Category: Happiness

Breast cancer lesson number 86: The secret to smooth summer legs

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, HappinessLeave a comment

Ok, so I appreciate the title to this blog is a little misleading. While I do have the secret, it does involve a few rounds of toxic drugs, so it is a bit of a hardcore way to solve an everyday problem.

That said, if you’ve got to endure chemotherapy, you’ve got to celebrate those perks. One whole summer with beach-ready legs is a good side effect – just a shame I won’t leaving the country to find sandy beach on which to air them. Chemo, there aren’t many things I thank you for (especially not the ulcerated tongue that is currently making it difficult to talk). But, I thank you for this.

Interestingly, unlike the dramatic overnight hair loss I experienced with my hair, my legs have been a little quieter in their elimination of stumble. Imagine my surprise this morning then, when I discovered their silky smoothness. The great thing is, I tend to be a bit slack with my hair routine over the winter, and now I can be just as slack with amazing results. I have heard that chemo does wonders for the skin. I am now starting to believe it.

The secret to keeping your eyebrow hair and nostril hair while on chemo is one I would be keen to discover. While I have embraced by baby-like baldness and my hair-free thighs, my eyebrows have started to thin in a noticeable way and losing my nostril hair means I don’t need a hot meal to make my nose run!

Chemo, let’s make a deal. You can keep my leg hair and my armpit hair (and pretty much all my body hair), but in return would you please return my head and nostril hair and my eyebrows. If not, can you make sure we have a hot summer so I can make the most of the hair loss while it lasts. Thank you.

Breast cancer lesson number 85: Bank happiness. You never know when you’ll need to make a withdrawal

On By Jackie ScullyIn Brighter Life List, Chemotherapy, Happiness3 Comments

I have experienced so many moments of happiness over the last few days at Breast Cancer Care’s Younger Women Together event – so much so I need a while to digest it all – I feel compelled to write about one of them (for now).

Kelly Short, a breast cancer survivor and someone who has moved forward from her diagnosis and treatment in a way that is truly inspirational, took the last session of the day. At one point she used the phrase: ‘Life is what happens while you’re planning something else.’ For someone diagnosed while planning a wedding to her long-term partner, it seems an appropriate phrase to use. And, as someone diagnosed soon after getting engaged, I couldn’t agree more.

Having talked through her experiences – not least a turn on UK TV in makeover show How to Look Good Naked – she touched on two things that are very close to my heart. The first? The fact that life doesn’t start after active treatment, it is going on every day and is there is be seized when you’re well enough to enjoy it. The second? She reinforced the importance of living a life based around gratitude. You can’t change the past, so why spend energy wishing you could. If you’re grateful for what you have, you won’t miss what you don’t.

What am I grateful for today (apart from the opportunity to meet so many women of a similar age tackling similar challenges)? I am grateful for the photo that was sitting on my phone as I was leaving the event. My wonderful fiancée Duncan had sent me a picture of the alliums flowering in our garden and it brought with it the biggest smile. Why, you ask? Alliums are my favourite flowers – and growing them and watching them bloom is number 27 on my brighter life list (click here to view). While it may not be a full garden of flowers, I believe it gives me my first tick on the list. And what a beautiful tick it is! Let’s hope we can add to them in the years to come. That’s nine alliums this year (10 if you count the one that got its head trampled on). Double figures next year!

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I have been thinking a lot about happiness over the last few days (having had it restored once my Wednesday chemo was reinstated once more). This is in no small part down to a 92-year-old lady I read about on a blog about kindness. This lady, on moving into a nursing home, took the decision to love her new room based on a description alone. She explained:

“Happiness is something you decide on ahead of time. Whether I like my room or not doesn’t depend on how the furniture is arranged, it’s how I arrange my mind. I already decided to love it. It’s a decision I make every morning when I wake up. I have a choice; I can spend the day in bed recounting the difficulty I have with the parts of my body that no longer work, or get out of bed and be thankful for the ones that do. Each day is a gift, and as long as my eyes open I’ll focus on the new day and all the happy memories I’ve stored away, just for this time in my life.”

She added:

“Old age is like a bank account, you withdraw from what you’ve put in. So, my advice to you would be to deposit a lot of happiness in the bank account of memories. Thank you for your part in filling my memory bank. I am still depositing.”

What an amazing lady (you can read the whole blog here) – and certainly not the only one I have encountered this week. I am certainly depositing happiness and hope that by the time I reach my old age I’ll be rich in memories. I also think I might make a few tactical withdrawals on the way. Invested wisely, I hope these moments of happiness will enrich not just my old age, but my every day.

