am jealous of everyone being carefree, cancer free, not worrying, continuing life. And my life is permanently changed now. This leads to a much bigger conversation but for the moment, I’ll just leave these conversation snapshots out there as a reminder – for me. People do care. They just do it in their own way. And in all honesty I wouldn’t want it any other way. If anything it helps my inner demon release itself in inventive ways! Which is quite fun!! (as mention, I may not be sane!).

For those who do ask – I’ve still got this. And I’m ok! (Ask me – and I will reply!!)


Betty: how are you feeling?

Me: Great, thanks.

Inner me: How the f**k do you think I’m feeling?!


Mabel: how are you holding up?

Me: Just fine thanks.

Inner me: Holding up what – the broken left tit? With the usual boulder slingers thanks!


Gwen: You’re looking well.

Me: Thanks

Inner me: Should I look like something else? Should I be crying constantly? Or actually, should I just take that as a random compliment that I look better than I usually do?


Dorothy: Oh you know, my husbands sisters husbands aunty had it. And she was fine.

Me: Ah, good to hear. How is she now?

Dorothy: Ah, she died a few years later with secondary cancer.

Me: Ah, sorry to her that.

Inner me: WTAF, do you think that is helpful to me in any way, shape or form. NO. No it is not.


Bertha: Ah, are you ok?

Me: Yeah. Fine thanks.

Bertha: Are you sure?

Me: Yep, all good.

Bertha: But are you really sure?

Me: Yep (as I leave).

Inner me: Leave me the f**k alone Bertha, I answered the first time, and the second. The third was a joke. Just drop it. Unless you’re a first grade counsellor you are the last person I am talking too.


Johnny: Hows the bairn doing?

Me: Yeah, shes fine thanks.

Johnny: You sure?

Inner me: Well I’m not bloody sure now thanks Johnny, I was 2mins ago, but not now. Cheers!


Miles: You know they’ve made great inroads into recovery for cancer patients now?

Me: Is that right?

Inner self: What do you read in your spare time Miles, f**king medical journals. Or The Sun? Stop trying to be a clever bastard and just ask Bettys question!


Jenny: How are you doing psychologically?

Me: OK

Jenny: I know it can be hard on you.

Inner self: do you Jenny, you haven’t had cancer (I do know that before you ask), so how the actual s**t do you know it can be hard on you. I am psychologically thinking about a murder and that might not be good for me at this moment of time.


Eva: how you doing (with a raised eyebrow)

Me: Just great thank you

Inner me: Would it help you if I was a crying, snivelling wreck? Would you then believe I was ill?


Jane: You know, you might be one of the lucky ones where your hair doesn’t fall out.

Me: Thanks Jane.

Inner me: Jeez Jane, you’re a real treasure to be around. Full of joy. I am already b****rding unlucky to have cancer, you telling me I might be a lucky one not to lose my hair isn’t f**king helpful!


Followed by

Jane: so when will you actually start losing your hair?

Inner me: that’s it Jane, you are going the same route as Jenny and I am having murderous thoughts. Drop it!


Ben: I didn’t like to ask, but, you know, I heard.

Me: Yeah, I’m ok.

Ben: I’m sure you are.

Inner me: One of the most sincere conversations I have ever had. (N.B. He knows who he is!)


P.P.S. All of these questions have been asked, responded too and inner thoughts have been the truthful version. All names have been changed to protect identities (I mean if I worked with Betty, Mabel, Gwen, Dorothy and Bertha I’d think I was working in a 60’s admin office for Miles!!). But no longstanding offence has ever been taken as per original P.S.

Second operation – GET IT OUT PLEASE!



I have had the worst bloody nights sleep. So tired. And it is my own Mama Bears birthday and her cub is off to hospital to get cancer removed for the second time. Happy Birthday Mam!!

My poor dad comes to pick me up in darkness to get me to the hospital and I leave my cub sleeping. Oblivious to the fact her mama is still fighting for her. The car conversation was usual between my dad and I – quiet! I adore my dad but he well knows I am not a morning person. (One of my first jobs entailed me working in the same place as him, and we used to walk for the bus in silence, and some days sat in different locations once we got on it!!) By the time he dropped me off (I had to give him directions again as he has the memory of a sieve these days!) we had started some random football chat – mainly so I could make him feel better!!

Now this time, I didn’t get the nurse who had annoyed me calling me through – this one was equivalent of me in my morning silence. She did what she needed to do. Checked me in. Front and back facing gowns were on and I was sat waiting. And then it started. The old dears (male to the right, female straight facing) started up a chat as their curtains were still open. And the chat went on. And on. And on. They did a quick preview of whole life stories. And then delved into the stories that led them to be sat in the hospital that day. By the time my consultant came round I’ve never been so grateful to be told I was first up for surgery! Although the distraction was quite hysterical, I wasn’t quite in the mood. They were a lovely pair though! I’m just not that bloody sociable! Especially at 7am!!

I was down for surgery before 9am, and messaging Ryan by 11am to say I was out and eating biscuits. It still makes me chuckle that biscuits must be cheaper than toast now and saving the NHS fortunes! I was woken up this time in a big recovery room (I cried again – for no reason!) and then  got wheeled on the bed back to the surgery rooms. That was an experience lying flat on a bed being wheeled at speed down the corridors! But I could already tell the difference in that op to the one before. I didn’t feel quite as fragile, I wasn’t in as much pain. But I was translucent. I went home and had another nana nap.

Then realised I had forgotten to get a sick note. Spoke to Pauline and she said to go to the doctors the next day, but also it would be a good idea to get the flu jabs for all of us. Just another reminder that something isn’t right with my body and everyone else needs to get in line with that. I am booked in for Friday to get the wound checked, and next consultant appointment would be on 24 October. Another two weeks to wait. The natural course of time in this bloody journey – two weeks. I was told it was possible that as it was small I may get results early. But hey, this is me we’re talking about! I won’t hold my breath. I was pale as can be by the time I fell into bed.


I had a bad sleep last night. I woke up, decided I wasn’t ready to get up and went back to sleep. But had the worst disjointed sleep, dreaming bizarre thoughts (not so vivid this time that I can remember them like last!), but I woke up screaming crying again. I pulled it together quickly before I collapsed. I need to focus on the getting better and my cub is home tonight. I can’t be a snivelling wreck. I just don’t know how to deal with it yet.

I also don’t know how I feel today. I don’t know why I don’t feel different. I don’t know that I can believe the cancer is out. I thought I might be relieved. I don’t. I am a bit flat. Its funny that life continues around you. People were on the ball the first time checking in, but in reality its boring for them to remember the second time. Why should they? Their lives are continuing and I don’t hold that against them. I just have envy that I was living that naïve life not so long ago and now I am changed. Forever different in that this secret killer was in my body and still could be again. Its funny what a hidden, unseen horror can do in the depths of soul.

I decide to do something relatively positive in accepting the situation I am in and join a secret FB group for those poor buggers on the same journey as I am. They seem really nice, as I got a warm welcome. But I haven’t made it as far as reading through any posts yet. That seems too far just yet. But I made the first step. And for me that was a massive achievement.

I’ve still got this. I am fighting and am strong.

