The Lump

In January 2021, I found a lump the size of a pea in my left boob. It was 4a.m on a freezing January night, I hate having my arms under the duvet normally as I get too hot but it was too cold to have them out, so I had an arm under duvet - hands out situation (think T-rex in a sleeping bag) at some point (thankfully) my hands were resting on my boobs which is when I felt this son of a b*tch.

Being a doctor I know that anyone over the age of 30 with an unexplained breast lump should be referred to the breast cancer team, this is because it should be treated as cancer until proven otherwise. Cancer is usually time critical, the earlier you catch it, diagnose it and therefore treat it, the better the outcome. Whereas something like a fatty lump, or a cyst (other common causes of breast lumps) can stay with you until you die aged 94 of something completely unrelated - in other words the fatty lump/cyst won’t kill you, but cancer if left untreated will.

However, you cannot 100% tell the difference between a cancer and a non cancer lump by feeling alone. You need a scan. This is why you should be referred to the suspected breast cancer team.

I rang my GP that morning, told them I’d found this lump and was booked in to see the GP 6 days later (it was the earliest day I could attend - if you find a lump anywhere I would always recommend getting it checked out within 1 or 2 days MAXIMUM). I clearly wasn’t worried about it at this stage.

I was asked loads of questions about my periods (which I don’t have as I’ve had the mirena coil in for contraception for 7 years and don’t have periods with it), about whether I’d had any other lumps, and any family history of breast cancer. After questioning and prodding, I was told it was likely a “benign” lump (nothing to worry about, a cyst, fatty lump, that sort of thing, as it felt smooth, you could move it around and I’m young with no family history), most likely related to my periods (which I don’t have…) and to leave it 4 weeks. If it’s still there in 4 weeks or increases in size before then to get in touch.

I was advised to pop a reminder in my calendar at 4 weeks as it can easily come and go and be forgotten about. This is great advice. If ever you’re told to keep an eye on something over a period of time, set yourself a reminder, because we forget, life gets in the way etc etc.

I left that consultation feeling pretty happy and confident that this was nothing to worry about.

I waited 3 weeks, then got back in touch with my GP as it wasn’t going anywhere and my mum and fiancé were nagging at me to get referred and double checked. I had started to convince myself it was getting smaller, and that I could only still feel it because I was poking it ALL the time.

I would always suggest being over cautious and going back to your doctor if you’re not happy - don’t downplay your symptoms!

I had a telephone consult and my GP referred me under a “2 week wait”, this is cancer until proven otherwise. Remember that time critical bit I was talking about, well 2 week wait means you will be seen within 2 weeks.

I received an appointment for the breast clinic 12 days later.

Off I went, on my own, convinced it’s nothing to worry about.

The breast clinic is a “one stop shop”, which means you’re seen by the breast team, have any scans (ultrasound scans and/or mammograms) and even biopsies if you need them. All in one place, on the same day.

I was seen by one of the doctors who spent more time examining my right breast (the one without the lump) and told me it was probably my rib but that they’d scan me anyway.

I pop back into the waiting room before being called to see the radiologist (a doctor who specialises in scans). He places the ultrasound scan probe (think pregnant woman jelly scan) on my boob where the lump is and says “oh”.

“Oh” doesn’t sound good.

He then tells me that they need to scan my armpit (they’re worried about cancer spread to lymph nodes).

Not good.

That I need a mammogram (you typically only have a mammogram under 50 if they’re worried about cancer).

Not good.

I was then asked if I had anyone with me today (which they’d only be asking if they were going to be delivering bad news).

Not good.

F*ckity f*ck f*ck f*ck.
I’ve got p*ssing cancer haven’t I?

They took biopsies from the lump and from a lymph node under my arm pit that looked a bit funky. For the biopsies they inject a bit of local anaesthetic which stings for a few seconds but then it’s all numb and you don’t feel any pain.

When they take the biopsies, you can’t really feel it (maybe a bit of pushing and moving but it’s not painful), but it makes a noise like a staple gun. This scared the crap out of me and made me jump as I wasn’t expecting it. But, again it wasn’t painful and even me jumping didn’t cause any problems.