To you, my allium is just one of making spring flowers trying to make its mark. For me, it’s a living reminder of all that is good in the world. It grew because I planted it. It flowered because I nurtured it. It makes me smile, because it went into the ground on a cold, dark day at the end of 2013 when I had cancer developing in my breast. It pushed through the earth, and it now stands tall. I am pushing as hard as I can through chemo, and I remain strong. Its colour will fade, but the memory of it will stay with me forever (in fact I hope to dry it and use it as a Christmas decoration).

Whether it’s a flower in the garden, a tasty meal or a thoughtful card through the door (I got a couple of really special ones this week) put it in the happiness bank. Be grateful for every deposit. Save up those smiles because one day, you might just need to make a very large withdrawal!

Breast cancer lesson number 82: Why it’s time to get out of the right side of bed… if you can find it!

On By Jackie ScullyIn Breast reconstruction surgery, Chemotherapy, Happiness3 Comments

There is such a thing as the wrong side of the bed. For me, it’s the right side and I’ve been on it for 68 nights. Cancer kicked me over there when it decided to attack my right breast and lymph nodes. The PICC line on my left tried to get me reinstated, but cancer won through. Last night, however, I moved back.

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Apart from the fact I can’t really sleep on it, new boobie no longer needs the level of protection granted to it by being close to the edge of the bed. That means, the clip attached to my PICC line (that if unclipped by mistake could cause blood to flow freely out of mind arm) is now out of harm’s reach and I am back to where I belong – near the door, near the wardrobe and close to all my notebooks and belongings. I was never really far away, but by just moving a metre to the left, I feel at home once more. It’s another small milestone that has brought a big smile to my face.

Interestingly, the question as to whether or not the left side is, in fact, the official ‘right’ side of the bed on which to sleep, has led to a surprising number of column inches over the years. I believe the idiom ‘to get out on the wrong side of the bed’ dates back to Roman times, when it was considered bad luck to get out from the left (maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong!).

That said, in recent years, a bit of probably-not-very-robust-but-I-like-it research from hotel chain Premier Inn, has tried to give the left side a stay of execution. The group’s study (dating back to 2012) found that two-thirds of people who sleep on the left side of the bed believe themselves to be calmer and more confident than their sleeping partner. Of its findings, Premier Inn went on to say: “The research clearly indicates a pattern between which side of the bed you sleep on and the mood you wake up in. Left sleepers are more cheerful, appear to enjoy life slightly more and have a more positive attitude to the day ahead than right sleepers.”

This is further supported by an entertaining earlier study combining psychology and Feng Shui. Because the left side of the brain uses logic and rational thought (and the right, emotion and imagination), Feng Shui associates the left side of the bed with family, health, money and power. The idea is that by getting out on the left from a lying down position you focus your energies towards logic and away from stress. Does this mean that as a ‘leftie’ I am more likely to remember to read the gas meter, but I might not get the colour scheme for the hallway right? Not sure I like that logic!

The only trouble is – and something I find highly amusing – there seems to be no real agreement as to which side of the bed is left and which side right. The Premier Inn research states that the survey is based on someone standing at the foot of the bed. Why would they be standing at the foot of the bed I ask? And in what direction are they looking? As far as I am concerned, if my right side is closest to the edge, it’s the right side of the bed. And, if no one can decide, it just means the ‘right’ side is the one you choose to sleep on!

While I like to think that my preference adds a positive start to my day, the key thing is, it’s my preference (and probably that of millions of others in the world). And, thankfully, it’s not Duncan’s. After all, if there were a universal ‘right’ side that affected our psychological well-being, no one would want to share a bed.

Regardless of which bit of your brain falls out of bed first, it seems that choosing (and sleeping on) ‘your right side’ (and not that of the research scientists) does help you get a good night’s sleep. It’s probably all in the mind (and not the Feng Shui), but given sleep is supposed to support everything from weight management and mood to memory and your body’s ability to heal, it’s not something I’ll be moving away from again in a hurry! Take note cancer.

Sleep tight tonight and I hope you aren’t one of the 10%* of couples (*again according to Premier Inn, so please apply a pinch of salt) that likes to argue about the taking of sides. If so, I may have just fuelled the fight!

NB: I’d like to say you need to know your left from your right to be able to unpick this blog post. But now, I’m not even sure that matters!