The waiting game continues…



Well I might have woken up with a wee hangover and headed into work with what felt like the weight of the world on my shoulders. Drinking and dark thoughts are not a good idea, even less so the next morning with a headache and dark thoughts. I was in a stinking mood. My poor work colleagues didn’t ask any tricky questions thankfully and allowed me to pull myself together before I dropped the news that the cancer was still there. I needed another operation and was still in amongst this crazy journey of being a cancer patient.

After making it to 2pm, I finally bailed it (thankfully my employer is awesome!) and went home. I crawled into bed for an afternoon nap, still feeling so annoyed and frustrated. This was definitely the worst I had felt in this whole sorry journey so far. I didn’t even feel this bad after the initial diagnosis, but I think the fact that cancer is still part of my body is preying on my mind the longer it is in there. Also found out today that a friend has skin cancer. God, that bloody word. I hate it.


Last night was a funny one – I went to a friends birthday gathering and it was one of those where everyone asks ‘how are you’ with a raised eyebrow and a look. I mean, my answer was ‘I’m fine’. But what else do you say in that situation – you can’t start blubbing and breaking down. But that’s the issue – I don’t ‘look’ like a cancer patient. Which is bizarre isn’t it, you don’t look like a cancer patient when the actual cancer is in your body. You only start looking like one when you have chemo, which in most cases is after cancer has been removed from your body (I mean I say most cases, I am not an expert on this, that is just me; some people do have chemo first before surgery to shrink the cancer tumour but they just tried to get mine out – and when I say tried, they didn’t try hard enough!!). I do wonder whether people would deal with it better if I was a mess?


It doesn’t feel like it was just last week that I got told I’m back in for surgery and that cancer is still invading my body and soul. The cording in my armpit is killing me still (but I am a bit lax with the exercises as keep forgetting to do them!!). The bloody waiting game is an absolute pain, but thankfully as I work with University students it is FRESHERS!! Our busiest week of the calendar year and I am back to buzzing about it. It is also an amazing distraction for me as I am not a patient mama bear. Although the workload is brutal for the week (and I forget a few times that I can’t lift and carry as was witnessed by a few folk as I chucked a chair across the room when the pain in my arm reminded me), I am back in my happy, normal, me place. I am back to being the usual  stubborn pain in the backside that my lovely team and colleagues have to deal with. I’m a little bit shouty again, which is what they know and expect!


Hen Do time! After a brutal week, I made the decision to go to a colleague and friends hen do. It also got me out of another childs party but meant I had to do the next day! I had an amazing time, and as I didn’t know the majority of company it was refreshing not being eyed up with pity. I felt a lot more like me again. I can’t say that I was my freshest self the next day at the first party I have had to do this year, but it felt ok finally taking the cub to a party where she loves every minute of it. I worked hard on my crazy anxiety and sat with other mams, making small talk, supping a coffee and at no point saying anything about the internal hell that we as a family were living. Its not a conversation opener that’s for sure!


After a long and tiring Freshers week, I am ready for this surgery. I need it. Tomorrow I need to go back to sleep in a hospital gown and pray (hmmm) that my lovely surgeon gets the last bit of this cancer out. I need it out of my body now. My mind is all over the place, every pain in my body starts my brain going into overload. Has the cancer spread. Is it seeping into my body. My sane mind knows this isn’t a thing (I haven’t started any googling yet so that’s still a good sign!). The cancer cloud still hangs over though and it is relentless in its mission to break you.

But I’ve still got this. I’m still fighting and I’m still waiting!!

F**ty, F**k, F**k, F**K



Today my world fell apart. This time much more than it did before at initial diagnosis of cancer. Which is weird right? But honestly, I took this news internally worse than I did the first time.

I need to rewind a little bit. I was in to see the consultant again today. I was already in a bit of a weird mood after my dark thoughts the last few days, but Ryan and I were bantering again in the waiting room. I mean there is only so many times we can share and read the ‘Caravanning Club’ magazine!!! We literally at this point had read / scanned every twenty-hand magazine in there!! (P.S. I should buy them some mags or pass on the cubs RSPB ones to give some new life to the place!!).

By the time we got called I was chilled. It was fine as I was about to get the next plan. Two weeks post op and I was first seen by our lovely Pauline. She checked the wound and removed the dressing, ugh (still a lower armpit wax and it ripped lovely!). It’s not a bad sight but its still a scar right under my armpit. Which will be interesting trying to ever wear a summer dress or a bikini. (To be honest this is also pretty slim option for me – we go camping in the British Isles – there is rarely any bikini wearing! And a summer dress, well its knocking on winter so everything is going to be covered lovely, so what I am worried about at this point is beyond me!). I also spoke to her about the weird tendons that I believed were popping out of my armpit. No, no, they had a medical term. Cording. That happens to 5% of folk (of course that would be me), and is a tightening of the lymphatic fluid solidifies (by this point I was in a blur so maybe that isn’t the right wording) and causes the skin to cord. I can do exercises but possibly that won’t help and I will have to live with. Oh joy! Lets start weird arm exercises. The numbness I was still experiencing was also discussed – that could very well be permanent – I’m telling you, it is the most bizarre feeling in the world!

Then we trotted out of the medical room into the consultant room –  I mean they are both concrete in their humanity. They have no windows, more doors than a room should have and reek of clinical oppression.

So my consultant started talking. With his beautifully low toned voice he caresses you into a calm space. Then he delivered the blow. The news. The real facts of bloody cancer. They had taken seven lymph nodes from my armpit (no wonder I was in bloody agony and appreciate I am numb now). From those seven lymph nodes two were cancerous. My mind was blown at that point – at no point when they did previous tests did they say this had spread to lymph nodes. In fact I’m sure when I had the crazy mammogram day they had taken a sample and it was clear.  So think sparklers going off in my head at this moment.

Then the Catherine Wheel went off – ‘so Kirsty, one side out of six of the breast lump wasn’t clear of cancer, so we need to re-operate’.

BOOM. My head exploded. My thoughts exploded. My world exploded. And I still sat there, just nodding nicely at the nice consultant, the lovely Pauline, some random trainee, the man cub who was clutching my knee by this point. AND I JUST NODDED. As if we were discussing a lovely situation, a holiday perhaps, a nice bit of news. I kept nodding even as the paperwork was filled in again for the next operation. As I was asked if I consented and understood. As the date was set for 9 October, another two weeks later. I signed paperwork, I wrote down the date. And the whole time I didn’t say a word, just kept nodding.

Further news from the consultant – that he had moved ‘things” about in the boob so they weren’t as lopsided (I mean they already were so I don’t know why you tried – but do I say thank you? And also – WTF did he move?). I was so conflicted by this point it was ridiculous. I just wanted this current situation to end.

The man cub and I walked out of the room, did what we do best, and bantered. Could only happen to us, we said. Of course it wasn’t all out, we said. We laughed as we exited the corridor of doom and into the waiting room which was full for the afternoon clinic. They must have thought we had good news. They couldn’t be further from the truth.

Then off we went to my parentals – which is exactly what both of us did not need or want. But exactly what they needed. As a child to an parent, this is the worst conversation you want to have. As a parent, I do never want to hear those words out of my child’s mouth and kind of appreciate that the parentals are freaking the absolute shit out! We chatted with the usual outcome – I am waiting for the next stage, I know nothing, I am living it, I am sorry you are living it. And then we had to pick the cub up. Pretend we were both ok. Play, act, dance, read – the routines stay the same even though the world is imploding. Or is that exploding. I don’t even know anymore.

