Relax and Restore with Nuffield Health

Your brain does weird things when you’re diagnosed with cancer. In those early days, my mind was overflowing with all of the information I needed to retain, a stream of appointments I had to get to, along with coming to terms with the idea that my body was trying to kill me. But one of the things that really sticks with me from those early days is the incredible holistic care services I was immediately made aware of from Dimbleby Cancer Care.

Dimbleby are a charity which operate out of Guy’s Hospital, where I had all of my treatment, and basically provide all of the non-medical support that you need when you’re going through cancer treatment. They offer counselling, financial advice, employment support, complementary therapies and so much more.

We were fairly lucky with our finances so didn’t need a tonne of help there, but the counselling and the complementary therapies were invaluable to both Chris and I across the whole of my active treatment. I was offered six complementary therapies and six counselling sessions (which eventually became 12 counselling sessions because I am needy). The aromatherapy massage that I got at Dimbleby was such a salvation to me. This sounds pretty creepy I guess, but it was so nice to be touched in a way that wasn’t medical, at a time when my body had become some little more than a vessel that had a cancer inside it.

Finite resources

But Dimbleby is a charity. They only have a finite amount of resources and as I move further away from my active treatment, I feel less deserving of what they offer. There are people who need their care more. So I have begun to seek it out, and pay for it myself, elsewhere. My body feels less like a medical vessel these days, but with all the surgeries I’ve had over the last 18 months (five, if I haven’t mentioned it already, ten in the last three years) it still feels like I’m a science experiment a lot of the time. But massage and complementary therapies have really been key in reconnecting with my body, and taking time out to do something just for me.

So when Nuffield Health got in touch with me to ask if I would be interested in trialling a new offering for people living with and beyond cancer treatment, I did a little dance. Last month, they launched their Relax & Restore Cancer Care Treatments – a bespoke range of treatments that have been researched and approved for use on people living with or recovering from cancer.

Regulations prohibit therapists from providing traditional beauty techniques on people living with cancer without specialist training because therapists might need to take extra care or even avoid providing massage or reflexology to areas where surgery has taken place. As a result, all of the therapists at Nuffield Health offering these specialist treatments are  trained by the Made for Life Foundation, a skincare company providing holistic support for people diagnosed with and recovering from cancer.

relax and restore cancer treatments

I went along to the Nuffield Health in Tunbridge Wells to try their Hand on Heart treatment a few weeks ago and honestly, it was 85 minutes of pure joy. I’d had a nightmare journey getting to Tunbridge Wells, accidentally bought myself the wrong bloody train ticket, was running late and by the time I got to the centre I was all of a dither. But the therapist I met helped me move from frantic to zen in about 10 minutes. Sometimes, filling out forms about my treatment can be exhausting and overwhelming for me. I know it needs to be done to get the best possible care but going back over what’s happened in the last three years can be unpleasant to say the least. But my Nuffield Health therapist handled all of this stuff sensitively, listened to my experience and adapted my treatments accordingly.

Because of the nature of the offering, these treatments are less like traditional pound-your-muscles-into-submission massage, and much more of a gentle touch therapy that focuses on, funnily enough, relaxing and restoring both your body and mind. The Hand on Heart treatment offers a relaxing facial and upper body massage that helped me drift away from the stressful journey and into a nigh on meditative state of relaxation. Using slow Tui Na Chinese techniques, the experience aims to rebalance and calm the upper body, while the facial replenishes, nourishes and revives the skin.

crucial part of recovery

Taking this sort of time for myself can feel selfish sometime. And I know my most recent blog was about the nitty gritty bits of self-care that we’re often guilty of undervaluing, but making a point of seeking out tools for relaxation has become a big part of my routine too. Paying attention to your body in this way is a crucial part of recovery. Even if the feeling of not being a medical vessel only lasts as long as the treatment, that’s a valuable time out for your mind, and is, I believe, so incredibly worthwhile.

Prices for the Nuffield Health Relax and Restore Cancer Treatments start from £30 for a 45 minute treatment and therapies are available all over the UK. Find your nearest beauty suite here

**I was invited along to try this therapy by Nuffield Health and Good Relations. They also reimbursed me for my travel but all of my positive thoughts and feelings about this treatment are regardless of that.

Life, Lemons and Melons – An Extract (3)

Over this week I have been sharing a chapter of my book Life, Lemons and Melons. Since October, I have been pouring my heart and my soul into a Scrivener document covering the last three years of my life. I’ve written about infertility, self confidence, chemotherapy, my exploding breast, notes from a mixed up mind and tonnes more. Earlier this week, I also saw the illustrations that my exceptionally talented friend Georgia is rustling up to be printed in the book and let me tell you, I cannot wait for you to see them. But without further ado – here’s a chapter of Life, Lemons and Melons. Pre-order your copy by dropping me an email here. Read Part One and Part Two here.

***

But my medication was a salvation to me throughout all of this. And it continues to be. It means that those thoughts don’t linger as long as perhaps they would have done had I not been medicated. They mean that I don’t follow through when my brain is telling me I am worthless and that I do not deserve to be alive. That tiny tablet means the voice that tells me I should have been the one to die, rather than all the others I know who have had secondary breast cancer diagnoses and who have died as a result of this dreadful disease, doesn’t shout as loud or is easier to shrug off than it would be without the medication.

And I know I am lucky. I spend my entire life qualifying everything I say about my cancer experience with “I am grateful to still be here,” but the truth is, I might be, but sometimes my brain isn’t. Sometimes the cruel thoughts in my head tell me that I deserved to get cancer, that I deserved to die from it. That I still deserve to die from it. And it is only a matter of time before I do. And it is a process. It’s something that I am constantly working on rectifying. As I sit here now, overlooking the stunning bay at Port de Soller, watching the birds swoop over the crystalline sea, hearing the bustle of the streets below, wrapped in a blanket and writing about my experience, I am grateful. But I also know that it won’t be long until the dogs start snapping at my heels with their messages of self-destruction. And I think this is something that doesn’t get spoken about often enough, both in the world at large, and in the world post-cancer.

Citalopram has been a saviour for me. It doesn’t come without side effects. I’m heavier than I feel like I should be. I get a dry, metallic taste in my mouth if I don’t drink regularly. Perhaps it exacerbates the fatigue that I experience post-cancer. But when the darkness seeps in at the edges of my life, like a blot of a watercolour paint on a piece of parchment, spreading slowly across the page, Citalopram slows the progress. It makes the black less dense as it makes its way across my life. It doesn’t make the hole I am teetering on the edge of less deep or consuming or terrifying, but it makes it easier to escape from. Citalopram offers a rope to climb. It’s still a difficult journey that takes every ounce of strength and leaves my body and mind exhausted from the intense effort, but it makes it doable. It makes getting out of The Dark Place possible.

