The Cancer Survivors Club (9 page)

Although I was somewhat sidelined by chemotherapy, it didn't keep me off the road and I ran as often as possible. I'm convinced that the effort to lace up my shoes actually gave me the energy to endure the treatment. I ran a five-kilometre race midway through my treatment and clocked one of my better times. I remember thinking to myself as I ran past the cheering spectators along the race route, ‘Way to go, chemotherapy girl
–
you show them.'

The night before my last day of treatment, my three daughters and I made cupcakes for the nurses and doctors on the Oncology Ward. It was in part a celebration and a way to thank them at the same time. It provided hope for my daughters that they would have their mother back and that life would start to be normal again. We had a wonderful dinner that night with friends; it was the perfect tonic.

With the treatment officially over, it felt strange at first. I wasn't at the hospital being checked by my doctor and healthcare workers every two weeks. I didn't have the security of being able to ask questions whenever I wanted. It took a lot of getting used to not going to hospital. Initially, it felt like I'd just been dumped by a boyfriend, honestly. To celebrate this newfound freedom, and because my running was going so well, I made plans to run a half-marathon just four months after the end of my treatment. The belief I had in myself and my confidence in being able to finish the race were all I needed, even if I was a little bit slower than in my pre-cancer
days.

My true transformation really began towards the end of the year. Breast cancer, or any cancer for that matter, places you in front of your greatest fear. I had a choice when looking that fear in the eye. I could laugh and believe in myself and my ability to survive or not. There was never a moment that I didn't believe I'd get well. Even when I had my meltdowns while I was crashing off the steroids and medication following chemotherapy, my belief was still there. The transformation taking place now was more of me as a person. I had shed the previous skin I was wearing in my pre-cancer days and had become somehow different.

At first, it was the small things I noticed, like being more patient and more grateful for things like a beautiful moon, or the joy of hearing the waves while I walked along the beach. It's the appreciation of seeing the loving smile on my daughter's face as she sleepily gazes up at me upon awaking. Although these things may have given me joy before, I now noticed them more. I had a newfound tendency to see the glass half full. I no longer angrily shout at the car in front of me in rush-hour traffic, in my haste to get to work. I listen to inspirational CDs now, or sing along to a great song in the peace of my car instead. In fact, I sit quietly in amusement when someone I know loses it because something is making them angry.

Like tending a garden, I was transforming my life in other ways as well. Some of the friends I once had were replaced by others. It's not because we had a falling out, but because my needs had changed and my goals were no longer the same. Family members who were once irritating ceased to be that way. Not because they had changed, but because I was more open minded. I don't let things get to me as much as they once did. Perhaps it's a result of looking proverbial death in the face and winning.

I don't take life as seriously as I once did. I laugh more and like to linger more in the moment. I'm grateful for the little conversations I have and take time to say mental thanks for the people I have them with. Unlike a young child, I no longer wish time would speed ahead to that special day or celebration. I'm patient, knowing that day will come with many other pleasurable moments in between. When I'm invited somewhere, I go giving my full attention. I don't leave half my thoughts at the door because I'm too busy thinking of the lengthy to-do list waiting at
home.

Material things are less important to me. It's more important to have a car that keeps me safe and runs well than to own a specific model. I would rather spend my money on travelling and creating memories than own a special piece of jewellery. I prefer to spend my money on hosting a nice meal at home for my friends or family and enjoying each other's company before, say, buying another television.

I treat my body with more respect and keep up with my exercise. My diet is much healthier and I'm much more conscious of what goes in my mouth. I have discovered the joy of cooking. Spending time in the kitchen is now another way I relieve stress. I love spending a few hours making a good meal and look forward to poring over my ever-increasing collection of cookbooks looking for new culinary inspirations. Wholesome and nutritious foods are much more prominent in my family's diet, and it gives me great pleasure that they are eating well. While in the kitchen I have a smile on my face and I'm at peace.

As a survivor, I have devoted part of my running to supporting races that help cancer charities. Those races are even more special to me and inspire me to think of a future where I'll spend more of my time helping other cancer patients. I have started this through my writing. A year ago, I started a blog; it's a survivor's look at breast cancer. I write about running for health, running for hope and running for a life without breast cancer. This blog is not only therapeutic to me, but it's also my way of helping cancer patients who are now having treatment I once had. My hope is to inspire and perhaps just show them that, as with life in general, there is always a choice.

I'm at a point in my life where I am still growing.

The transformation into my new body is not yet complete. My journey has provided me with a life experience unlike any other.

I now know how powerful the mind is and how productive and successful we can be by properly exercising our thought process. The stories in this book will attest that everyone has the ability to be tenacious.