The alcoholic drinks started pouring at 7pm, and we tried to put it to one side and pretend that this was ok. We were ok. But this was the first time I really knew it wasn’t. I couldn’t ignore this anymore. There was an odd tear, but I still kept the floodgates closed. I know that if I open them they’ll erupt, and I don’t know how I’ll close them again. I know that I’ll end up down a rabbit hole of irrational thoughts and fears that I can’t realistically do anything about. So I maintain steel. It might not be the best way, it probably isn’t, but its my way. And for the moment its what keeps me getting out of bed in the morning.

I still have this. It is a blip in the road. But I’ve still got it.

Mixing up all the emotions!



Genetics sent me a letter. And requested an appointment. WTAF. I was utterly convinced that it would go nowhere. I’ve read that 90% of breast cancer isn’t hereditary. So I have no idea what I would possibly need to see them for. Although I don’t doubt they are clever folk, I really don’t know what I am going to say to them. I then rang the lovely folk upwards of twenty times to make the ‘actual’ appointment and bounced between an answer machine and ringing out. That wasn’t annoying much!


So I’m missing another childs party. It was a long day and I did a bit of wallowing today. Left alone in the house, after a second week off work. I had no cleaning, no ironing, no hoovering. So I sat with cabin fever. I am desperate to start the next phase of this journey and be done with. Come on time and waiting, bring it on!


I went back to work today and I was tired by 11am. My arm was bloody killing as well still and I was popping codeine like they were sweets (only prescription level!). I was absolutely well in my whole self (apart from the nagging pain under my armpit, down the back of my arm, the two tendons that looked like they were popping out of my armpit were definitely odd and my boob was sore).

Genetics ring back midday finally and offer me an appointment locally on 24/10. Really?! A whole month later. There is no urgency in this whole journey that’s for sure! I asked for one at their main centre, they offered the day after. I took the one local!! (More waiting).

I made it through work until 2pm, went on a mission for the bus, got halfway and realised I had no house keys! What a bloody rookie error. I was furious! I did the lived experience of handing the keys I locked the house with to man cub as the driver as they usually live in the car, blatantly forgetting that I didn’t have my own in my bag. Foresight is a wonderful invention and if someone could make it kick in more than twenty minutes before you actually need it, it would be worth a bloody fortune. Frantic message to a friend and neighbour and after a wander round the town centre and spending money on clothes to make me happy (!), I finally got a lift to said neighbours, and then waited until the man and cub came home. I was tired again!


I was searching a few blogs tonight. And didn’t immediately feel bad reading them. I always thought I would. I still haven’t googled anything. I never have (ask anyone who was around me during pregnancy and they will tell you I valiantly avoided any ‘training’ about what would happen! It took me 18 hours to realise I was having contractions!!). The problem with reading blogs though is that they aren’t at the same stage as you. In some instances I don’t even know what the terminology is referring too. There seems to be a lot of chemo terminology and I know I’m going to end up down a google warren sooner or later as clever consultants are notoriously bad at the human touch!



Bored, bored, bored with the pain now. It is somewhat annoying, shooting in an area that in the normal days of life you never feel! Like seriously, have a think about the last time you appreciated you could feel anything in your armpit and down the back of your arm. You never do. Shaving an area that has no feeling is also the weirdest feeling.


I’ve got the consultant tomorrow and dark thoughts are still there and growing. I don’t want to be beaten by this. My baby needs me, the man cub needs me (I think!), but I NEED THEM. My world is too short – I want every day to last 12 hours longer. I read today that 84% of women with breast cancer are not told about the possibility of developing long term anxiety and depression by healthcare professionals (Breast Cancer Care) and it struck a chord. I got it. I actually really got it. This damn cancer does make you doubt your place on earth. Counsellors have only been mentioned twice in this whole journey, firstly in case I wanted to have more kids (I hadn’t and don’t – but by heck it gets you thinking when you know you might not be able to), and secondly after surgery when chemo had started (probably for the body image, but I am guessing). It all felt a bit blasé, after the fact, I might appear to be the strongest, feistiest mama bear, and I probably would clam up in a room with a stranger, but I do think there’s a case for something further here. Its something I need to come back to when my head is straighter.


Consultant appointment tomorrow. I may have had a couple of drinks while I scribbled my heady thoughts and I am dreading it. It feels like it will be ‘move forward or stay put’. And now my head is in a negative place (damn cancer and damn drink!). Aaaagh!!


I still got this though. Game face ready for work again tomorrow. I am on it, I am ready and I am still fighting this.

Post op – the Cancer is out….


So its out. The Cancer is out. And I am tired. More tired than I felt having a new born five years ago. Absolutely dog tired.


I wake up absolutely exhausted and I slept fairly well (I mean as well as you can do with a bra still on and a pain riding down my arm rendering it numb. I decided in my wisdom that a walk on our lovely fells would do me a treat. Well, that was a mistake! Was probably too much as the next day I slept until 11.30am and woke up just as exhausted again. This was not what I expected at all. I did get a lot of flowers though from my thoughtful friends, they made me smile – which girl doesn’t like getting flowers!

The child returned home and I was overjoyed. She has no idea what is going on apart from that my left booby is broken. I think that adequately describes it for her! She keeps asking to be reminded which side she can hug me on and every time it annoys me that this damn cancer is making life a little bit more difficult. I mean, in the grand scheme of things its not that big a deal, but why should my five year old be affected like this. Ugh.


I return to hospital for a wound check with the lovely Pauline. She removes the huge dressing (which was like a lovely painful wax!) and checked it out, but I didn’t really feel like looking at it. I’m not quite prepared for whether it looks a bit weird. But if I’m honest, regardless of the scar, the rest of the boob looks pretty much the same. It doesn’t feel smaller than it was. I mean, it is still smaller than the other one but it doesn’t look different in the main. Although now, I think my relationship with them has totally changed. For anyone that is a mother, I think you change your concept when you’ve breastfed and to be honest it took me a long time to love them after their practicality then. I wonder how long it will take me now to accept them again?

Pauline examined me and although I have a wonderful amount of bruising and numbness in my armpit and down the back of my arm (think the feeling of a trapped nerve constantly) and some water retention, I was declared fairly well! We talked about chemo, which now sounds a lot more scary and an absolute ball ache. Hair loss was mentioned (I am determined that I am coming back blonde and straight!), however there is an ice thing (need to look into that probably) that can help prevent the hair loss. Maybe the dentist had been right when she mentioned that!

Then I was blindsided. We talked about the histology that was going on, and the mention of clear tissue needing to be found round the cancer removed (the analogy was that of a peach stone too close to the surface. If there wasn’t clear peach round the outside of the stone it was bad). In reality this equated to going back under the knife. Ryan and I walked out of there a little bit dazed. We hadn’t thought about that. It wasn’t a thing in my head at all and I didn’t much fancy the idea of another operation before getting started with chemo. I also didn’t want to think about cancer still being in my body. So I parked that thought to deal with at another space and time.  I had a waiting game to deal with and tiredness to knock on the head until 26/09. It was going to be a long week and a half. The bloody ‘long game’ is what cancer treatment should be called. I can only guess if you have more aggressive cancer then it might go quicker. Maybe that is reassuring.