And I know there are people that say the longer I stay on medication the more likely it is to stop working. I know others argue that it has a placebo effect, that it doesn’t actually make any difference. Some believe that I will never be able to come off my tablets, but after the last three years and knowing my own mind as I do, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable coming off them anyway. I have fought long and hard to get to some semblance of normality and I still have a long way to go – so why would I give up the thing that makes it easier? I go back to the diabetes reference – I wouldn’t give up Insulin just because the newspaper said my “dependence” on it was problematic. I wouldn’t turn down the chemotherapy that would save my life. So why are antidepressants any different?

Living through cancer is a nightmare, in so many ways. I’m not saying that every person who experiences a cancer diagnosis needs a prescription for antidepressants, but what I am saying is as simple as this: we need to give our brains the same amount of attention we give our bodies when we are going through cancer treatment. We need talking therapies to deal with what is happening to us. We need counsellors to guide us through the hellfire and treat the internal burns that we get as a result. There is no part of your life that is unaffected by a cancer diagnosis and there is no shame in asking for a hand to grab onto at the scariest time of your life. If you’re going through treatment and you are struggling, ask for help. Talk to your medical team about counselling. They know that there is a disconnect between the physical and the mental treatment of cancer and there are conscious efforts being made to bridge that gap. So ask for help. You are not weak, you are not overly emotional, you are not letting the side down by not being positive all the time. You are asking for what you need and that is something to be celebrated.

And remember, despite what the tabloids might say, if you and your doctor believe you should be on medication to deal with your mental health, cancer diagnosis or no, there is no shame. That’s a decision between you and your medical team. Ignore the people who don’t know what it’s like to live with a  gremlin in their heads. Ignore the splashy, attention-grabbing headlines. Ignore the people who bash others down on Twitter. You know your brain better than anyone else. So trust yourself. Even if the gremlin and the media are telling you differently.

Life, Lemons and Melons – An Extract (2)

Over the next week, I’m going to share a chapter of my book Life, Lemons and Melons. Since October, I have been pouring my heart and my soul into a Scrivener document covering the last three years of my life. I’ve written about infertility, self confidence, chemotherapy, my exploding breast, notes from a mixed up mind and tonnes more. Earlier this week, I also saw the illustrations that my exceptionally talented friend Georgia is rustling up to be printed in the book and let me tell you, I cannot wait for you to see them. But without further ado – here’s a chapter of Life, Lemons and Melons. Pre-order your copy by dropping me an email here and read part one here.

***

That’s not to say that choosing to take medication has been a fix-all for me, or that it was an easy process to begin. I felt like hell on earth for the first two weeks on my “happy pills”. It was a while ago now and I’ve had chemotherapy since then so my memory is a bit mushy but I vividly remember feeling like the whole world was falling down around me in those early days. There was a day when Chris wouldn’t leave the house because I had woken up crying and couldn’t stop. At the time, I thought he just felt bad leaving me because I was in such a state, but I know now that he felt like he couldn’t leave because he wasn’t sure if I was a danger to myself. I have no idea if I was a danger to myself but I felt like I my chest had been ripped open and I didn’t know how to stem the intense emotion that was bleeding out of it. When I wasn’t crying, I was lethargic, confused and numb. Without a doubt, the antidepressants initially worsened my symptoms before they made them better. But I was lucky. I had a long-suffering partner who was able to support me as I found my feet and I was well cared for by a stretched but determined primary care system where I had appointments every two weeks in the early days, and every month thereafter until I had settled into the medication.

Not only that, but before I said yes to medication, I said yes to talking therapies. After a few weeks on a waiting list for CBT, I found myself at a session with an incredible specialist called Steve. Together, we began trying to unravel my thought patterns and determine what made my brain tick in the destructive way it did. I began to learn how to combat the voice that told me I was a failure, the one that convinced me I was useless and would never amount to anything. I began to question whether my brain was serving me a thought or a fact. When I told myself that I was worthless, I began to weigh up whether there was any evidence to back up that accusation. Could I, in fact, prove that I was worthless? Or was that just the bully in my brain talking smack? Unless I could provide evidentiary proof, that would stand up in a court of law, I was able to tell myself these weren’t hard facts and I started to pay less attention to them, when I could.

Much like medication, CBT doesn’t work for everyone, but I was so lucky that I was able to go and see a practitioner in the flesh so we could not just talk about strategies for keeping depression and anxiety at bay, but to discuss the things that were on my mind. The human interaction of my CBT was hugely beneficial to me. My therapist never made me feel like I was an inconvenience or a fraud or I was wasting his time – all things I had convinced myself he would. And as I moved through the process and learned more techniques and got used to the medication I was on, I slowly started to feel more human. I was finally figuring out who I was with depression and how I could deal with it so it didn’t impact my life too much. I had begun to recognise the signals, my triggers, the little notes I left myself to suggest that a dark wave was on its way. But then, to quote Joan Didion, life changes in an instant.

It was just as I was finishing my CBT that I found out I had breast cancer. In fact, I went along to my final CBT session two days after I’d been told. At the start of every session, I’d sit down with my therapist and he’d ask me that open-ended question “How are you?”. And his asking of this question was not the perfunctory greeting we so often offer up to those we meet. It was more loaded, a “how are you – really? How is your brain? How is your mood? Have you thought about killing yourself this week? Have you thought about hurting yourself this week? Have you felt at risk at all this week?”

And for the first time, I didn’t answer him with a breakdown of what had affected my mood or exacerbated my depression that week. We didn’t break down, day by day, things that may have triggered a feeling of lowness. I told him what had happened two days previously.

“Well, Steve, I’ve just been diagnosed with breast cancer”.

That was not what he was expecting to hear, but then again, neither was it what I was expecting I was going to need to say.

From there, it became a whole other ball game. I dread to think what kind of position I would have found myself in after hearing the words “you have” and “cancer” in the same sentence and relating to me. If I hadn’t had that CBT and if I hadn’t already been on those antidepressants, I genuinely believe that my depression at that moment would have been a bigger threat to my existence than the cancerous tumour growing within my breast.

What was going on in my brain quickly began playing second fiddle to the things I needed to do to prevent the cancer from getting any worse. I quickly slipped into cancer mode and everything I learned about maintaining my own mental health fell into a massive ditch at the side of the treatment road I was hurtling down at alarming speed. I no longer had time to think about the shitty things my brain was telling me, because it was full up with cancer-related thoughts. Was I going to die? Was the cancer going to spread? Should I have a mastectomy? Can they take both my breasts off? Am I a carrier of the BRCA gene? What will that mean for my family if I am? Am I going to die and leave Chris on his own? How will chemotherapy make me feel? What is going to happen?