In life we have choices; the only question is whether we are ready or strong enough to seize the opportunity when it presents itself. My wish is to provide that inspiration. Cancer has been a massive life-changing experience for the better, but you shouldn't have to be diagnosed with cancer in order to realize this. Things happen for a reason and this is mine. It is also my gift back to
you.

What is it with our obsession to rush down the beach the moment the sun shines? I'm not moaning
–
at least we're getting a summer this
year.

Like stranded seals on a beach, and as regular as salmon swimming upstream to mate each year, we wallow in the sand frying our skin that hasn't seen daylight since this time last
year.

Men lie there motionless, fighting a losing battle to hold in their stomachs, while adamantly refusing to use coconut-scented suntan lotion. Women slowly slip into swimsuits, using as much care as a bomb disposal expert, desperate to ensure their towels don't hit the floor before their tops are securely fastened. Men watch under the camouflage of their sunglasses, hoping to see flesh that's normally only displayed on the top shelf of a newsagent.

So it's no wonder skin cancer has quadrupled over the last thirty years. There are two main types of skin cancer: non-melanoma, which is very common, and malignant melanoma, which is less common but more serious. It's estimated there are over 100,000 cases of non-melanoma skin cancer in the UK each year. Over the last twenty-five years, rates of malignant melanoma in Britain have risen faster than any other common cancer.

While women lie on a beach covering themselves in every combination of lotion they can find, as if replicating the mating habits of a peacock, men, on the other hand, prefer to burn like bacon in a frying pan, thinking it's a sign of weakness to use any sun protection.

This is proven in the statistics; men are more likely to develop a malignant melanoma, normally found on their chest or back, and women on their
legs.

Nearing the end of the day, the guys' attention moves from the bronzing bodies around them to the forthcoming BBQ, an extravagant purchase that was acquired along with the oscillating fan and new garden furniture from a retail outlet earlier in the year. All purchased in hope of showing off to neighbours and proving to the women that we men can be spontaneous.

Although non-melanoma skin cancer is extremely common, in the vast majority of cases if detected early it's not life-threatening. Survival rates have been improving for the last twenty-five years and are now among the highest for any cancer. The latest malignant melanoma survival rates show that over eighty percent of men and around ninety percent of women survive the disease for at least five years after diagnosis.

While the men now stand impatiently waiting, shocked that their wives' faces now look like the skin shed from a snake, their wives give impressions of escapologists as they prise themselves out of their beachwear, their limbs feeling as taut as drum skins, and pulling faces like a tortoise eating lettuce.

So the moral of this column, should you not have got the subtle message by now: the next time the clouds drift away and you get the urge to lie and relax in the sun… Use some sunscreen…

Everything was going so well in my life, until finding a lump in my collar bone. I had a routine smear test scheduled for March so decided I'd mention the lump to the nurse at the same time. I hoped if nothing else it would put my mind at rest. I was twenty-nine years old and foolishly thought nasty things only happened to older people, which helped dismiss my fears. When the nurse said it wasn't anything to worry about, I felt a bit stupid for even mentioning it. I went home pleased my smear test was over and relieved my lump hadn't been anything to worry about either.

I'll be honest, I paid little attention to it from then on, even though it was gradually getting bigger. During April, I happened to mention it to my mum. She suggested I go and see my doctor and get it checked again, advice I stupidly ignored. After a couple more weeks of Mum nagging me, I eventually booked an appointment with my doctor. The doctor repeated what the nurse had told me; he too didn't think it was anything to dwell on. However, just as a precaution, he would arrange for an ultrasound to be done. Before my ultrasound appointment, the doctor wanted me to have some blood tests done. These thankfully all came back as normal. Again, I wasn't the least bit concerned that there might be a problem.

The ultrasound was booked for 14 May. My sister came with me and it didn't take any time at all. While the ultrasound was taking place, I enquired what the lump could be. The lady said it looked like a swollen lymph node, and I thought nothing more of
it.

She explained I'd receive a letter from the Ear, Nose and Throat (ENT) Department in about a week with the results. When I got home, I Googled ‘lymph nodes' and the word cancer kept appearing everywhere; I was now starting to get quite worried.

My appointment for the ENT clinic arrived for 21 May. By now, I'd already convinced myself something nasty was going on. I imagined an invasion of bad cells crawling around my body, which I had no control
over.

The 21st soon came round, and both Mum and Dad wanted to come with me, which I wasn't best pleased about. I'd already decided I wanted to go on my own. I went straight to the hospital from work in the end. I arrived at the department to see a waiting room full of people and was told all the day's appointments were delayed by about an
hour.