Well, 2am this morning and I nearly broke the floodgates and let all the tears come. It was the most bizarre situation. I was having the weirdest dream with old and new friends, ex work colleagues, snow (? Its still summer!), a basement party, Home & Away stars (even more bizarre), then I was trying to get out a train station and my friend and the Police were there, and I stole a passport from a locker to get through the gates so they arrested me. I mean all that there sounds like I was on a weird trip! But when they told me I would get jailed for six years, I broke to my knees and wailed. I woke up abruptly with silent tears streaming down my face, and after a loo trip I was in the sobbing phase. After sitting in my living room pulling it together, I knew I didn’t want this to be the point I broke. I know that I don’t want to break yet, if ever. I need to fight this with clear head and at this moment in time I don’t need to get into my negative head. I need to be strong. There will be plenty time when this finishes (I hope) that I can cry and look back on it and deal with it. But at this moment in time I am fighting.

At 8am watching some rubbish on TV, the postcode lottery advert was on with their catchy slogan ‘it could happen to anyone’. Well – that felt much like this bloody cancer. It happened to me and I am living it.

I’ve got this. Still waiting, but still strong.

C Day……



Today is the day. It is 6am and I am up and ready,waiting for a lift to the hospital. I feel pumped (although a little grumpy as it is early to be fair). I am ready for this and have been waiting a long time to get this lump out. It is the start of something now, and I have been ready for it for the last two months. The car journey (with my dad) is very quiet. We have no words to deal with this. Which daddy ever wants to take his daughter into hospital to get an operation to get rid of cancer. That entire sentence doesn’t need to be in any bodies vocabulary does it? We are a traditional daddy, daughter pair and I don’t want to be the person who is bringing such pain to his heart.

7.15: At the hospital the call comes out for me and I am led through to the surgical centre by a nurse who felt like false cheer was what I needed this morning. I wasn’t buying it and my grumpus mood probably showed. I wanted to get this done, it was something I needed to do, but I didn’t need to make light of it or inane small chat with a complete stranger. (I was worse than hormonal!). What did perk me up was the fact that the first nurse swapped out and was replaced by a young nurse who had completed the Great North Run two days prior! She was walking like John Wayne and I honestly had empathy with that having done the run a few times, so my mood perked a little bit. (My little wicked self also chuckled at the first nurse having to sweetheart a colleague to deal with me as she couldn’t!!).

8.00: I’m waiting in my two hospital gowns (one front facing, one back facing – the glamour), thrombosis socks and the cheapest pair of totes socks, for the anaesthetist and consultant to come round. I’m harbouring the remnants of a cough from the cold and desperately trying hard to hide it. The anaesthetist came in first and spotted my skulduggary straight away. After a run through of the mandatory questions (how much do you drink? Not enough!!) he brought up the ‘cough’. Thankfully, after a good listen to my lungs he prescribed me well enough to have the op. I have never sighed a bigger sigh of relief. My consultant was in next and again, the limpest hand shake in the world preceded him asking me a lot of the same questions again. But he did confirm I was second up for surgery and the first one in front of me wouldn’t take long. I was on my way! I was getting a lot of messages from friends and family and to be honest time has never passed so fast. I was welcome for the distraction, and in no time I was being called to have a walk by the tallest female I have ever had to walk alongside in my life. I’m little, but she made me feel tiny!

9.15: I was walked along a maze of corridors. Medical equipment and beds lying all over the place, the bowels of the hospital, all the while in the fetching gowns and totes until I entered the outer chamber of the surgical room (I’d imagine there is a proper term for that) where I would be put to sleep. The female nurse who walked me along was lovely and didn’t try to over chatter which considering my mood by that point was a blessing. As I laid on my back, staring at the minute hand of the clock ticking round I breathed deeply waiting for the sleep to come and knowing that when I came round I would be ‘cancer’ free. The lump would be out.

12.30: I was back in the surgical ward pod, and blubbing. Why do I always wake up from anaesthetic blubbing?! It wasn’t even because I was aware of anything at that point, it just appears to be my thing! The poor nurse was still struggling with the act of walking. My blubbing didn’t help her day!! I haven’t cried a single tear about this whole craziness, not one. And I knew this would be the first tear I cried as it appears I am making this my thing. But it still annoyed me that it was involuntary and I didn’t want to yet. This damn cancer wasn’t going to make me cry.

The next thing I knew, as time flew by quickly, I was getting picked up after a cup of coffee and an Hovis biscuit (gone are the slices of toast!). All I knew was my armpit, boob and arm were all in agony. I had a brief look and the plaster was over half of my armpit hair. That was going to feel like a pretty wax when it got taken off. I made it home, entertained the parentals for an hour so they could check I was still alive, then went to bed from 3pm to 7pm. I woke up in terror that I hadn’t said goodnight to my baby (she was at the parentals for the night). Reassured that I hadn’t missed it, I rang and had a lovely crazy chat that involved a lot of questions by me, unanswered by her and requests for me to sing Edeilby (Edelweiss from Sound of Music!) over the phone. I’ve never been so happy.

That night though I finally have the realisation that the Cancer is out!! I might feel battered. But I am relieved, the Cancer IS OUT! I know its only the start of a journey, but by god it feels good that the actual pesky cancer lump is out of my body. Its extremely psychologically positive and I am going to hold onto this feeling for a while…

5, 4, 3, 2, ……



So the referral to Genetics must have finally hit their desk, as I received a significant pack asking for a lot of information that I just didn’t have. This required the parentals who were busy worrying their little hearts out in the Austrian hills, pretending to have a relaxing two week walking holiday. That would have to wait until they returned. I didn’t think it would amount to much anyway as there wasn’t any links in my immediate family to cancer that I was aware of, so I parked that little bit paperwork.


The next step closer to the operation was the pre-op assessment, and helpfully I was loaded with cold. And I mean loaded. Full on phlegm and snot all over and I spent the morning drugged up with paracetamol and flu tablets to try and hide the fact! But in seriousness I wasn’t hiding it from anyone. The nurse was lovely and after asking how long I had the cold for (three days at that point) she said I should be fine for the op in five days. After some blood tests, DNA tests (who knew?!) the first nurse knocks in that she is eleven years clear. Why? I don’t think I understand yet that everyone has a story that they want to share with a cancer patient. Maybe its like that time when you said if you become a mam you won’t talk about your kids 24/7 then you proceed to do exactly that and become the worst hypocrite alive!

After a ECG before I could be released from the assessment, I then went to the dentist where I casually asked if my pearly whites (as pearly as they can be but they are all mine) would be ok in chemo, and she then proceeded to tell me a tale about her mother-in-law and aunty who both had cancer. Why?! Why? However, she did mention that the aunty had used a cooling head pack thingy that had helped her keep her hair through chemo. That might be one thing I google.


Dark thoughts today. Why did I bloody do it? Read an article about someone with Stage four cancer a few days ago, and then read today that she had died and had written birthday cards to her son for all his birthdays. I DO NOT WANT TO LEAVE MY BABY. God, I want to see her grow up. I carried her, I had her (albeit an emergency c-section), I want to see how she turns out. I’ve only had five years with her, that’s not enough. I want those arguments when she’s a stroppy teenager (maybe sooner I hear, and I also might need to read this to myself a few times when I have to live it!). I shut it down. I cannot think like this.