Before I really knew what was happening, everything I’d learned in CBT evaporated. It was no longer a priority. My focus swiftly shifted to surviving. The self-care of checking my thoughts and their patterns felt superfluous when I had something actively trying to kill me growing in my body. For a while there I didn’t give my brain anywhere near enough of the attention it needed, when it probably needed it most. I went from combining talking therapies with medication to relying solely on my medication to keep my brain in check. About half way through treatment I found myself really struggling. Christmas 2015 saw me undergo my fourth chemotherapy session. I was exhausted in a way I can’t even begin to explain to you. My spirit was broken and I felt like I was losing myself. It was during this period that I hit below rock bottom. I hit sub-zero. I got so low, I could practically feel the heat of the earth’s core licking at my feet. I had, as I think most cancer patients do, been questioning whether the treatment I was undergoing was worth it. I wondered if it was worth losing my breast and losing my hair and feeling like hell and being poisoned. But for me, there was something else too. I’d gradually gained a grip on my depression as I worked through my CBT and cancer had made me forget what I had to do to stay alive. What I had to do to make sure my negative thoughts didn’t consume me, didn’t take over my life and begin to dominate my waking thoughts. It’s something that I hate thinking about now, but at the time I remember wondering, not only was it all worth it, but did I really want to live in a world after cancer? On more than one occasion I have thought to myself, “If only I had left that lump for longer. If only I hadn’t been in the habit of checking myself, then perhaps it would have spread, and perhaps I wouldn’t be forced to deal with the complex aftermath of surviving this disease”. I hate that I thought that. I hate that there are still times when I think about it.

Because I have wanted to die in the past, and now, post-cancer there is a reason why I might. Sometimes now, I don’t think about killing myself, I think about cancer coming back and doing the job for me.

 

Next part of the chapter coming later this week!

Life, Lemons and Melons – An Extract

Over the next week, I’m going to share a chapter of my book Life, Lemons and Melons. Since October, I have been pouring my heart and my soul into a Scrivener document covering the last three years of my life. I’ve written about infertility, self confidence, chemotherapy, my exploding breast, notes from a mixed up mind and tonnes more. Earlier this week, I also saw the illustrations that my exceptionally talented friend Georgia is rustling up to be printed in the book and let me tell you, I cannot wait for you to see them. But without further ado – here’s a chapter of Life, Lemons and Melons. Pre-order your copy by dropping me an email here.

*****

When I was a kid, I struggled a bit with asthma. It seems that if there’s a weak spot in my the historic health of my family, it’s our ability to breathe well under duress. Any one of us in the Purkiss clan who gets a cold ends up with a hacking cough – you know, the sort that people move away from on the bus. The sort that makes people glare at you on the tube. Or one that once upon a time earned me the filthiest looks I have ever received when I had the audacity to have a chest infection whilst attending an event at the Royal Albert Hall. But when I was a kid, I was given inhalers to deal with my problem. I dutifully took my brown inhaler every day to prevent the symptoms. I took the blue inhaler when I needed instant relief, or when I wanted to look like I needed to stop running in cross country, which, truth be told, was often.

At age 13, I had horrible problems with my periods. They were heavy, full of clots, and often left me completely washed out, a weird white-grey colour and regularly unable to hold my head upright. I went to the doctors. I was given tablets. I tried these tablets. They didn’t work. I tried other tablets. They didn’t work. Eventually I was put on the pill. Every day, I took this little tablet to try to control my periods. I stayed on the pill for about ten years and the problematic periods faded to being pretty manageable. Well, as manageable as periods can be, given that a large portion of the population finds them utterly hellish. But the medication helped.

There was a time when I regularly got migraines so severe that the right hand side of my face would droop. I actually looked a bit like I’d had a stroke. It took a while for these migraines to bugger off, with my symptoms often lasting for four or five days. I saw a neurologist who put me on a preventative tablet. I took this every day to “break the cycle” of the migraines, which were clearly linked to my menstrual cycle (sorry for mentioning periods twice in two paragraphs, but women bleed out of their uteruses around once every twenty eight days and I’m a woman, soooo, buck up Bronco). I was on these tablets for over a year, no questions asked.

So why is it then, when a doctor suggested to me that I went on medication to combat the crippling depression I was experiencing, I resisted? Why did I think that my brain not working quite as I would have liked it to, was any different to my lungs not working quite as I’d like them to? Whilst not quite as useful an excuse to skive out of PE (perhaps that’s a discussion for another time?), it was still a problem for me. By this point my depression had begun pervading my life in a noticeable way. If it had once been a cloud lingering over my shoulder, it was now a surrounding fog that refused to budge. I was struggling to make even the simplest of decisions on a daily basis. If I managed to drag myself out of bed, get dressed and leave the house, the question of which shoes to wear for a day in the office often left me crippled on the doorstep. Deciding what to have for lunch became such an ordeal it was all too easy to skip lunches. I had begun to feel completely numb and consistently felt as though something awful were about to happen. I lived in a state of anticipating impending doom, a disgusting and suffocating case of “low mood” and a paralysing anxiety. But still, I felt that taking a tablet to help was a foolish step. I think part of me saw it as an admission of weakness, of defeat. I felt like I should be able to handle everything the rest of the world was handling. When a GP pointed out to me that if I was a diabetic, I wouldn’t turn down insulin, I realised that perhaps I had been affected by external perspectives on what taking antidepressants means.

It’s interesting isn’t it? Because more and more people are talking about their mental health on the regular these days. Thanks to the internet, the conversation has opened up and continues to do so exponentially. As a result, the stigma surrounding discussions of a sensitive nature seems to be fading. But from where I’m sitting, this stigma has relocated. Most people no longer judge others quite so harshly for having issues with their mental health (I’m not arguing that this has completely gone – we’ve a long way to go on that score) but society is distinctly less forgiving of those who take antidepressants, God forbid they should need to do so over a long period of time.

I’m writing this in 2018, but sensationalist headlines like “A Nation Hooked on Happy Pills” are still splashed across the front page of one of the biggest selling newspapers in the country, while previously disgraced journalist Johann Hari has just released a book which begins by throwing doubt on the efficacy of antidepressants. While I’ve no doubt that Hari genuinely believes the claims in his book it’s my firm belief that claims such as these are seriously damaging to huge numbers of people. I wish my antidepressants were happy pills that made me as perpetually jolly as the characteristically named Green Giant but they aren’t. They help me to be functional some of the time rather than just a shell of a person all of the time. They don’t stop me from arriving at The Dark Place, but they do usually mean my stays there aren’t as long-lasting or as terrifying. They mean I can usually find my way out of that shit hole. They’re the map that means I still have to find my own way, but they are also a light in the dark that helps me figure out what I need to do to escape.