After they’d stuck plasters and dressings on me we had a brief chat. I was given a piece of paper to take to reception to book my follow up appointment in 6 days time to see the breast team with the biopsy result.

I was told I could speak to the consultant the same day, but I said something like “well you clearly think it’s cancer because you wouldn’t have done the mammogram and biopsies” to which the radiologist replied “I’m sorry but it doesn’t look good”. To be clear, they knew I was a doctor at this point, so I think they knew I knew.

I handed the piece of paper in to the receptionist - tears streaming down my face as the realisation of what had just happened started to hit me.

The receptionist didn’t bat an eyelid! Classic.

It’s the weirdest and hardest 6 days I think I’ve experienced between the appointment and getting the results. You’ve basically just been told you’ve got the C Bomb BUUUUUT you’ve got to wait for the results as they can’t 100% confirm or deny. So you’ve basically been told we’re 99.9999999% certain you’ve got cancer BUT we can’t say for certain.

I was messaging my partner, family, close friends and my work family in-between the different scans and biopsies, updating them on what was going on. I’m so glad I did. Because I didn’t have anyone there with me it was good to be able to message people about it, but also by talking about it over text kind of removes a layer of emotion, so I was able to text about it without crying and being a big ball of emotions.

The support and love I felt and received was overwhelming. My work family were incredibly understanding and gave me the time off I needed to get my head straight (well as straight as can be when you’ve just been told you’ve almost certainly got cancer). I mean you would also expect this, we are all GPs and part of a team but some doctors don’t like each other and might not be quite so supportive.

I asked my friends to take the piss out of me, I’m not sure why I invited it but boy did they deliver (and continue to do so) which has definitely helped me to keep my head out of my ass and keep any pity parties to a minimum. They’ve also given me a ridiculous amount of love and it tears me up just thinking about how amazing they have all been and it would’ve been a real struggle getting through this without them.

Dan and I cried. More like sobbed. That super ugly contorted face sobbing. For quite some time. With lots of hugging, expletives and disbelief.

What The Actual F*ck?

How can this be cancer?

How can I, me, Annie, have cancer? I’m 32, with no history of cancer in the family. Like zero, nada, not even a whiff of any type. EVER.

I like to think I’m pretty health conscious. I eat well (Dan and I mostly stick to a vegan diet during the week), exercise on the regs (I was due to do a marathon this October which I rather naively/stupidly/idiotically thought I’d still be able to train for during chemo - Ha.. moron!), I don’t smoke, I’m slim (BMI, body mass index is 21), suuuuuuuuuuure I like wine, and beer, and cider, and gin, and rum and most spirits and on occasion I drink a smidge more than I should. But I swear Governor that is it.

So I repeat,

What The Actual F*ck?

My mind started going at 200mph. I started thinking everything, from this cancer will be everywhere and I’ll be dead in 2 months, to it’s only a small lump, I’m sure I’ve found it early.

Breast cancer can be curable, I see patients with breast cancer unfortunately more regularly than I’d like but as far as cancers go it’s not a bad one to have.

No cancer is good, sure, but it’s all relative. You can chop your boobs off far more easily than you can chop out a bit of lung, bowel, pancreas etc. Remove the boob, remove the cancer.

Eurgh, my head was all over the place. I couldn’t sleep, spending hours upon hours reading articles at night about breast cancer survival rates, types of treatment, post chemo fertility and everything else in between and then more articles and more and more and more.

Why?

Because you want to read something that’ll tell you it’s NOT as bad as you think it’s going to be.

That the survival rate of your cancer is close to 100%.

That treatment isn’t going to be as sh*t as you think it is.

And it’s all going to be okay.

People have asked me what I thought about when I found out I had cancer.

1. Thank f*ck I’ve got insurance (life and critical illness) so my partner should be fine financially if the worst was to happen.

2. If I die, people are really going to miss me.
   

Now, number 1, was because I immediately worried about Dan (my partner) but knowing financially he’d be sorted was a huge weight off my mind.