The parentals help with the genetics form. Who knew that my paternal great aunties both had cancer and one had a removal (but we don’t know why – that side of the family barely know any DOB’s!). My maternal great grandfather had bowel cancer, and I didn’t know that was related but it was asked for so must be. I posted the form off, again with the thought that nothing would come of it.


Its getting more real now. One day to go and I spend the morning frantically finishing work stuff off and warning my team that I am off grid from that afternoon. For once I am not planning on sneakily checking my emails. I do not need any Whatsapp messages ‘filling me in’ on the gossip when I can’t do anything about it. I am determined to focus on me, my family and my recovery. I am positive I won’t be off two weeks. I even pack my work laptop to bring home so I can pick it up and crack on with some work second week in.

That afternoon, I also need to get radiation put in my breast where it will work its way through to my lymph nodes (the cleverness of this blows my mind). Once I’ve escaped work, I wait in the x-ray department watching Judge Rinder (help me) and waiting in another windowless hole (why are all the waiting rooms in an hospital windowless – its as if they purposefully want you to feel more depressed than you were). Then called into a further hole down a longer corridor. The male nurse was the most awkward man ever, who asked me to ‘cover up’. After lopping them out for every other person, someone trying to cover me up with a bit kitchen towel was the most ridiculous feeling in the wold. I felt like saying ‘mate, these have been seen by everyone, I’ve also had a baby, my body is not my own’!

One day to go. One last sleep then I would be rid of the lump, the cancer. It would be out of my body and I could get on with the rest of the preventative stuff and deal with life again! I’ve got this.

More appointments and waiting………



I am not a patient bunny… we had got back from our holiday on the 18 August, and the first appointment back at the hospital in the post was for a further ultrasound on the 22 August.

The ultrasound went smoothly. More boobs out while the clever doctor examined every blip that had flagged up on the MRI. Three areas were dense tissue and nothing to worry about, one area was my previous scar tissue again and the cancer was still there. But at least it was still only the one lump. A larger lump in my head but still just one. It was a small comfort.

I also took some comfort from the fact that I had decided that I would take part in a research programme, a trial to understand the impact of cancer diagnosis and treatment on everyday life.  It is a long term programme, running throughout cancer treatment and then for a few years afterwards. And while I think I’m quite a unique little introverted bunny, maybe it might help someone down the line dealing with their everyday life when they get the diagnosis. Hopefully the care that other people get will change as a result of this and improve for a wider understanding for workplaces. A lot is made of mental health awareness in workplaces, and although thoughts around cancer from the patient could fall into this, I think there is some differentiation in approach to it. I just haven’t worked that out yet!

The next week was the longest by far. And I took to writing a lot down. It was something I needed to get my thoughts out as they were eating away at me. I didn’t feel I could talk to anyone, no-one I know is living it and I don’t do well with strangers and baring my soul! I am the most introverted person!

I felt different at this point. Was I physically different – no. But the definition of cancer hung above my head every day. I could see it in the way people looked at me at work. My friends were rallying round. And yet I still hadn’t told one of my close friends as life had got in the way, the usual chaos of weekend plans, parties, arrangements to meet the grandparents and no time to actually sit down and chat with her. We arranged to meet up for coffee and after half an hour of discussing anything but, I dropped the news. I hated it, because it always leaves me with more questions that I can’t answer. As I am waiting.. And waiting… And still waiting. By this stage my breathing is out of control. I have a pain in my shoulder as I am forcing my breaths, I don’t ever feel like I can get enough air in my lungs and it is terrifying. I have feelings of guilt that I am letting everyone down and that I need to power on, and secretly I am uttering ‘Why me?’. Not helpful at all.


Bank Holiday aims – spend quality time with my baby girl. Just the two of us as the man cub was at work. So we lazed about, barely making it into baths and showers by midday. We didn’t have an aim, we just went with the flow. We made a mess, we baked, we went to the park and we chattered all day long. My girl can chat. And I absolutely bloody love her. With every part of me. Selfishly, I want to see how she turns out! As I already think she’s pretty amazing.


Finally the consultant appointment. He made me feel more confident now, that they would get this cancer out and apart from preventative measures of chemo, I could go back to living my life. But I still had a longer waiting game to play – the operation wasn’t booked in until the 11 September, two full months since they did the first biopsy. I had several appointments booked in before the op could go ahead  a pre assessment check (to make sure I was fit and healthy) and a sentinal node marker appointment where they put something in your boob to make its way to the lymph nodes for the actual day of the operation. It was all getting real now, and I just wanted it over and done with.

There was another breast cancer nurse in the room that day. My Pauline was busy with another lady (delivering bad news to some other poor soul I’d imagine). I was taken into the bad news room again after the chat with the consultant, told me I needed to read the green book (I don’t want too!) with certain pages identified so I could understand what was happening. I still don’t feel the need to read anything about this craziness. I will need a supportive bra for after surgery (ha – where can you find supportive when you have wonky boobs already?!), mention of a counsellor for after the fact (why would that help after the fact I thought?) and then that I would need at least two weeks off work to recover (aaagh – I did not like that mention).

I was still on the journey.  And although we weren’t going quickly we had a plan. And I had this.

Holiday with a cloud…



We were off. On our holidays as a family.

But we also had to tell my best friend. We usually see them every year and the cub is bang in the middle age wise between her two. We met at Uni, living together as strangers, and leaving as a quirky friendship that has weathered distance, time and life changes. We always make our way back to each other, but I can’t think I’ve dreaded telling her anything more. It kind of felt like it was going to be worse than telling the parentals.

We arrived in the wilds of Scotland, pitched the tent in my home of birth, and set about enjoying ourselves while resolutely ignoring anything that might be going on in the real world. The downfall of that was the phone call the first day in, to say that the MRI had flagged up some ‘sensitive’ areas that would need another ultrasound! Well of course it bloody did. I could have written that chapter. I would have to wait until I got home for the letters to confirm when this would happen and when I possibly might then have surgery. More waiting.

The next sticking point was the meet up with the most beautiful girl in the wold and tell her horrible news. I managed to do it in the rain, in the woods, while the children ran feral. I mean you can’t really choose a good location to drop that bomb shell! So that set a tone for the whole holiday every time we met as it just hung over every conversation – what did I need to do next, when would that happen. And I just couldn’t get away from the situation anymore that this was really happening to me.

I’m not going to lie, I had a couple of dark days on holiday. I was a bit ratty (that does happen in a tent over two weeks usually anyway! But this was a level up!), I was convinced the skin was different in the area of the lump, I was also convinced it was bigger. But campsite communal showers aren’t really conducive for having a good inspection in good light. Neither is a tent, while a child runs about wondering why you’re flashing boobs at her daddy! We aren’t that weird!!

However, I was determined that for the majority of the time, I would make the most of being away from home. We stayed up late, we slept in late. We had lazy days where we went to the beach, park, back to the beach. We went for a lot of strolls in gorgeous woodland. We visited a treetop adventure park which was an amazing day. And while we didn’t experience the hot weather that we had previously had in the summer (I mean that is just our luck – have I explained our luck already, its hilarious!), we didn’t get soaking wet (always a bonus in a tent) and we laughed. As always, we laughed and laughed a lot. Its what we do. And it felt good. Really good.