I know that medication doesn’t work for everyone, but I also know what a massive difference a small dose of a tablet makes to my life – and the lives of people I love and care about – on a daily basis. As a result, I’m able to recognise the impact of the kind of blasé statement that lambasts people for taking potentially lifesaving drugs. There will be people who read things like this and think they’re doing something wrong when they take their little tablet every night after they’ve brushed their teeth. Even though I absolutely believe that taking drugs like this is right for me, there are times when reading a scathing headline or a review of a book which suggests “everything I know about depression is wrong” will make my resolution falter. If I am in a bad way, I can doubt my decision to take 30mg of Citalopram every single day. I wonder if I’m making a terrible mistake and come dangerously close to convincing myself to come off them. And I am resolute in my belief that this medication makes my life better. So what about those people for whom medication feels like accepting failure? Or those whose lives are being saved by medication but they feel shamed because they need support from a tablet. This rhetoric puts people like this at genuine risk.

There’s a reason the National Union of Journalists bans this kind of colloquialism in reporting – because it is dangerous. Would you ever see a headline that says “A Nation Hooked on Chemotherapy”? No, you would not. Come to think of it, ever seen a colloquialism for chemotherapy used in the press? No. Because people who have chemotherapy are not demonised by the rags who run these types of headlines about mental health problems.

Next part of the chapter coming later this week! If you’ve already pledged to the book via Kickstarter and you don’t like this chapter…well…it’s kinda tough I guess. NO REFUNDS.

words about cancer

The Power of Words with Maggie’s

 Around the time I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2015, I wasn’t aware of anyone like me talking about their cancer experience in an open way. There were blogs and there were websites, but these were largely aimed at older women. I felt so far removed from the conversation these websites were having, I decided to start my own. I began blogging about my experience, not only as a way to come to terms with the treatment I was having and the things I was facing, but to open up that conversation that felt completely unlike me.

When you’re dealing with something that no-one really wants to talk about, it’s hard to find the words to explain things. Likewise, it’s hard for those around you to find the words to say what they really mean when they’re faced with things they can’t understand or don’t really want to think about. When it comes to cancer, the language used around the topic is incredibly divisive and it’s something every cancer patient I’ve spoken to has strong feelings about, regardless of where they are with their own experience. For me, I was staggered by the way people described me as “brave” and “inspirational” when all I had really done was go about the business of tackling the cancerous cells that had made their home in my right breast. And since I entered the world of cancer, the language people use to describe this world – from “battle” to “journey” to “suffers” and everything in between, has become something I am incredibly passionate about.

Research around this topic is becoming more and more important as more people survive cancer. We all know the stats. 1 in 2 people will be diagnosed with cancer in their lifetimes, but more and more people are surviving beyond the 10 year survival rates often hauled out to show how treatments are improving. In 2015, Professor Elena Semino, a linguist from Lancaster University looked at the ways people talk about going through cancer treatment. The research, which studied 1.5 million words showed that the most used metaphors for talking about cancer are “violence metaphors” – i.e “battle” “fight” “war”, and “journey” metaphors. Semino went on to explain that often, patients feel disempowered by these kind of terms because they feel “they aren’t given the right “weapons” to fight or that the doctors are “the generals” and they’re just common “foot soldiers” in the fight against cancer.

The research also added that while calling cancer a “journey” doesn’t create the opportunities for failure, it’s not necessarily better. It can provide comfort to think of others on the journey with you,  but  “for some other people, there is this idea of a reluctant journey. One person says ‘how the hell am I supposed to navigate this road I don’t even want to be on.’”

I never want to claim that I speak for all cancer patients, so I asked the network of people I have met during my own cancer experience for their thoughts – and wanted to share a couple with you…

Izzy told me: “I loathe ‘brave’. I’m not brave, I’m just me and you would be too in this situation. Also again with the implication that to admit you’re struggling makes you ‘not brave’. It’s so toxic”

while Harriet added: “I hate all the fighter stuff – it’s only used for cancer and not for other serious illnesses (heart disease fighter, diabetes fighter, MS fighter..!)”.

Jacob said: “I’m not a fan of the whole ‘fighter’ and ‘positive attitude’ tags. It invites unneeded pressure on cancer patients already going through so much. I mean try being positive when you’re a shadow of your former self with poison coursing through your veins with a medicated depression caused by prednisone. It’s completely unrealistic and would test anyone both physically and mentally.

Shelley looked at it totally differently and said: “I’m not a fan of people saying I beat it or I’m better now etc, defensively I take that as though I should be over it now when in reality I’ve found it harder mentally after active treatment than during.”

Joh added: “While I was having treatment I hated the term ‘fighter’ as it felt totally out of my control and that I was merely doing what was necessary rather than actively kicking arse. It was only afterwards that I agreed it was indeed a battle so the obvious term to use is fighter although I think soldier is more appropriate (semantics!)”

Zoe: “I personally like the fight talk but I don’t use it to people who don’t like it. I’m never offended if someone asks me not to use it as it’s a personal choice.

Sarah: “I got sent a document the other day by a well-meaning friend that had the phrase “cancer victim” in its opening gambit. Never considered that word before then.”

These are people who have experienced all different types of cancer and are at totally different points within their treatment plan. While the opinions differed from person to person, pretty much everyone I spoke to had some form of strong feeling about the language around cancer – proving what an emotive, divisive and difficult topic it is.

But there was one response which was largely unanimous. Every person I spoke to agreed that they did not like the fight analogy when it was associated with someone who had “lost”. The use of this phrase suggests that people who die as a result of their disease haven’t fought hard enough. That they didn’t win because they didn’t give enough to their treatment. I’m pretty sure the dislike of the term “lost their battle” is, for want of a better description, a hill which any number of cancer patients would die on.

This week The Guardian ran an article off the back of some research by Macmillan that explored the idea that “Pressure to stay positive may be a negative for cancer patients”. This is another point of view which was widely echoed by the people I spoke to. As Jacob mentioned, it adds unnecessary pressure to patients at a time when they are already facing more pressure then they know what to do with. They are living in a powder keg and giving off sparks. This is something I 100% recognised from my time in cancer treatment. I was scared and I was vulnerable and I was exhausted – but whenever anyone asked me how I was doing, I slapped a big smile on my face and told everyone I was “doing fine – all things considered”. My mum has always said “fine” means “f*cked off, insecure, nervous and exhausted” which at that time I think was totally accurate. The pressure to be positive suffocated me. It still suffocates me now. I remember reading an article that suggested those who were prone to depression before a cancer diagnosis were more likely to die of their disease because of the lack of positivity in their life. I have lived with depression for most of my adult life – this idea that positivity could affect my chances of survival was, and is, terrifying to me.

***

I think it’s important that every patient creates their own metaphor for their cancer experience. I read something that suggested that having cancer was a bit like seeing someone you’d rather avoid at a party. As far as you’re concerned, you just want them gone. They’re there, and there’s nothing really you can do about it, so you just have to co-exist together until the end of the party. I vividly remember the line “you eye each other furtively across the room” but you never interact. Then, when the party’s over you’ll go your separate ways. I’ve heard having cancer being referred to as having an unwanted house guest, but even prefixed with “unwelcome” or “unwanted”, “guest” makes it seem like they’re a bit welcome, or they might have been once. So during my treatment, I called my cancer a squatter. Unwelcome. Unwanted. Naming it in this way gave me some sort of control over a situation that was far beyond the realms of my grasp.