And, number 2, well it sounds quite egotwastical but I think that when you die that’s it. I’m not going to know I’m dead or have the ability to miss anyone, it’s the people that you leave behind who suffer and so I was mourning for them. If you remember from my intro - I’m a bloody legend so losing me will be tough!

My point being, after the incredibly hard year of restrictions due to Covid-19 in 2020 and also into 2021, I was desperate to see my loved ones - if only to remind them how great I am and how much they’ll miss me if I die!

The Great Escape

Due to Covid-19 restrictions I’d not seen one of my sisters, her hubby, my nephew nor had I met my brand new niece! So the first thing I wanted to do was to go and see them and my dad. (My other sister and my mum live near me so I had seen them socially distanced - there is no favouritism here before anyone tries to pull me up on it!). Due to “childcare” rules and “single people living on their own” rules a meet up was completely legal and above board.

Dan and I headed down to see them the next day or maybe 2 days later (who cares? It’s not important). Hugged my sister and we both start sobbing.

So. Many. Emotions.

Then my dad arrives. He’s not the most emotional man. I think I have seen him cry once - when his dad died. We hugged, more bloody sobbing (he started it), a beautiful moment of raw emotion amidst all the sh*t. My nephew started tugging at my dad’s leg “grandad, grandad, grandad!”.

Moment ruined, laughter ensues, ice broken and tension relieved.

It was a really bizarre feeling, lovely to be there and see everyone but we were there for sh*tty cancerous reasons. It was incredible to meet my niece and have ALL of the cuddles and play with my incredibly cheeky nephew, but it was also heartbreaking. I kept thinking this is the closest I’m going to get to being a mum, fully aware that chemo can nuke your ovaries making you infertile. I found it super tough, a lot tougher than I had anticipated.

It was a brilliant 3 days with them. The drive back was solemn. We didn’t know if we’d see them again during my treatment (chemo and no immune system, with snotty, germ ridden kids is far from ideal).

Reality escape over.

The C Bomb

Dan and I went to the follow up appointment the day after we got back from visiting the fam. I knew I had cancer. What I didn’t know was if it had spread.

Was it in my lymph nodes? Was it anywhere else?

Generally, the further the cancer has spread - the worse the outcome.

Of course by now I was convinced it would be everywhere and I’d be dead in 2 months, as that is of course what your stupid brain does, it takes something and catastrophizes it! I was pretty convinced of this though despite telling everyone else I thought it’d be fine - I really didn’t think it would be. Unfortunately I remember seeing patients in their 30s on the wards in various hospitals I’ve worked in who had metastatic (wide spread) cancer and who had been end of life. I was going to be just like those people. BUT I put on a smile and said all would be fine, probably to try and save other people from being upset and probably trying to stop myself from getting too upset.

So when I was told that I had grade 3 (aggressive) triple negative breast cancer, but my lymph nodes were negative (meaning no cancer in them).

I was over the f*cking moon!

No cancer in your lymph nodes means spread elsewhere is very unlikely. The less spread, the better the potential outcome.

I don’t think the doctors were expecting me to be so happy on being told I have cancer - but this was cause for celebration - this is a potentially curable cancer!

There are lots of different types of breast cancer, mine is triple negative. It’s called this because some breast cancer cells have receptors on them - oestrogen, progesterone and HER2. That means that the cancer cells can feed off these things, encouraging them to grow. This allows for targeted treatments either as part of your chemotherapy or after you’ve had treatment to reduce your risk of the cancer coming back by reducing the amount of oestrogen, progesterone and HER2 in your body. For more info on this click here.

Triple negative means I don’t have any of these 3 receptors. Which means no targeted therapies and no post chemo treatment to reduce my risk of recurrence. Triple negative breast cancers are normally aggressive, fast growing and fast spreading.. YAY!

BUT it’s not all doom and gloom. BECAUSE they are fast growing, they typically respond well to chemotherapy. Chemo kills rapidly dividing (or fast growing) cells. Fast growing cells include hair, nails and skin (amongst others) but it explains why some people lose their hair and often end up with dry skin and funky nails during chemo.