The long journey home was hard. We had gone to sleep in a gale and woke up in not much better conditions. Getting a car packed, tent down and keeping a five year old from losing it was somewhat of a challenge. And then the kicker… as we all went to get a shower I decided to take the car up to the shower block. The battery was dead!! You couldn’t make it up – the previous year the exact same thing had happened, on the exact same campsite at the exact point in our journey to go home. And we had blamed the child for it! Thinking she had faffed with too many buttons and caused it to go flat, that year we had ran round like lunatics trying to find jump leads. This time, we had been prepared (although they were packed quite far down in the boot!), but a quick chat to some friendly camping neighbours and we had an engine running while we took turns to sit keeping it running while the other showered. That ended the holiday with more laughter!

It was then a long journey home. Seven hours where we persevered with seventy billion versions of I Spy until I did hand my phone over for the last hour. Thank goodness for data!! We were all exhausted on the arrival back home.

And there they were – the letters. A further ultrasound appointment on the 22 August, and another week later the consultant, eight and a half weeks since I had first found a lump, six weeks since they had confirmed it was cancer. And all the while I had to live with cancer in my body. And I could feel it eating my soul a little now. I wanted it out. I really just wanted it out, and to deal with the next part of the journey.

I had this. I had too.

Random thoughts …..



  • Got to say denial is the best form of survival at first. Its easy to fall into, ignore the facts, avoid Google articles, but then social media / standard media seem to know. And I mean know. All articles I see are related, someone who is in end stage cancer, writing letters to her child. What am I supposed to do with that information.
  • Why are other people seeming to be more upset than I am? I’m still ignoring its happening. Everyone else is treating it for real. I don’t quite know how to deal with that.
  • The lump is huge. I mean huge. How did I not even feel it before. It feels deformed. Much more pronounced. How did Ryan not feel it. Why?
  • Who do you tell? I’m going to be off work, I’m going to be unavailable, I’m going to meet people who I used to know and look different. How do you announce it? How do you drop it into random conversation.
  • Other people are quick to tell you about their troubles / the person / friend / aunt / cousin who had breast cancer. They got well / wasn’t a bother / chemo was a breeze / didn’t lose their hair / died (WTAF). Why do I need to hear this? It’s the eggshells that I feel like I’m walking on. I end up apologising for giving people bad news. And nodding that it will be all ok. Of course it will be. IT ISN’T – what would have been ok would have been this never happening.
  • I’m worried about the historical issues I’ve had with surgery, the healing, bruises, bleeding,  the scars that more surgery will give (I’ve already got enough, I don’t need anymore!).
  • My breathing is out of control. For the last couple of years, I have started showing stress n my breathing, the worse my stress the more my breathing becomes out of control and I end up gasping for breath. This has not helped that situation whatsoever and where previous stress was usually related to work or the child, now it is random.
  • I feel like an outsider looking in on my own body, my own life, my families life. I keep getting thoughts on what life would look like if I wasn’t here. Would they all just end up forgetting me, would the child get enough love from all those around her without me? Would she grow up to be the most amazing human being that I want to her to be? Does she even need me for that?
  • My family, my baby, my world. This is the thought that does break me every day. I love them more than life itself. I couldn’t live without them, but they might have to live without me. I don’t want to miss a thing.
  • I wrote down Cancer for the first time. In my little black book that I’ve started to use to document the journey I’m on. This was in the middle of my list of random thoughts and I finally wrote the word down. When do you ever imagine that you have to write the word about yourself?
  • I ran Race for Life a few years ago for a close family friend who was fighting cancer at the time. Its now bizarre that I could be running it in the future for my left boob! Is this for real?
  • A work colleague gave me books. This was the most thoughtful gift. No meaning, no grand gesture, but a gesture non the less. And it meant the world to me. As an avid reader I hope to at least make use of some time off and read.
  • Cancer – the word spreads fear and dread doesn’t it? Spells heartbreak in just on word. You always assume ‘it’ll never happen to me’. Naivety is a beautiful thing. I HATE IT.
  • Five weeks and no crying, I haven’t cried once. I nearly broke a couple of times saying the word out loud, but now I’m like stone with it. I probably do need to cry. A lot. But I know if I started I might not stop. I’m too stubborn to start though. I’m not a cryer by nature (but reflecting back I do usually wake up from anaesthetic crying!) and I don’t want to cry as then I’ll feel like I’m broken. And I am not broken. I am a fighter and to me fighting means I am not going to cry.

I don’t like a journey without a plan (well, apart from our holidays! I like them to be unplanned as it’s the only time we don’t have too!). My entire life is planned otherwise, but now my journey is in other peoples hands. Strangers to me. I am putting my life in their hands and I am not sure how I feel about that.

But I’m still here and I’m fighting it. I’ve got this!!

The natural progression of appointments..



So after the initial shock and denial of the biopsy results, I had to still prepare for the childs birthday party and actual birthday at the weekend. But the worst thing I had to do was actually tell the parentals. After a ridiculously tense phone call where I quizzed them on their daily activity and worked out when they were free, I arranged to pop round. I could tell the mother was a bit weird about what I wanted (am sure she probably had thoughts that I was going to announce another shock pregnancy!) but I finally arranged to meet them on the Friday, while being off work to do the last bits of arranging for a party for twenty the next day. Well , life continues doesn’t it.

I arrived at the parentals and just blurted out the news. As expected the mother asked a lot of questions that I didn’t have answers too, a bollacking for not telling them sooner, all the while with my dad looking like he’d just been hit by a ten tonne truck. It was brutal. Because who ever needs to hear that news? Its not something that a parent ever wants to hear about their baby no matter how old they are. I’m pretty sure if they could both of them would have just cut it out of me there and put it in themselves. I know I would with my own baby.

While we discussed the next steps I mentioned about our upcoming holiday on 5 August. They said that I needed to do what the hospital said, I said I was going on holiday. It wasn’t even a thought in my head that I wouldn’t go on holiday. I needed to be alone with my family, my world.


The childs party came, happened and went. I was never going to enjoy it apart from seeing her happy little face overjoyed at all her little friends playing in ‘her’ park with her. I couldn’t have been happier for her, but I was hiding under a cloud that probably made me look more anti social and stuck up than I usually manage to achieve!


My next hospital visit was for a mammogram to try and identify the size of the cancer from all angles. It was a quiet waiting room and while I had a mammogram years back when I had my previous lumps, I had absolutely blocked out the craziness of the whole process. For the uninitiated, the process is not by any stretch glamorous. Now after having a child and everyone and their granny seeing your under parts, you’d think that I’d have given up on feeling like a prude. But when a young nurse manipulates every part of your boob to squeeze between two vice plates and then goes to x-ray them, I squirmed a little bit inside. And its bloody painful as these two plates squeeze your boobies at a level just short of tear inducing. I then had to have a tracker injected in which would show up on any further mammogram scans to enable the people in the know who were analysing to make sure they were looking at the right thing. Then I went back in again for round two of the mammogram. I came back out into the waiting room half an hour later feeling a bit battered. Hoping that would do the trick though in showing up the little bugger and surgery booked for when I came back from hols.


‘Kirsty, the mammogram didn’t show anything as the tissue was too dense. We need to do an MRI’ said Pauline, the Breast Care Nurse.