But no matter how the individual describes their cancer experience, we’re a long way from the media nailing how they do it, and doing it in a way that sits well with those who have a lived experience of the disease. Despite ongoing campaigns from charities to change the way the media speaks about cancer, they often still reach for the same tired old cliches, often without realising the impact this has on those who have had or are undergoing treatment for cancer.

Here’s a couple of headlines and quotes from news articles covering those who have died from cancer (bear with me, I know this is a bit bleak)


“Labour’s Tessa Jowell dies at 70 after cancer fight”

“Alan Rickman died in January 2016 at the age of 69 after a battle with cancer”

“David Bowie died Sunday after an 18-month battle with cancer”

“Patrick Swayze loses cancer battle at 57”

“Actress and singer Bernie Nolan has died at the age of 52, following a long battle with breast cancer.”

It seems like the media struggle to find anything other than lazy euphemisms to describe these people – when often their lives have been rich and full and surrounded by dazzling achievements. To see them reduced to a “battle” they have “lost” seems to diminish every other part of the their lives.

I think in the age of social media, the role of those who have or have had cancer as advocates for this and so many other things that affects us is essential for driving change. It’s so important to acknowledge that the way we talk about cancer as our first hand experiences can have a hue impact on the way others think and feel about cancer. The advent of social media has allowed us to open up the conversation around cancer in a way we never have done before, and in doing so we’re constantly reducing the taboo. We’re no longer talking about “the big C” in hushed tones, refusing to even use it’s name, like some kind of health related Voldemort. And opening up the conversation this way means that we’re spreading awareness. Awareness leads to education. Education leads to improvement. We can talk about problematic boobs that try to kill you, fannies that give you grief and the for want of a better word “shitty” symptoms you should be looking out for for bowel cancer. The more we do this and the more we humanise this disease which has been personified into a spectre of darkness and terror, the more we can drive the conversation forward. As we do this, we will be educating more people how to talk to their pals who have had cancer, and we can call on them to call out the media for clumsy descriptions of an untimely death.

But, from my point of view I think there are a few things that are important to remember. As far as the media is concerned, it’s more important than ever for the cancer community to take charge in holding them accountable for their descriptions. So next time you see a headline that says “lost a battle” – tweet about it. Write a letter to the editor (old fashioned but I reckon it’s worth a punt). Use your experience to empower others and educate to the best of your ability.

But I think when it comes to family, friends and well-meaning well-wishers, kindness and understanding is key. Remember the person you were before cancer and how you would have felt in the situation they’re facing. Remember when regular folks are talking about cancer, they’re doing it to the best of their ability. I know that I would have been guilty of succumbing to some of the cliched stock phrases people to turn to before I lived in the cancer world.

It’s key to remember that, most of the time, people are doing the best they can in the circumstances they face.

 

**This piece is a talk I gave as part of a Power of Words event at Maggie’s. Maggie’s offers free practical and emotional support for all people living with cancer, and their family and friends. Their centres are a home away from home tucked into corners of hospitals and NHS spaces around the UK. The centres all aim to be a place of safety and security for those experiencing a cancer diagnosis. I visited their Barts centre and they have created something truly wonderful for their service users. If you’re going through or have been through cancer and need some time, space or expert guidance, find your local Maggies.

Trust Your Touch with CoppaFeel!

Pretty much within the hour of being diagnosed with breast cancer in 2015, I decided I wanted to do something with what I was anticipating was going to be the most negative experience of my life. Not long before I finished treatment, I got in touch with CoppaFeel! – a breast cancer awareness charity set up by the inimitable Kris Hallenga. Kris had been diagnosed with breast cancer when she was 23. A late diagnosis meant that by the time she was diagnosed, her breast cancer was already Stage 4. There is no stage 5. Kris’ cancer had become what was known as secondary, or incurable, breast cancer.

Kris was determined that she wanted to do everything she could to stop more young women ending up in the situation that she was in. She realised that early detection of breast cancer saves lives and, along with her twin sister Maren, embarked on a campaign to educate the nation to that tune. CoppaFeel! was born.

I first encountered Kris when I saw her documentary “Dying to Live” during my time at university. I was blown away by the woman I saw before me, and I knew as soon as I was diagnosed that I wanted to join in the mission to stamp out late detection of breast cancer that Kris had started. Little did I know that CoppaFeel! would worm its way into my heart and life in ways I could never have imagined back in the summer of 2015.

I became a Boobette for the charity – one of around 100 women under 35 who have all been affected by breast cancer in one way or another, whether through a personal diagnosis, a scare or a hereditary connection with the disease – about 18 months ago. This group of women is beyond phenomenal. The army of the boob world, the Boobettes go into schools, colleges,  workplaces, universities, community centres, WI’s – basically anywhere that will have them – to bang on about bangers and to stress how important it is to know your own body. I am proud every single day to be surrounded by such a tour de force for breast awareness – and essentially self care. These women have been to hell and back and have chosen to tell the story. I have the utmost admiration for every single one of them.

Then a few months back, I was approached about becoming a trustee for the charity. Much like Liam Neeson in Taken, I had a very select set of skills. Skills I had acquired over a very long short career, that meant I would be a good fit for the board. Social media skills – check; marketing skills – check; previous breast cancer – check; down with the kids – TBC. But of course, I couldn’t say no. I was incredibly honoured to be asked to come into a role which meant I was able to work with the insanely talented team they have in the office and help drive this remarkable charity forward.

And on Friday, these guys made history. History that I was lucky enough to be a part of and that made my feminist side really bloody thrilled. They created an ad campaign which led to the first female nipple being aired on TV. Vogue wrote an article about the campaign. It was featured in the top spot on the BBC news app. Huffington Post, Refinery29 and The Independent all got in on the action too. And I’m so honoured that I got to be part of this. Once again, I got my boob (and where my boob used to be) out in the name of breast cancer awareness.

So isn’t it about time you trust your touch? Give you norks a feel today because knowing your boobs could save your life. Check out CoppaFeel! to see what you should be looking and feeling for.

Life, Lemons and Melons

Hello friends. So today, I have some pretty big news. This has been in the works for quite some time. There have been setbacks and restarts but I think, I’m finally there with the preparation, and so I’m turning to you guys to help.

About a year ago, I had an idea, formed as the best of them are, just as I was nodding off one night. I’ve always wanted to write a book, and suddenly the basis for one presented itself to me. I decided I wanted to write a book about what it’s like to get breast cancer when you’re 26, and you’ve just started getting help for the long lasting problems your brain has given you over the course of your adult life. I am, of course, talking about my old pal depression.

It had reached a point where my dark days were getting deeper and lasting for longer periods. I knew what it was like to reach rock bottom and I didn’t like it there. I wanted help. I didn’t want to hang out in the dark orifices of my brain. They were not nice places to be. I finally made the decision to go to the doctors. I started CBT. I went on medication. And two days before my final session of CBT, I was told that I had breast cancer.