I was given the option of having chemotherapy or surgery first. I opted for chemotherapy because of my age they wanted to do genetic testing to see if I had certain genes such as BRCA1, BRCA2 and PALB2 (click here for info on BRCA genes). If my genetic tests came back positive, I was going to have a double mastectomy (like Angelina Jolie) and drastically reduce the risk of the breast cancer coming back or developing in my other boob. I figured it made sense to have chemo first so that by the time I had surgery we would know the result of my genetic tests. This would save me from having a lumpectomy, chemo and then having more surgery if I opted for a double mastectomy.

The Harvest

Dan and I don’t have children. We had been thinking about starting a family in the next couple of years.

One of the first questions we were asked after being given the diagnosis was “do you have any children?”.

Now I was expecting this, I know chemo can impact your fertility as it can damage your eggs/ovarian tissue. Dan and I had spoken about it but I don’t think he quite realised that it might not be possible to get pregnant the ‘good old fashioned way’ post chemo. We were referred to the fertility to clinic to discuss freezing eggs prior to starting chemo. I had said that if this would cause a delay in me starting my chemo that I wouldn’t want it.

Why? What’s the point in saving eggs for theoretical children if I’m dead because we delayed starting treatment? No point.

We were called the NEXT day (well done NHS, super speedy) and asked to come in for blood tests and an ultrasound scan. This is how they check your “ovarian reserve”, basically how many good quality eggs you have. Unfortunately if this is too low to start with they aren’t able to offer egg retrieval - which the doctor casually told me as the ultrasound probe went up my fanny.

Thankfully my ovarian reserve was good, so they made me an appointment to discuss and consent to egg collection. It’s a very lengthy document you have to sign, we went through it with the doctor at lightning speed. You have to tick a box to say you’ve been fully counselled - I don’t think I can say I was, but time is of the essence, let’s get this sh*t done.

We asked about freezing embryos as I’m vaguely aware that embryos are more stable to freeze than eggs. They politely said “No”. They only want to freeze my eggs as they’re mine and you never know what might happen in the future. I think also they’d have to do sperm samples and this could delay things. They’re also absolutely right, what if Dan and I did break up and I wanted to have kids in the future but was left with OUR embryos and no eggs of my own that I can use? That would be a whole debate as to who can use the embryos etc? But it didn’t stop Dan being offended - understandably.

I was given tablets to take and 2 different types of injections. The tablets were called letrozole. This works by tricking your ovaries into producing lots of follicles. Normally with a natural cycle you have ONE follicle that increases in size, maturing an egg. The follicle bursts releasing the egg. With egg harvesting you want to get lots of follicles that are big enough to mature lots of eggs and letrozole will do just that!

Side effects from letrozole, most menopausal symptoms, hot flushes, skin changes (acne and/or dry skin), vaginal dryness, mood changes etc, none of which I suffered from (thankfully).

The injections were daily and they were of menopur and cetrotide.

Menopur contains 2 hormones that are naturally present during your cycle and they help get these follicles up to speed too. The most common side effects with these include nausea, tummy pain and bloating. I didn’t get these side effects until the week before they harvested the eggs - then I suddenly felt bloated, sick and uncomfortable. I wasn’t able to wear any of my own trousers because they didn’t fit! I had to borrow my sister’s maternity clothes.

Cetrotide works by stopping you from ovulating (releasing an egg) too early. You want to wait until you’ve got as many follicles as you can that are at the right size and then release loads of eggs at the same time! The most common side effect from this drug is irritation around the injection site.

The whole thing took 15 days from first consult to egg harvesting. I had scans or blood tests almost daily. The scans are internal, which means they shove a probe up your vagina. Don’t worry - they pop a condom on first. Safe sex and all that. I had one doctor who scanned me 3 times in a row. On the third scan appointment I said “we need to stop meeting like this” which is freaking hilarious, so I assume he didn’t hear me or he was laughing hysterically behind his mask…

The scans are a bit uncomfortable, and when my follicles became like 2 big juicy bunch of grapes it became very f*cking uncomfortable.

Once you’ve got as many follicles as they think you can safely get between 18-20mm you inject yourself with a trigger drug and the next day - it’s harvesting time!