Finally, at 5:00
P.M.
, I was called in to see the consultant. He said with a ‘no messing' manner, ‘I'm ninety percent sure you have cancer.' He went on to say he needed to take a biopsy to be sure, and to determine what type I
had.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. To think it might be cancer was one thing, but to actually hear what I did was something else. I stayed strong and managed not to cry
–
despite really wanting to. The consultant went on to explain that he required the biopsy as a matter of urgency so had actually already booked it for the following day. I was in complete shock by this stage; everything was suddenly happening so fast. I couldn't hold back my tears any longer and started to cry. I signed some paperwork and left the hospital. I was a complete mess, not knowing how I was going to drive myself
home.

I called Mum and told her what the doctor had said, and she also started crying. It felt like I couldn't breathe, like I was being suffocated. All I wanted to do was curl up in bed and pretend it wasn't happening. This had to be a mistake, I kept saying to myself. Eventually, I managed to drive myself home, made a few phone calls and went to bed. But I couldn't sleep; I just lay awake all night going over and over what I'd been told. I kept wondering why it had happened to me. My whole life suddenly felt like it was collapsing around
me.

I arrived at the hospital early the following day and was shown to my bed. I was in a room with three other ladies who were really nice and helped keep my spirits up. We chatted constantly for most of the day, which was a great help. Around 4:30
P.M.
, I was finally taken down to theatre. At about 6:00
P.M.
, I remember waking up and fussing around my neck to see if they'd put a drain in. I was so pleased when I found they hadn't. I had to stay in hospital overnight, which I wasn't pleased about. Mum and Dad visited me, and they arrived just after I'd been taken back to the ward. Mum helped me put on my nightwear, as I couldn't move my neck or lift my arm properly; it was so painful.

The next day, the consultant came round, checked my stitches and signed me off work. He said I was now free to go home, but would have to come back a week later to have my stitches removed.

I returned to the ENT Clinic on 4 June. My consultant simply said, ‘It's as we feared… you have cancer… we're sure its Hodgkin Lymphoma.'

It sounds a dumb thing to say, but I was ready to hear this news. I'd had nearly two weeks to get used to the idea and in truth the consultant had already told me before the biopsy was taken. There was no way he would have said he was ninety percent sure I had cancer if he wasn't. I left the hospital alone clutching various booklets on the subject.

Now I had to wait for my next appointment, which had already been booked for 12 June. I felt completely numb, scared and overwhelmed by the whole situation.

The date soon arrived; this was the appointment where I'd find out what treatment I needed. They'd also explain how long I'd be treated for and what stage cancer I had. Usually stages were described as numbers, between I and IV, which represented the amount that the cancer had spread. To my horror, I was a stage IV, this being the worst. The stage also takes into account the size of the tumour and how much it has invaded other organs. The consultant went through everything with me and made me feel a little more relaxed. I was told I would need a PET scan to see if the cancer had spread. He wanted me to have it as soon as possible, to enable them to start treating me. I also needed my bone marrow tested; I wasn't looking forward to
that.

I had a list of questions, which he answered, so it was just down to me to process and understand all the information I'd been given. I really didn't know where to start; all I wanted to do now was get the bone marrow test over with and find out if the cancer had spread. My consultant explained I'd need ABVD chemotherapy, but it would depend on the results from the PET scan. This would determine how much chemotherapy I needed, which would then be followed up with a course of radiotherapy.

My PET scan was booked for 19 June. I didn't really know what to expect but figured it was a pain-free procedure so couldn't be too bad. I was right; I had an injection, which contained a small amount of radiation. The radiation evidently sticks to the cancer cells, allowing the doctors to see how big the tumour is and if it's still active. I then had to wait a couple of hours for the radiation to work its way around my body before I could have the scan. I was in the actual scanner for about forty-five minutes and then went
home.

I had to go back to hospital on 25 June for my bone marrow biopsy, which I was dreading. I arrived at the chemotherapy ward where I was shown to a bed. A doctor soon appeared and explained the procedure to me. He asked if I would like to be sedated or stay awake. I figured staying awake would be the best option, as I could go home the second it was over. How wrong I was
–
it was very uncomfortable. I thought I dealt with the pain quite well until the doctor said he wanted to take a second sample, as his first attempt had fallen out of the tool he was using. I soon decided I couldn't take the pain any more and got them to knock me out with a sedative. I obviously couldn't tell you what happened from there. I decided from that point on, if I was ever offered anything, it was being offered for a reason. Therefore, the answer I always gave from then on was yes. I never once tried to be brave again; I don't do
pain.

My first dose of chemotherapy was on 3 July. I arrived on the ward and had to wait an hour for the drugs to arrive. One of the nurses put a line in the back of my hand to give the chemotherapy through. The nurses were lovely and I met another girl with the same problem as me. She was on her third lot of chemotherapy and we got on well straight away. My treatment arrived and it took around two hours for it to slowly drip down the clear tube and into my body. I didn't feel a thing and went home quite happy.