FML. Why? Just why? So a bloody MRI was the next thing. I remembered that well (funny isn’t it that you can forget some aspects of your memory and vividly remember others). I remembered that it was bloody noisy and that I had chosen my sleeping position to lie in (while lying on my stomach with my boobs essentially hanging in a pit below me – like I said, all the glamour!). I had got cramp in my arms half way through and had counted to many thousands before the experience came to an end.


At least this time I was pre-prepared. But I needn’t have worried. There was a new fancy bed for the machine! It held your arms up! They gave you headphones to block out some of the noise. However, this time as they put the headphones on me while I’m face down with boobs floating about in a pit, I didn’t move the hair that was wafting in my face. And then as I put my face in what looks like a massage table support (it is not as comfortable) three little random hairs just tickled my face. And proceeded to do so for the next thirty minutes as the clunking noise of the machine did its thing. Again – I was uncomfortable and learned more lessons! When they shut the machine down, the announcement over my headphones was not to worry about the fire alarm I could hear that had gone off while I was in there – the department wasn’t under an imminent threat and they would come and get me shortly. I could have laughed it was that surreal. I reappeared in the waiting room to a half asleep Ryan who had thought I’d disappeared down a rabbit warren he’d been waiting that long. But we had a consultant meeting straight after (first time introduction) so I could maybe get my holiday confirmed!

The consultant has a weak handshake, like not even touching handshake. I don’t care – he needs those hands to operate on me. Ryan wants a bloody man shake! But that aside.. We talked about the possible results of the MRI (it is super sensitive so could show up any other lump and I would need more ultrasounds – I was already convinced that would happen!), and then the next steps of surgery. Ryan asked about our holiday (I was sending every vibe in my body at the consultant at that point to say GO!). The consultant said GO! There was no indication in the lump, the biopsy results etc that would mean a big difference in me being operated on in three weeks or four. And because the consultant said it now Ryan was happy and the parentals got off my back about it.

We were going on holiday – 5 August to 18 August. And I was going to do my damndest to forget about it, love my family every day and make memories as we always do. This was in my control and I was taking it back.

The Verdict – world changer in one word


Nineteen days since I found my lump and seven days since the hospital found the other lump, and I was back at the hospital hoping it would soon be the last visit.

I’d spent the last week not even thinking about boobs and lumps. I was now in the mindset that it was Pash, I would need an operation (no biggie), a couple of weeks recovery, and then it would be over. I would return to stubborn, feisty work boss, pushover mama bear, partner in crime to the man cub; all of this would be a little blip.

So Ryan came with me this time, he was a bit more worried than I was I think, but I still hadn’t told the parentals. Didn’t really see the point in worrying them. Nothing to tell means nothing to worry about in my book. I sometimes wonder who brought who up as when I do this kind of thing I get absolute grief but I am the most pragmatic person in the world.

At least the waiting room was a bit more tolerable having another person there (and not having a BBC2 programme about breast cancer on in the background – well, it was all about Brexit, so I’m not sure of the worst evil!). We tried to make a shopping list for when we were done as it was the childs 5th Birthday Party on the Saturday. Fifteen children confirmed, no plan for the actual two hours apart from hope it was sunny and scatter them in the park at the top of the village! While I hid somewhere and pretended I wasn’t the most anti social person in the world!! Then we had her Birthday on the Sunday. I was far to busy for this waiting around!! We also needed to sort our holiday in a couple of weeks – that had taken a back burner while we sorted a party and attended these bloody appointments. But still a blip. We had this!

The wait wasn’t so long for an afternoon appointment – it’s the results appointments, so they are either good news or bad news and no-one hangs around. People were getting called at a rate, so fingers crossed it would be over soon. I got called through by one of the nurses and taken into one of the consultants room (all medical, clinical and like someone had sterilised it within an inch of its life). I was met by Pauline one of the Breast Care Nurses. Apologies were made for the consultant as he had been called away but they wanted me to know the results of the biopsy. Still calm I waited for the next words.

‘Its Cancer Kirsty’

Its what now? My body went into shutdown as I tried to grasp what she had just said. Ryan was holding my hand so tight and my first words were ‘what do I tell my child’. My first words.

I was numb. I had no words after that. I had Cancer. Tears started falling without me even knowing, I was passed tissues. Then one of the other nurses in the room offered a cup of tea. I mean, I nearly laughed at that point. The good old British solution to any problem, have a cup of tea. No I didn’t want a cup of tea, I wanted a vat of vodka to dive head first into.

We moved rooms into a smaller space with comfortable sofas and bucket chairs; much less clinical and I realised that I hadn’t been in one of these before. These were the ‘bad news’ rooms. Where your world changes forever and can never go back to what it was.

How is it that one word can tip you off a ravine, never to return to the position you were in before? The word alone has such an awful finality to it.

That next half hour was an absolute blur. I was given a green folder with a tick list at the front, a long tick list. There wasn’t going to be any speed about this journey. Then I was given a book that I could read to the child. All I knew when I left was that I  was to have a mammogram imminently to see if they could get more of a picture of the lump.

We walked out of there like empty shells. The confident jaunt in had been replaced by leaden steps, taking us into the unknown.

But typical us, by the time we got to the car I was jesting with Ryan that if I lost my hair I wanted it to come back ginger! Then I mentioned that I didn’t have a will. We laughed, but it seemed empty now.

We then went to buy party bag gifts like a normal couple. Yet we weren’t normal anymore. It felt like we had a black cloud just hanging over our heads. Following us. And we had to be normal. We were about to pick the child up from school. We couldn’t be anything else but normal. A friends partner was popping round after that to drop her present off for her birthday. We had to be normal.

The tears had stopped by then. There was no point. My baby girl needed a party organised, presents for her birthday sorted and a mammy who was 100% committed to her first week of six weeks holidays after her Reception year of school that I had pre arranged to spend with her.

We still had this. It was just a different ‘this’. But we had it, and with everything in my body I knew I would fight it.

First Hospital Visit



Wednesday finally came round – twelve days after finding the lump.

I got the bus to the hospital. That was how relaxed we had become about the situation. I still strong held the belief that it was a cyst or Pash. Both results would be fine.

I arrived at the hospital with no nerves, and remembered immediately the utter dismal waiting room, all women (some with partners, some with friends) filling every chair at 9.30 in the morning. Then the wait, and wait, and wait. It also wasn’t brilliant that BBC2 were running a show that kept mentioning someone with breast cancer. I don’t even remember who it was now, but I do remember thinking I should maybe tell the Receptionists to change the channel.

But then I got called in. Into a private room by a nurse and asked to remove all upper clothing. Then you sit their by yourself, staring at four walls with the boobs out and chilly! The cheeriest female consultant then rocked into the room, a proper smiler which totally jarred with the situation but I went with it. I confirmed again, that yes, the right boob is always bigger and saggier than the left. She confirmed the lump I found and circled it, then said she’d do a check of the rest of me. No worries, there was nothing else there.

But then she circled a lump where I’d had previous surgery, and then checked the left, where she circled another lump at the top centre. What on earth? What I had been checking and how had I done it that badly?

Then comes the next stage of waiting. Gown on so at least the boobs are covered, the internal waiting room where we all wait for the ultrasound / mammogram, whichever you’re waiting for. I was waiting for an ultrasound and again this wasn’t an unknown. I remembered the last time I had an ultrasound was a happier occasion when I saw my baby on the screen. This time, the screen isn’t turned your way to take joy in the view.