Breast cancer lesson number 81: The happiest people don’t necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the best of everything

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, HappinessLeave a comment

Jogging (with a bit of walking) as I was around Greenwich Park this morning, I was reminded of a little bit of good that has come from the bad that is a cancer diagnosis.

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I may be missing a few lymph nodes, but in extracting them all down my right side, they also did me a rather nice favour. They took my sweat glands too. That means no matter how hot I get (admittedly there wasn’t a huge amount of sweating going on this morning), I will always feel as fresh as a daisy – albeit only on the right. And, before you ask, the left side doesn’t compensate by giving me a good drenching!

Ok, so it might not be a fair trade when you think of the destruction caused by the cancer itself. But, you won’t hear me complaining. In fact, there are quite a few things I like about my post-cancer body. So much so that I feel part of me should feel quite grateful.

While I may have to live with a hip-to-hip scar across my stomach, the flat result really is the tummy of my dreams (and the scar is shaped like a smile rather than a straight line). Now I just have to keep it that way!

The hair loss may be temporarily (although if my armpit gets a blasting from the radiotherapy that could spell an end to right side armpit growth too), but it certainly is low maintenance. The thought of having no leg hair (the last to go I hear even though I wish it were the first) is actually quite exciting and the only bits I don’t want to part with (now the hair is a distant memory) are my eyebrows and my eyelashes.

And, dare I say it, my man-made boob is pretty realistic. The only problem is, it is already growing (even though the rest of my body isn’t particularly), so I may have to have weigh up my options with the surgeon if little becomes large over the coming months. The natural left one just can’t keep up.

Most importantly, however, I have a newfound respect for my body and the bits that do (and don’t) work. In the park today I jogged further than I have in a decade and it felt good. Even something as insignificant as painting your nails feels like a treat, now I set aside time for it (and don’t apply it while trying to multitask and end up taking it all off again).

This period has taught me that if you want to help others and give back to the world, you must first help yourself.

I know cancer has the power to challenge my life again in the future. That’s why I’m going to give my body the time it deserves now, so it will always have the energy to fight back. 

Breast cancer lesson number 80: How to make the ordinary feel extraordinary

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness3 Comments

It started with Friday night wine. As a tradition to mark the beginning of a weekend together, it has a special place in my heart. That is, until chemo wrestled in on the action and stole away my tastebuds. Chemo has a skill of turning even a beautiful Cotes du Rhone into the most vinegary plonk imaginable. Trust me, it is not a party trick of which I am particularly fond and it certainly doesn’t do much to give you that Friday feeling.

I am, however, thankful to chemo the comfort-stealer for one thing. By targeting and eliminating life’s pleasures, it has provided me with the opportunity to enjoy them all again as if for the first time. Chemo turned a normal night into one of the best Friday nights ever because it decided to hand back my tastebuds (albeit temporarily) and with them my love of red wine. Every sip of that full-bodied beauty is now wonderful wine memory tucked away for me to draw on whenever the palette goes wonky again.

In lesson number 47 (click here for more), I wrote about the joys of rediscovering your ‘normal’ and the way in which something you’ve taken for granted for years can suddenly become exciting and beautiful once more. I hope that everyone gets the chance to do this (without the chemo drugs in tow), because it really is a source of great happiness.

Yesterday I took a day away from blogging and from cancer to soak up every moment of a typical bank holiday Saturday. And, you know what? It felt wonderful. The contents of my Saturday are not particularly blogworthy, but that’s the point. A breakfast of eggs in purgatory (if you haven’t had this amazing recipe, click here to head to my lovely friend Rachel’s blog for inspiration). A trip to the garden centre. Three hours of sorting and clearing in the garden. A glass of wine in the evening sunshine. A walk in the park and a lovely curry at home. Each one an ordinary moment that made me feel extraordinary. When digging out the composter with a trowel makes you smile, you know that you’ve started to see the world through different eyes.

As proof of our hard work, here’s Duncan in the garden trying out his top for our 10k run (it arrived yesterday). Quite why he felt the need to raise awareness for breast cancer in our garden was beyond me, but it was really nice to be able to spend some quality time together in the mud! (As an aside thank you so much to everyone who has given so generously so far in sponsorship for the run. I will thank you all individually over the next few months.)

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Duncan used a lovely gardening analogy when talking about the year so far over a very normal drink in Greenwich.  He likened cancer treatment to pruning a rose. Pruning is often brutal and can make a flower look messy and sad for a while. But, when pruned, a flower can come back stronger and more beautiful than ever before. He said there is no time to feel sad. Just time to take action and grow stronger. For a maths graduate, I thought that was pretty special. Will certainly make me remember that drink!