Shit. I’d just spent a few months figuring out who I was and how I could deal with the darkness when it came along, and I was thrown another curve ball in the shape of a tumour growing in my right breast. Oh great, thanks.

Life, Lemons and Melons is the story of figuring out life when it hands you a whole heap of lemons and you don’t have the energy to make lemonade or even reach for the gin. It’s a funny story about things that aren’t that funny and a coming of age story that came a few years later (or earlier) than expected. It’s about mortality, health, the pressures of the modern world, trying to be positive when your heart feels like it’s being repeatedly trodden on by an elephant and finding humour in getting diagnosed with breast cancer aged 26 when you carry a black dog around with you every day.

It’s essentially about the life of every twenty something – but with some added mental anguish and the mild inconvenience which is cancer thrown into the mix. A recipe for disaster? Maybe. A good story? Hopefully.

So why am I telling you about this? Am I about to tell you the book has been snapped up by a publisher in a heated battle between two of the big wigs? Well, no. Not quite. Despite a lot of interest from publishers thanks to my wonderful agent, Robert, it turns out I don’t have a big enough social media following for publishers to be interested in me. They loved the story, they loved the proposal, they loved my writing. But the social media following (or lack thereof) was too big a sticking point for them.

But this is something I have to do. It’s something I have to do for me. I have this book inside me and it is burning to get out. Practically clawing at my insides to make it’s way from my brain to my keyboard. So, I’m going to do it myself. I’ve decided to self publish. But I need your help. And it turns out, the way you can help me is by giving me your hard earned dollar. I’m crowdfunding for the project. I have a heap of options for whatever your budget is, and for every budget you get a copy of the book (whether hard or digital) including my words and images created by my insanely talented and perpetually brilliant pal Georgia Wilmot. And 10% of any profits made will go to my friends at CoppaFeel! so you’ll be helping them help more people get into the healthy boob-checking habit of a lifetime too. I also hope that this book will help anyone who’s ever heard the words “it’s breast cancer” and who’s ever had a fight with their brain.

So how can you support for Life, Lemons and Melons? Head on over to Kickstarter and choose a pledge then share the campaign with your friends, family, colleagues, dog walker etc. If we hit my target of £3k within 30 days, the book will happen. I’ll have to sit down and write it, but as the outline is all there and ready to go, I’m hopeful I’ll just be able to “write the shit out of it” as my friend said. If we don’t hit the target, you won’t lose a penny and I’ll crawl into a hole and pretend this never happened drop the idea, knowing I tried everything I could.

THANK YOU in advance for your help, whether it’s a pledge or a share. I can almost feel the dream of holding this book in my hands becoming a reality.

 

Things I Wish People Knew About Surviving Breast Cancer

More and more people every year are being diagnosed with cancer, in one form or another. Whether it’s lifestyle, environment, diet or any other factors that is causing the increase is very much up for debate, and not a debate I have enough authority to cast my opinion on. But with every new cancer diagnosis, research and treatments are vastly improving too. Now, if you’re diagnosed with primary breast cancer, you have an 80% chance of surviving 10 years after your diagnosis. Fewer people (though still too many) are dying of cancer but we still don’t know  what to do with survivors. The NHS is often too stretched to support people with the mental, physical and emotional turmoil that cancer leaves behind and not equipped to provide the kind of spiritual support people need after going through a life changing experience. So more and more people are surviving cancer, but their needs are often not understood – even by those closest to them.

In the 17 months since I finished treatment, there’s so much I have learned about “surviving” cancer and I thought it might be good to share these with you – so if you’re undergoing treatment, or know someone who is, you might get a better idea of what it’s like when you’re released back into the world. If you’ve been through treatment, some of these might seem pretty negative – but I think it’s important to normalise what life’s like after cancer so that if you feel any of these things (and you might think they’re all WRONG), you won’t feel alone and scared and worried and all the other emotions you experience in The Aftermath of this Life Changing Big Deal thing that happened to you. Buckle up campers,  this is a long read.

1. When I say “I’m tired” I don’t just mean I didn’t get enough sleep last night. It’s not because of the antidepressants I take. It’s not because I need to eat more veg, or get more exercise (but I should probs get a bit more, shouldn’t we all?). It’s because these days, post treatment, I reach a point where I splutter to a grinding stop like a car that’s been running on fumes for the last 20 miles. I crunch to a standstill with zero ability to continue, no matter how hard I try. Nausea. Headaches. Dizziness. Feeling faint. The works. There’s tiredness – which I was very familiar with before cancer – and then there’s fatigue and comparing tiredness to fatigue is like comparing cricket to walking on the moon.

I know lots of people who’ve had cancer treatment don’t find that their fatigue lasts as long as mine has and I am a) jealous and b) want to know all their secrets, but for many people who’ve been through cancer treatment fatigue lingers for various reasons.  The day my friend Izzy came round and did all the dishes I’d let build up because I was knackered was one of the best gifts she could have provided. She told me she found it therapeutic but I know she was doing it because she knew what a difference  it would make to me. These things make a difference, no matter how long it is since you’ve finished treatment.

2. Survivors guilt is real. Real and pervasive. Every time I hear about another person, whether I’ve met them, kind of half know them or have never heard of them at all, who has been diagnosed with secondary breast cancer or have died from it, I get a little crack in my heart. These cracks deepen the more of this news I hear. I wonder why I was, for now at least, more lucky than them. I wonder why I deserved to survive. I feel an overwhelming sense of responsibility to them to be better, to do more, to make the most of the life that I’ve been given. I feel guilty for still talking about my experience because at least the active part of treatment is over for me. What about the thousands of other people for whom treatment will never end? They don’t want to hear me wanging on about this when I’m lucky enough to have wrapped up my treatment.

There are people literally fighting for their lives and sometimes I feel like I should sit down and shut up because my opinion of cancer isn’t relevant because it’s not trying to kill me. I remember when my article was in Red I got shouted down by a handful of people who thought my experience wasn’t valid and that they should have been telling the stories of people with secondaries instead of me. So often I don’t understand why I am still here and so many of my amazing Boobette sisters are not. It’s a bloody minefield – especially if you’re prone to excessive rumination like I am. Survivors guilt is real and will bring up a range of unruly emotions in you. Accept them and remember that you’re doing the best you can.

3. Cancer never really leaves you. Long after you’ve finished treatment, cancer has a way of rearing its ugly head and infiltrating on the life you’re trying to rebuild. Whether that’s annual checkups at the hospital that give you palpitations, nightmares about it coming back, scares about recurrences and the feelings of fear, sadness, heartbreak and everything else you feel are constant reminders of what happened to you. Sometimes I have flashbacks to things, traumatic moments of when I was in treatment, that I’ve blacked out. Sometimes these thoughts hit me like a punch to the temple and other times they just wash over me. I can never judge which way I’m going to react or how I’m going to feel when this happens. But they tell me this is normal.