When I finally saw the ultrasound guy (I’d imagine he has a much more professional job title) I was utterly bored. He’d read my file, as he said he had seen me last time when they’d found the Pash. This was the first time I heard the acronym and it made me think that it must be a bit more common now if it had an acronym to label it. So he started scanning on the lump I had found – yes, it was just a cyst and would need drained which was duly done (a little bit painful with a very long needle which I tried to avoid looking at). Then the other lump at the site of the previous surgery was confirmed as scar tissue. Phew.

Then he started checking the left boob, and checking, and checking. Finally he said that it looked like the Pash had, but he would need to do a wide needle biopsy to get some tissue and send off for checking. But he said it looked like Pash, so that was OK in my mind. Then I was a bit more distracted with the biopsy needle. It bloody hurt and I gritted my teeth through it and tried to be a big girl and not blub!

And that was it. I would have an appointment sent in the post for the next Wednesday to return and get the results.

I walked out of the hospital, rang Ryan to tell him the hilarity that I had found a cyst but there was another lump, not to worry as it was likely Pash, and jumped on the bus back to work.

I still had this.

The journey begins here…..



A journey started this day that I wasn’t even aware of at the time.

It was a usual Saturday morning in our house, two slightly hungover parents were lying in bed half awake, listening to the cub through the monitor in her room chattering away with teddies and waking herself up to a suitable level that she could arrive in our bedroom with a ‘good morning all’ serenade. Happens every week. This one seemed no different.

But as the man cub rolled over for a hug and an arm went round my back for a quick grope (like I said – usual Saturday morning), there wasn’t the usual noise of satisfaction but an ‘oh’ that followed. I mean, if the child is a passion killer, an ‘oh’ surely is a close second.

‘Theres a lump there – have you felt it?’

Well, no, was the short answer. Followed by a quick grope of my own. Yep, definitely a lump on the outside right boob, and a fairly sizeable one at that. I frantically scoured my memory for when I had last had a good check. I couldn’t think. But surely I would have noticed it? Surely he might have noticed it?

I should mention at this point that I am usually (not on this occasion!) quite good at checking the boobs. Twelve ish years ago I had a pseudoangiomatous stromal hyperplasia (Pash) lump removed along with, over the following couple of years, a few cysts drained. At the time Pash was relatively unknown – my consultant had sought advice from American colleagues – and it is still rare to this day , a rare, benign, non-cancerous lesion that once removed should cause no further issues. Even then, I never once heard my consultant refer to it as Pash, only as its full name.

As with previous lumps, I moved into my usual pragmatic self – I mean you can’t do much else when the next voice you hear is the five year old duly following her usual routine with ‘good morning all’. I showered later, had a good feel around elsewhere and satisfied myself that this was the only lump and it would be fine. Of course it would be fine, at best it would be a cyst, quick appointment to get drained and all done and dusted. At worst it would be Pash, not an unknown entity, but simple enough surgery, removal, job done.

However this time round I hadn’t anticipated that being a mama would play on my mind quite as much, I was ratty as hell and when the parentals returned from their two week holiday and met us for Sunday lunch the next day, both the man cub and I were in the foulest of moods and snapping at everything. To the point the parentals offered to take the cub for a couple of hours to give us some ‘time’. Now this would usually elicit some joy and delight that we could fall into bed, fool around and shut out the world for a bit, returning to the childless years for a short period of time. Not so – we sat in silence, for the next two hours and awaited the return of the cub.

I never realised how long a weekend could feel at that point. From that Saturday morning to the Sunday night felt like a week, all just waiting to be able to put wheels in motion. Ring the doctors, get a referral to the breast care unit, attend the breast care unit, wait inordinate amount of time in main waiting room, wait some more in internal waiting room in a gown, get ultrasound, confirm diagnosis (cyst – drain, Pash – surgery), get dressed, leave. I had it all planned out by that Sunday night and was utterly convinced that the journey was set.

Monday morning, and I didn’t even make the phone call to the doctors until 11am – I was far too busy with work and very important meetings and catching up on the gossip off everyone about their weekend activities. Normality had returned. By the time I made the appointment for the Wednesday with a lady doctor, I was blasé. I had this.


I sometimes hate the bureaucracy of getting a hospital appointment. Sitting in the doctors waiting room, I knew I was about to waste her time with something that I could have booked myself straight into at the breast screening unit. A quick undress (confirm that your right boob is bigger and saggier and always has been so compared to the left – yes!), and feel of said lump confirmed that it was a lump (shocker!). Then a quick tap away on the computer and five minutes later I walk away with an appointment for said Breast Screening Unit (Purple Zone!) the following Wednesday. Another week to wait. By then twelve days since I had felt that lump.

But still I continued my pragmatic approach. This was no big deal.

I had this.

Just putting this out there – cathartic


So the Instagram world went wild on Sunday night as Bree (Marcia Cross from Desperate Housewives – an amazing actor and female icon) posted a pic of her losing her hair due to chemo. It was a moment that threw me more than it would have two months ago. A moment that had me thinking about every decision that I had made in the last two months. Also a moment that had me thinking about every decision I am about to make in the next two months (and more).

And it got me really thinking.

When do you announce to the world that you have gone through, are going through, are about to go through the scariest, most ridiculous period of time in your life? Is there a right time? Is it anybody’s business but your own (family)? Do you want Facebook ‘friends’ offering condolences? Do you actually want to open yourself up to this (I am ridiculously anti social)? But then should you share? Should I make this a platform for others to learn from? Would this help?

All the questions.

And this also got me thinking, what do I actually need at this moment in time. Post surgery (pre results – lets hope they got it all out), do I need anything? Do I want anything? Here’s the answer – I think I do. I think I want to spread the word that this Breast Cancer can affect anyone. And I mean anyone. Mothers, sisters, grandmothers, daughters, step-daughters, step-mothers. And all others. It really can.

That is the message.

I don’t want sympathy, or pity, or knowing looks, or condolences, or stories of others. I feel like I want to spread the real word. I want every woman to be on high alert. I want everyone to be on the look out for this sneaky little body invader , who creeps into your bed and body and can attempt to break the steeliest resolve in a heartbeat. The invader that can bring a mother to her knees without a moments thought for herself or partner but her child is paramount.

Lets get onto me:

I am the most stubborn person (ask Jon who I sit next too at work) in the world. Accepting all management training speak and a lot of work over the years, I still make an effort on a daily basis not to lose my s**t daily with sub standard actions.

Cancer, however, doesn’t really comply with me losing my s**t and yelling at it. It is already in my body, haunting my tissue, making an attempt on my soul. And I can do jack about it, but comply with all medical appointments in the natural order of things. Which can feel bloody slow and long and winding. But I tell you what – steely resolve is still intact and I am fighting with every part of my body and soul. Not just for my beautiful child and family, but for the world of women. I have already signed up to a research programme (which I passionately feel is positive), I am determined that the next Race for Life I feel well enough for I will be running ‘for my left tit’, and I have promised myself I will document the full journey from actual start to ultimate finish for the child. She is my world. And I will do everything to keep being her world.

Next step is chemo – guaranteed hair loss. BRING IT ON! (while I also revisit and document the journey so far – it feels epic up to this point, but I’ll keep looking forward)