I didn’t feel nervous about this procedure, I just wanted the eggs out of me. You normally have one 2cm big follicle each month - I had at least 20. That’s 38cm of more stuff in your pelvis! This is the equivalent to an iceberg lettuce or being 27 weeks pregnant! Which has all grown in the space of 2 weeks!

It’s done as a day case which means you go to hospital that day (normally in the morning) and you leave later that day. I was given sedation, told to imagine it was like a big glass of red wine, and next thing I know I’m waking up. I was told it was a success and they’d managed to get 20 eggs - 19 mature enough, 1 a little immature.

For the immature egg they say they’ll remove it from the freezer a day or two earlier than the others. I’m not sure if this is legit or a joke, as it doesn’t sound very scientific…
They removed my mirena coil at the same time as my cancer team wanted it out. Yes, I had it in the whole time I was growing those follicles and maturing them eggs. It is MAD! My ovaries and womb must’ve been like what the frick?!

I had a bit of discomfort and the tiniest bit of bleeding for a day or two after. The bloating started to settle after about 48hrs - I could fit into my own clothes again!

Egg harvesting done. Tick!

The Pre Chemo

We’d been so focused on the egg harvest that I’d forgotten all about cancer and starting chemo… well until we went to the see the oncologist (cancer specialist).

I feel incredibly fortunate that I live in Manchester and we have The Christie hospital just around the corner. It’s a cancer specialist hospital, and a bloody fine one at that. So I knew I was in great hands and knowing I didn’t have far to travel was great.

It also means that everyone in there has cancer, so as soon as you walk through the doors you’re surrounded by other people who have all different kinds of cancer and are at different stages of treatment. You see headscarves, balding heads, frailty, wheelchairs etc which is a bit like looking into your own, seemingly grim, future. But then you also see the “normal” and “well” looking people and think well 🤞 I’ll be that kind of patient.

Seeing other people with cancer, made me realise, sh*t, this is real, this is happening, I’m here because I’ve got cancer too.

We’re shown to a consultation room and sit there waiting for a doctor to come in. She sits down, asks me how I’m doing. I’m optimistic, remember this is potentially a curable cancer. We then go through the history and a whole load of questions again.

She explains the chemotherapy regime I’m going to have,

PC (paclitaxel and carboplatin) and then

EC (epirubicin and cyclophosphomide).

She then walks us through an entire booklet of side effects, roughly the same size as war and peace. It feels never ending. I know they have to go through them to get your consent for treatment, to make sure you’re aware of ALL of the risks. But if I don’t have chemotherapy - the very likely, probably, I’d argue certain outcome is death, so I don’t feel there’s any other option other than ploughing on. Knowing all the potential side effects isn’t helpful, makes it very real and sh*t, as if you’re on a very grim game show where your prizes are diarrhoea, hair loss, vomiting, skin rashes, potential cancer in the future…. the list goes on.

I was asked if I wanted to take part in a clinical trial because there’s one currently running with regards to my type of cancer. There are often clinical trials happening so if you’re interested in taking part in one it’s worth asking your cancer team. You can withdraw from the trial at any time, either before, during or after treatment.

I’m taking part in the PARTNER trial. Click here for more info.

By the time we were having this conversation about starting chemo it had been;

7+ weeks since I found the lump and 10+ days since my diagnosis.

My chemo was scheduled to start on the 30th of March… this would be;

10+ weeks since I found the lump and 5+ weeks since my diagnosis.

I was like woah woah woah….. I wanted chemo to start yesterday. No, actually, last week. No, actually, last month! Can we start now? Like right now? Now now now now?!

No.

But the team made me feel very relaxed. They were like chill, we’ve got time, don’t worry.

I know this might sound a bit odd, but because they said it I was like, sure, cool, that’s fine and definitely felt more at ease about the whole waiting thing.

I’m really glad we had the gap between egg harvesting and chemo as it had felt pretty hectic with constant appointments for bloods, scans, consults etc. and we hadn’t really had time to think about the cancer and chemo and what was to come, we’d been busy concentrating on getting the eggs.