I expected to start feeling poorly that night but didn't, to my relief. I can honestly say I just felt warm and had a rather flushed face. This was on the Friday and I continued to feel OK over the weekend and Monday. However, Tuesday wasn't such a good day. I woke up with a really sore mouth; it was so sore that I couldn't eat anything as it hurt too much. I called the hospital who gave me a mouthwash, which helped straight away and I soon started to feel well again.

On Wednesday, I was feeling poorly again. My left arm, which I was given the chemotherapy in, had become very painful and swollen. I called the hospital and they suspected I might be reacting to one of the drugs. They suggested I put some heat on my arm; this would help the small veins remain open and should relieve the pain. The next day, one of the nurses called me to see how I was doing. There wasn't any improvement so I went back to the hospital to see a doctor. They confirmed I had reacted to one of the stronger drugs and all they could do was prescribe some painkillers. The pills actually made me feel sick so I soon stopped taking them. However, they were right: keeping heat on my arm did help with the pain. I couldn't go to work so sat in front of the television with a hot water bottle on my arm. I must have looked mad doing this in the middle of summer.

The day of my second chemotherapy session soon arrived. I had some blood tests done first thing and then had to wait to see the consultant. He confirmed I was well enough to have my second lot of chemotherapy. So reluctantly I went upstairs to the ward, to find out how long it would be before my drugs were available. The doctors had also decided they were going to fit me with a PICC line, to avoid the situation with my arm hurting again. One of the nurses fitted the line, which wasn't that painful, and I then had an x-ray, just to check the PICC line had been positioned correctly, before it was used. Thankfully, the line was working perfectly and my treatment could go ahead.

I sailed through this next lot of treatment and had no problems with my arm or with my mouth. I wasn't even sick this time so was feeling much happier. This meant my first cycle was out of the way. I only needed two more before I could find out if the cancer invasion to my body had stopped.

Sadly, two weeks after having my first lot of chemotherapy, my hair slowly started to fall out. I had always said, as soon as it began to fall out, I'd shave it all off, but actually I wasn't brave enough. This really upset me and I couldn't get my head round the fact that I had cancer. Cancer was something that happened to other people, not me. The nurses kept saying I should have my hair cut short as it lasts longer, but I didn't see the point. I didn't want to have my long hair cut before, so why would I now? There were advantages
–
I didn't need to shave my legs and my bikini line needed little attention.

I had always said that I wasn't going to wear a wig but my attitude towards them changed. I went to the hospital to pick my free NHS wig, but they didn't have the one I wanted, so I ended up with a wig I wasn't completely convinced about. I soon decided I wasn't going to wear it, so went shopping with Mum to find some headscarves. I was in a local shop speaking to a very kind lady, casually picking loads of different scarves, when a wig on a stand caught my eye. I tried it on and immediately thought it was fabulous. I had no idea at the time what it cost, but I didn't care: this was the wig for me. As soon as I got home, I called my hairdresser. She shaved off my hair and sorted out the fringe on the wig. I still think my hair falling out was the worst and most upsetting part of the whole experience, however painless. Nothing actually prepared me for it, but once I'd got the wig I soon got used to the idea. When people saw me for the first time, they just assumed I'd had my hair cut differently, which I was obviously very pleased about.

My second cycle of chemotherapy was supposed to start on 31 July and I was actually feeling quite good about it. I went to see the consultant, who said I couldn't have any chemotherapy just yet, as my white blood cells hadn't recovered from the last cycle. White blood cells, or leukocytes as my doctors sometimes called them, are responsible for our immune system. They defend the body from infectious diseases; without them we'd soon get an infection and die. I obviously had mixed feelings about not having my next lot of chemotherapy, but there wasn't anything I could do about it. The consultant explained that I'd have to wait until next Friday before I could start the second cycle. In future, I would need to have white blood cell booster injections.

As Mum and Dad were with me and it was a lovely summer's day, we decided to go to the seaside. It was great to get some fresh air and be somewhere nobody knew I was ill. I played on the two-pence fruit machines and ate prawns, chips and candyfloss. For just a few hours I felt like me again; I felt the cancer bubble I'd been trapped in had temporarily burst.

My second cycle was now starting on 7 August. My white cells had recovered so I was ready for the chemotherapy. I had breakfast while waiting for the drugs to arrive, and some two hours later I'd had my treatment. However, that weekend I felt completely knocked out and all I did was sleep.

In fact, I slept for most of the time, right up until Thursday of the following week. I loved my bed and sleeping, but this was crazy. The only thing I needed to remember was the white cell boosting injections. I needed five of them, one every day from the fifth day after having the chemotherapy. The district nurse came round each day for the five days. This had really started to wear me down. I decided it would be easier if I gave myself the injections.