I know this feeling won’t last forever. But it is a feeling I want you to experience too. I want you to linger longer over those bluebells in the park. I want you to drink in the scent of spring on freshly-laundered clothes. I want you to read the back of a label of wine and try and find the delicate spices and vanilla (or have fun trying) in every sip. I want you to rediscover every normal aspect of your life and give it centre stage for just a moment. If the normal bits of life can bring you more happiness, just imagine what the surprises and special moments will bring?

May today be an ordinary day that makes you feel extraordinary.

Breast cancer lesson number 79: In search of the ultimate chemo-friendly ginger cookie

On By Jackie ScullyIn Baking, Chemotherapy, Happiness13 Comments

Anyone who knows me well will know that there’s nothing like a 250g slab of butter, a plastic spatula and a kitchen lightly dusted with icing sugar to make me smile. From grannie’s special shortbread and melted stilton and ham rolls to chocolate orange cake and even the odd hand-rolled fondant rose, if it involves a lot of measuring, plenty of bowl licking (oh, raw sponge how I love you) and a little bit of icing, I’m there.

As you might have guessed, I love to bake. The emphasis is usually on taste not presentation (although Duncan was stunned when I once produced a cake that actually ressembled Thomas the Tank Engine for my lovely godson), and there have been more than a few disasters (the less said about the collapsed Quiche Lorraine, the broken brandy baskets and the misshapen macaroons the better), but for me, there is no better smell than the smell of freshly baked goodies!

The trouble is, I love to bake with a purpose. And, when you’re tucked at home with a surgically-flattened stomach and no desire to enlarge it, that purpose is not so easy to find. I will certainly be doing another of my annual charity bake sales in the not-to-distant future, but for now, I am just keen to get creative while filling someone else’s tummy as well as my own. Plus, I have also started to notice that my new right breast is taking a rather larger shape than my left. With tummy fat all over the place (including in the new boob), I have more than just a bulging belly to worry about.

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Last night, however, I went to bed with a dream and I woke up with that purpose. Yes, after discovering that opening the bedroom door can do wonders for night sweats, I had a comfortable night. It also reminded me that I am stronger than the chemotherapy drugs dancing away inside me and now is the time to start fighting back. With chemotherapy cycle three just 12 days away, I am determined to triumph over every single side effect thrown in my direction. That means Difflam on tap (mouthwash for mouth ulcers), ice lollies and frozen grapes (yes, still focusing on the mouth) and a lot of ginger (for the sickness).

For FEC chemo cycle one, having discovered the medicinal benefits of ginger, my beautiful and thoughtful mum arrived on the doorstep with not one, but three bags of homemade ginger biscuits (plus a box of tasty cookies from a friend). I dutifully polished of the lot (with a little help, but not much) and the experience has got me thinking. What is the tastiest, most nausea-relieving and chemo-friendly ginger cookie in the world? Does it exist? Does someone have the recipe lurking in their family history? Is gingerbread better than a ginger cookie? And, could I make some to deliver to my chemo unit to help other chemo patients (and inspire others to do the same)? Why simply take on my nausea, when I can try to help everyone else too?

Of course, I am not ruling out bought ginger biscuits (or ginger bread for that matter). But, there is something about a lovingly-prepared homemade bake that I think might just have the edge. I have heard great things about the Fortnum and Mason stem ginger biscuits and do love a good Ginger Nut. Question is, do they have what it takes to banish waves of nausea from the chemo suite?

So here’s where you come in. Can you help me find the perfect ginger-flavoured treat? In return, I promise to bake every recipe and share my favourites with chemo patients (and maybe a few friends, family members and neighbours too) J. Plus I thought the whole exercise might be quite useful to my wonderful and kind sister-in-law-to-be, who just so happens to have a ‘slight’ addiction to biscuits of a gingery kind! Please post here or send me an email via the ‘Get in touch’ page and I will get cracking.

Spatulas at the ready, it’s time to turn on the oven and turn off those chemo side effects!

Breast cancer lesson number 76: Why being healthy doesn’t automatically make you happy… and why it should

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness, Reflections on cancer4 Comments

Back in September 2007, when a surgeon decided to saw my pelvis in three and reshape my hip socket, I vowed I would never take walking for granted again. I renewed that vow when, in December of that year, I was stood in my parent’s kitchen with no crutches trying to remember how to put one foot in front of the other (it was surprisingly hard). I thought that being able to walk without pain would somehow make me ecstatically happy. The truth is, beyond the odd twinge and few bad shoe decisions, I haven’t really thought about walking (let alone felt happy about it) for the last five years.