We had 3 weeks to get ready for chemo.

We’d been renovating our house for the last 2 years and had been living with my mum. We moved back into our house just before Christmas so things were a bit of a mess. Rather than dwelling on the cancer and thinking about what to come, as that was pretty f*cking grim to think about, I threw myself into sorting the house out. I didn’t want to be doing this during chemo and I certainly didn’t want to be living in an untidy/unsorted house during chemo.

Tidy house, tidy mind as they say.

I also spent a lot of time with friends, having lunch and dinner dates almost daily. I had images of me being bed bound, so sick and weak from chemo I could barely move let alone see people and with the Covid-19 pandemic still well and truly here, I wasn’t sure how much I’d want to see people and put myself at risk of catching something.

It was actually lovely, I’d never seen so many friends in such a short space of time especially due to the pandemic restrictions, which had started to lift. I was living in the moment, and treating it like a holiday - not thinking about what was to come.

I had a couple of scans before chemo. I was born with something called hydronephrosis of my right kidney. Basically my right kidney is a bit baggy and a bit lazy. The chemo/research team wanted to do a more detailed scan of my kidneys to check how well they’re working. This is because some of the chemo is processed by your kidneys, so they needed to make sure they weren’t going to overload me with chemo and knock off my kidneys in the process.

Another scan I had was an ECHO which is a jelly scan (think pregnancy scan again) of your heart. This was because in clinic and on the ECGs, my heart rate was between 45 and 50, which is fairly low. Most people will have a heart rate between 60 and 90. It turns out I’m just THAT fit that I’m basically an athlete 😉

I also took these few weeks to do all the pre chemo prep I had read was good to do;

• Dental checks

• Eyebrow tattoos

• Shaved my hair off

My fabulous, wonderful, amazing friends and family sent me lots of moisturisers, lip balms, herbal teas, bath and shower goodies, anti sickness sweets, books, colouring books, puzzle books, audiobook vouchers,podcast suggestions, film suggestions, TV suggestions etc. There was not a chance I was going to be dry skinned or bored.

If I didn’t have such generous friends and hasn’t received such a plethora of gifts I would’ve made sure I had some moisturiser, lip balm and some books at home.

The Fasting

I had read a rather disheartening but wonderfully honest article by Decca Aitkenhead about her breast cancer and treatment for it (if you want to read it click here, but I must warn you Decca does not mince her words).

Decca mentions how she had heard about fasting to help with side effects. She tried the first session without fasting and felt so horrendous, drained and zapped of any energy that she decided to fast for the next treatment. This involved fasting for 72 hrs before chemo and fasting for 24 hrs after. Decca was waiting for the wave of sh*tness to hit her, but it never did. She felt so much better than the first treatment session that Decca continued to fast for the rest of her cycles.. I was sold (and did not feel the need to trial it without fasting, I’d rather feel less sh*t thanks).

My mum told me about a woman at her exercise group who had recently had a run in with breast cancer and that this woman had been fasting for 24hrs before chemotherapy and felt it had really helped with her nausea too.

Well if a random woman at my mum’s exercise group says it works… it must do right? That’s all the evidence I need.

I did some reading around fasting and cancer/chemo. Most of the information I found was via Professor Valter Longo who has done lots of studies on mice and the results (in my opinion) are really astounding. Not only does he talk about how great fasting is for reducing chemo side effects but the amazing effects fasting has on the cancer itself, for diabetes, heart disease, Alzheimer’s, the list goes on. See his website here.

Fasting for 4 days out of 7 sounds so bloody hard and almost impossible, but it is achievable. I would drink water, sparkling water as well as black and unsweetened teas and coffee. If I felt really hungry I would have a bone broth or miso soup or if I was feeling particularly adventurous - a bag of salad leaves. For more info see my blog post about fasting here.

What helped me?