Don’t forget about what happened to us. We don’t need sympathetic head tilts but don’t panic if we tell you we’re still thinking about cancer 5 years after diagnosis. Ask how we are – and not in a perfunctory greeting way. Really ask. If we’re ok, we’ll tell you. But if we need to talk, that question will feel like a life ring being thrown out to us in the middle of a black and stormy ocean, where we’ve been floundering miles from the shore.

4. I have strong opinions about the language around cancer. I HATE THE FIGHT ANALOGY. I hate the idea that if you die from cancer you “lose”. How can you lose when you’re giving everything you have? How can you say people have “lost their battle” when they were never armed with the right infantries to battle with. Cancer is like Danerys on Drogon, leaving devastation in its path but cancer is never the victor. And it doesn’t matter how hard you fight. Even the best will in the world, the strongest positive mental attitude doesn’t stop cancer cells from multiplying – it’s medicine that does that. And we are not in control of how our bodies react to medicine (whether traditional or alternative, whatever your choice). People die. Don’t use euphemisms. It does them a disservice.

5. I think about death. I think about my death. I make jokes about dying. And that’s ok. I don’t need you to tell me not to talk like that or to “stop thinking that way”. Talking this way is one of my self defence mechanisms and it’s one I really, really need. It might seem negative or pessimistic but it’s the way I’m dealing with this. I know it might be hard for you to think about my cancer coming back. I know it might make you uncomfortable when I crack jokes about not making it to 40 years old, but if I’m laughing, you can laugh too. Laughter is the thing that has saved my life. The reality is that cancer might not just make the one stop in my life and I’m coming to terms with that. I know it’s hard for you too but it’s how I’m going to survive the uncertainty.

6. It doesn’t end after radiotherapy finishes. Having had triple negative breast cancer means I don’t have any further lines of defence against breast cancer but for so many, taking daily Tamoxifen, a hormone suppressant for five or ten years after finishing active treatment is a reality, meaning their treatment continues long after that last blast of radiotherapy. Other breast cancer’s need to be treated with a drug called Herceptin which is usually injected in the months following active treatment. Then there’s the fear, checkups, post-traumatic-stress, depression, anxiety that comes with life after treatment. There’s so much more to cancer than just the treatment part of things.

7. I don’t give a hoot where you keep your damn handbag. And putting a heart on your wall to create breast cancer “awareness” is a sure fire way to make me give you a lecture on how to actually check your tits. Memes about how much you hate cancer are useless and to be honest, kind of offensive sometimes, unless they’re saying that you hate cancer and we all need to do our own bit to make sure we’re doing what we can to make sure we get treatment asap if we do get cancer. That was a long sentence but what I mean is, I’m only interested in memes that tell us what we should be looking out for when it comes to signs and symptoms of cancer, rather than just an “I hate cancer” meme. Dude, I’m pretty sure no-one likes it much.

8. Finding yourself might not be as easy as you hope, but you’ll get there a little at a time. And you’ll surprise yourself frequently by your ability to pick yourself up and get on with shit even when you feel you cannot any more. I still have no idea who I am after cancer, so much so that when I am asked for an interesting fact about myself, it’s all I have to do to stop myself from blurting out “I HAD CANCER” because I feel like it’s a huge part of who I am/was/will be in the future, but also, that’s not ideal when meeting new people. They’d think I was bonkers. They can wait to find that out.

When I get that feeling, I want holistic healing

A couple of months ago now, someone reached out to me on social media after I admitted that I’d been struggling a lot with life after cancer. Her name was Sophie and she had been diagnosed with blood cancer – Hodgkins Lymphoma to be exact – when she was 23. She thanked me for being so open about the fact this shit is hard. Sophie and I met for a couple of hours, before she headed off to meetings and I headed back to work, feeling a little like I might have met a kindred soul. She’d treated me to a glass of elderflower cordial, we’d hunted out some of Denmark Hill’s prettiest flowers and she’d admitted to me that she too found life after cancer tricky.

Fast forward to last weekend, when Sophie created something truly wonderful for those living with and after cancer – Trew Fields.  A holistic wellness festival that focused on looking after your body and cancer awareness. There were an abundance of fascinating speakers, incredible workshops, great music and comedy that led to a day of open conversation about life beyond a cancer diagnosis.

For me, it was a real shift in my thinking about cancer and the impact it has had on my life. I have been scared and depressed (in the truest sense of the word) and angry and sad and exhausted a lot over the last few months. As I approached two years since my diagnosis, I had hoped that I would be so far away from cancer that I would barely have noticed the day, but the 7th July hung over me like a sickening black cloud. A reminder of the terrible things that had happened to me, but one that was not without it’s silver linings. I felt furious that I’m still so tired all the damn time. That even after seven surgeries in the last two years, I’m facing my eighth in the next couple of months and I’m still living with some kind of deformed attempt at a breast (nb – this is a work in progress and by NO MEANS a reflection of the work my surgical team are doing. I love them and they can do no wrong, so please don’t ever take my criticisms of the multiple surgeries I’ve had and the process of reconstruction as a criticism of them. I couldn’t be more grateful for my team). I find new lumps in my breast on a regular basis that I have to get checked and every time I do my stomach lurches up to the back of my throat, leaving me breathless and exhausted once again by the fact cancer has had this long term impact on my life.

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But at Trew Fields, something really changed for me. I got some real holistic healing for my heart and my soul and my body – every part of me that needed some love and care. I listened to Boob Queen Kris (founder of CoppaFeel!) talk about her experience of secondary breast cancer IRL for the first time with candour and humour and realism and I witnessed one of the most powerful stories of cancer I’ve heard as the inimitable Sophie Sabbage took to the stage to talk about how you can win, even if you lose when it comes to cancer. About finding the gifts it offers you (and there are many) and realising what it’s trying to tell you. I know that sounds a bit bonkers but listening to Sophie, who is living with a terminal cancer diagnosis, I realised that there is a lot cancer was trying to tell me. I haven’t figured out exactly what yet. I don’t know if I will figure it out any time soon. But figuring out that it was trying to tell me something was a start.

And jeez. Can we talk about Sophie Trew too? She created something incredible – special and unique that can be rolled out and grow with ease. She opened up a conversation about some of the more holistic approaches to cancer care that don’t necessarily get the attention they deserve, but for me the most important thing was the advocation of the fact that cancer care should be a partnership between patient and medical team. I’ve been so lucky that throughout my treatment I played a key part in making decisions. I decided I wanted a mastectomy. I decided I wanted my mastectomy before I had chemotherapy so I only had to undergo six sessions instead of eight. I decided that I wanted to preserve my fertility. I decided that I wanted to have radiotherapy. Everything was presented to me as a choice – a choice with a recommended option (maybe there’s some kind of psychology in here somewhere) but a choice nevertheless. Every time I see my surgeon it is a conversation. I ask questions. Sometimes they’re hard questions that make him take pause. But this has led to a mutual respect between us that means we both feel confident I am getting absolutely the best care possible.

I’ve opened my life up to a lot of things since cancer and while some of the more alternative approaches aren’t for me (but I can see their merits for others) – I really do believe in a holistic approach to healing. And after cancer we need time to heal not only our bodies but our hearts and souls and brains as well. And we need to figure out a better way of doing that than stumbling around through life angry and sad and scared after the cancer bomb has been dropped. Sophie Trew has begun to create a place for that healing. And I’m so grateful that she has done so.

So you’ve just been diagnosed with breast cancer…

First off, hi. Hello. Welcome to this pretty shitty club. I’d say we’re glad to have you here, but we aren’t. I wish you didn’t have to be here. I wish you could have carried on living in a WC (without cancer) world. But sadly that’s not to be the case. It’s shit that you’re here, but I also want to tell you that it’s going to be OK. Treatment is going to be hard and you’re going to cry and shout and laugh and cry again and you’ll find brightness in the places you’ve never expected to find it. It is a pretty crap club to be in, the “I’ve had breast cancer” club. But by the same token, you’ll find some pretty special people on your, X-Factor word, journey through and beyond breast cancer.

It’s almost two years since I heard the words that changed the path of the following 18 months and are still having an impact on my every day life. Almost two years since the kindly man with the big bow tie (who in my mind has morphed into Trevor Macdonald, because I haven’t seen him in a while) told me that it was cancer growing in my right breast. I’m becoming a bit further removed from Cancerland every day, though truth be told, you never really get that far away. If I’m being honest, looking back on those days is a bit like looking through a steamed up mirror. I can see myself behind the condensation but it’s in a bit of a haze, like another world. My outline is the same but I can’t make out the features of my face or that life anymore. But I remember how scared I was. How overwhelmed I was. How anxious I was. How I morphed into survival mode – wanting to know what was to be done and wanting to get the hell on with it. And if I can help one person deal with the road ahead of them after hearing those perspective shifting words, I want to do it. So here’s a few things you might be interested to know if you’ve just been diagnosed with breast cancer.

  1. It will feel like a bad dream for a while. Definitely the first few days. Certainly the first few months. Even now I feel like cancer was a weird thing that maybe happened to someone else in my body. I remember waking up at my parents the day after I was diagnosed, and thinking that I must have made the whole thing up. I felt like a liar. Had my husband not been sat alongside me when the news was delivered, I think I would have convinced myself I was lying.
  2. You’re going to feel a lot of things. But it’s important to say you might not feel them straight away. You also might not feel the things you expect. I did not cry the day I got diagnosed. I did not shout or scream or anything. I made jokes in the surgeon’s office. When the breast care nurse told me “I think it’s OK to cry”, I laughed. I cried the next day for about two minutes. And the day after that, I cried for a little longer. Then I didn’t really feel anything for a while. I never got angry about the fact I had cancer. I never asked “why me?”, but if you do, that’s OK, you know? Don’t ever beat yourself up for having emotions about cancer and what is doing to your life.
  3. Things will move quicker than you can imagine. If you’re in the UK, once you’ve been diagnosed, you have to begin treatment within one month (or you did at the time of writing). Within three weeks of getting diagnosed, I had seen my surgeon and decided I was going to have a mastectomy, and had my surgery. Know that even when things are moving at lightening speed, you can still ask questions. You can slow things down, even just a little. If there’s anything you’re unsure about, ask. Your team are there to help you make sense of what’s happening. Remember that breast care nurses (BCN’s) are angels sent from heaven* to guide you through the tumultuous months of your treatment. They’re there if you have questions, there if you feel alarmingly unwell, there for guidance, there if you have some kind of surgery related crisis. They’re just there. Use them. You’ll need the support
  4. Surgery is not as terrifying as you might expect. I had never been under a general anaesthetic when I had my mastectomy. Practically a pro now, mind, but I have never been as scared as I was in my life before that first surgery. I cried as the anaesthatist put my cannular in. But within seconds of them administering the drugs (and wow are they good drugs, yo!) I was asleep and then I was awake in what felt like another few seconds, and it was all over. Your surgeons are experts. Trust in them. They’ve done these surgeries a million times. They’re on your side. Don’t forget that.
  5. If you have to have chemo and you’re anything like me, you’ll find that it is one of the hardest things you have ever had to do. I cried the night before every chemo without fail – horrible snotty sobs. But as with most things, bad things pass. Chemo is a long old slog, but when you get to the other side of it, you won’t believe how quickly it was over. This too shall pass will probably become your mantra, for nausea, for the inability to have regular poo, for fatigue, for fear, for losing hope, for the waves of sadness, for neutropenia, for delayed chemos. For everything. No matter how hard things get, you’ve got a really good track record for surviving bad days. This too will pass. Say it with me – “this too will pass”. I wrote some tips for surviving chemo if you want to check them out.
  6. Radiotherapy is tiresome and you’ll still need propping up. Radiotherapy for breast cancer is the lesser-talked-about sibling of chemotherapy. It’s not as brutal, has fewer side effects and is usually over in about a 6th of the time it takes for chemo to end. Sessions can be anything from 3-6 weeks (I believe – I had 3 weeks) so it’s not as long a haul, but going to hospital every day to get blasted by radioactive waves is pretty dull. Be sure to listen to your team and MOISTURISE your skin LOTS to protect it. Get right on into the armpit there too. And don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it (not with moisturising, I mean in general). Radiotherapy is hard too. Don’t feel guilty for still needing a hand here and there.
  7. You’ll laugh at things you never thought you’d laugh at. You’ll find brightness in the times you thought you’d never see daylight again. When you feel at your absolute worst and you think you can’t feel any more ill, you’ll start to feel better. You’ll feel like your losing your mind sometimes. You’ll feel like you’ve got it all in hand sometimes. Sometimes you will lose your mind a little bit. Sometimes you really will have everything under control. You’ll gather a lot of stories that you think are hilarious and then you’ll tell them to a bunch of people expecting to get a laugh and no-one will know where to put themselves. That’s OK. You’ve got to laugh to survive. Oh and losing your hair? Horrible. Really horrible, no bones about it. But losing your lady garden and not having to shave your legs for months is a surprising bonus. And having hair again when it grows back is one of the best feelings in the world.

There’s so much other stuff I want to tell you. So many other things I want to say but I know how overwhelmed you’re feeling right now and I don’t think it’s fair for me to add to it. Whatever you take from this blog post, know this – it’s OK. It’s OK to not be OK. It’s OK to be fine. Cancer treatment is hard, but you know what? It’s OK. And sometimes it’s not. That’s OK too.

* Not guaranteed. But they may as well be.