Well, staying out of the kitchen definitely helps, trying to keep yourself busy and preoccupied as we often reach for food when we’re bored. Making sure I had lots of drinks available, I had more herbal tea than you could shake a stick at (which is a lot). Trying to get your other half on board.. or at least making them aware. On my first night of doing it I was speaking to some friends via zoom (remember those Covid-19 remote meet ups) and Dan literally comes in with some mushroom bruschetta he has got for me with zero recollection that I was even fasting or why I was doing it. 2 of my incredibly wonderful friends decided to fast with me - for 24hrs each week, on a Tuesday, they day I had chemo - we set up a whatsapp group chat called “TuesFast Club”… like the breakfast club, get it? (It’s hilarious, trust me.) I found this super helpful, they mostly moaned about how hungry they were, but it got me through the day and there’s something about knowing someone else is suffering with you that makes it that little bit easier!

Did it get easier the more times I did it? No, but I knew what was coming, and that I guess made it easier.
My biggest piece of advice for fasting would be that the hunger comes as waves - and that’s all they are - the waves will pass.

The Chemo

I arrived at the Christie’s hospital, checked in and sat down waiting to be called up to the “chemo room”. I felt incredibly nervous but also keen to get going - I had been diagnosed an age ago (4 weeks) but yet we hadn’t started treatment!

I sat in a chair in the waiting room, looking intently for my name to pop up on the board. I waltzed on upstairs, and felt quite overwhelmed seeing lots of people in chairs with tubes coming out of them, hooked up to bags of fluid and syringe drivers. Not because I’ve not seen this before (I’ve been the one prescribing the fluid and putting needles in on wards during my hospital days), but because it was another smack of reality that I have cancer. That I’m going to be unwell because of this treatment - I’m going to have to essentially poison myself, to get rid of this sh*t.

The nurses and health care assistants were fabulous and walked me over to a spare chair and got me set up. It was a big lazy boy style recliner chair with a controller that had more buttons than I knew what to do with. Why a chair? I think they can fit in more chairs within the “ward” than beds, a chair is less effort to clean after (don’t have to change sheets), encourages you to move (reduced risk of pressure sores and blood clots), and if you’ve ever been in a hospital bed you’ll know that it does feel weird to be laying down in a bed when you’re not feeling ill or tired especially when people are coming round and talking to you, popping needles in etc.

My arm was inspected for veins. The aim is to use any good looking ones (straight, wide enough and palpable - they should feel juicy and squishy) as far down your arm as possible. Your hand is ideal, your forearm is okay - they don’t want to be popping needles in the inside of your elbow. I’ve always thought my veins were pretty good, I have donated blood countless times and it’s never been an issue. You could dart a needle in to my inner elbow veins from the end of the bed. My hand and forearm ones however, were a bit shy.

Thankfully the health team are well versed and it isn’t their first rodeo. They have means and ways - in the form of a heat pack that’s been blasted in the microwave for 30seconds. Once they were happy they could feel some top notch ones they popped a cannula in. I wish it was this easy every time, but we’ll talk about that later on.

They brought me some anti sickness, some steroid tablets and then I was hooked up to some piriton (anti allergy medication). I think the piriton is there to reduce any reaction you may have to the chemo, but one of the side effects is tiredness - so I do also wonder whether there’s an attempt to get you to sleep during the treatment. I fell asleep, every, damn, session!

The piriton took 30minutes to go through. Then it was chemo time.

I fell asleep, listened to music, did some French via Duolingo.

In total it took about 3-4 hours. When we were done, the disconnected me from everything and off I went. As I went to leave the unit, I had to make a quick dash to the bathroom. My stomach was a bit uncomfortable, a bit crampy, I thought that maybe a motion was in motion.

That motion, turned out to be a full colonic clearance.

I’ve never experienced anything like it. I imagine the results are similar to a colonic irrigation.

Once the mass exodus had finished - I got out of there, tout suite! Got home and chilled for the rest of the day. I was still fasting, as I wanted to have a day after chemo of not eating. I felt a bit weird, it’s hard to put it into words. Woozy, whatever that means, and a bit spaced out. Dan came to pick me up after the treatment (he had taken me in the morning too) and I was glad, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable driving or making my own way home. It was comforting too knowing he was going to come and get me.

I was given a couple of days of dexamethasone (a steroid) and some anti sickness tablets to take home with me. But that was it.

First chemo done!