Will I be noticeably happier when my current health problems are tucked away in another of life’s closed chapters? Experience tells me I won’t. Of course, I’ll have hair, an immune system, a nipple and maybe some nicely manicured nails. But, when the badge of good health is stamped on my medical records (or I just get a nice letter telling me to come back in a year), I will probably do what every other human being on this planet does ­– I’ll just find something else to worry out.

Good health, when you’ve got it, doesn’t buy you happiness. That’s because, when you’re healthy, you don’t really think about it. When was the last time you randomly thanked your pancreas for working and your heart for beating or stroked your feet because they got you to the bus on time? The sad fact is, when our bodies work, we take them for granted, punish them and expect them to keep going. We don’t think about them until they go wrong. And when they do, we find it hard to think about anything else.

Of course, while being healthy doesn’t guarantee us a space on cloud nine, the subject is not quite so straightforward. When you feel good, you have the strength to chase dreams and seek out things that can bring happiness. And in the same way, when health problems strike, unhappiness can spread like a disease. Happiness and health are linked, but not in the way you might expect.

Just being healthy might not be enough to make most humans happy, but there are so many reasons why it should. I can’t say that I won’t take my health for granted again when the scars have faded and I can taste food once more, because I know I will. I am only human after all. So, I want to take this moment to thank my body for putting up a good fight when obstacles are thrown in its path. Having seen a lot of people less fortunate than myself over the last few months, I am grateful that I can sleep without pain, walk to the shops without collapsing and go home at the end of my treatments. I am lucky that I can enjoy a sunset, listen to birds in the garden and smell the dinner cooking in the oven. Right now, the thought of all that good health brings, is making me very happy indeed.

So today, raise a glass (of water) to good health. Let it buy you a moment of happiness. If you have it, grab it, hold it tight and don’t let it go. You never know when you might lose it. And, if you don’t, I pray that one day you will find it again.

Breast cancer lesson number 75: Don’t wait for the storm to pass. Learn to dance in the rain

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness2 Comments

This morning I made a mistake. Instead of comforting myself after a night of restless sleep (bald heads, sleep caps and hot flushes do not great bedfellows make) and a day without tastebuds, I stood on the scales. My first day back at work after chemo two decided to wreak havoc on my bloodstream and I started it by making myself feel bad – rather than by making myself the cup of tea I probably deserved. Don’t ask me why I did it. Let’s just say, I won’t be doing it again.

Having now experienced two rounds of the toxic stuff, I have decided that chemotherapy is the medical equivalent of a dementor (feel free to swot up on your Harry Potter knowledge here). Ok, so it’s not exactly a figment of my imagination or a creature of the night and, I appreciate its main target is cancer cells and not my soul, but I do think that if you let it take hold and define your life, chemo will drain you of the hope and happiness you need to keep going. After all, anything that steals away your ability to taste food, sleep well and think straight is not going to be high up there on the Christmas card list.

The trouble with chemo is that if you can only feel happy when you feel yourself, you might be in for a very very long wait. While I am not a big fan of the fact my eggs taste like cardboard, the skin is peeling off my mouth and I am now only at the right temperature when my leg is hanging out of the bed, I know that I need my positivity as much as I need the drugs. Chemo, with its systematic destruction of the body, does not care whether you smile when you wake up in the morning, so you have to.

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While there is no magic Patronus charm (apologies to all non Harry Potter lovers out there) to snap you out of that bad start and banish the toxins from your bloodstream, here are five tiny top tips for taking control away from the chemo 

1) Get your kit on: I may be sporting a rather odd combination of suntops, a sweater and a fluffy poncho to keep warm, but I didn’t sleep in it, so that makes it clothing!Dress for the day and you’ll find it a lot less daunting.

2) Open those curtains: Clouds or no clouds, daylight is always more inviting when you can actually see it. Let it in and it might just lift your spirits.

3) Variety is the spice of life: There is more to life than the sofa, even if it is your current place of work. A day without structure and a change of pace will probably never be a day you wish to repeat.

4) If you have time for Facebook, you have time for exercise: It doesn’t have to involve lycra, and sweat is purely optional, but it’s amazing what even a bit of stretching can do for the mind, body and soul. I’m looking forward to pilates later.

5) Make the little things matter: from an unexpected piece of news and a kind message to a perfectly fried egg (even one you can’t taste), the little things often make the biggest impression.

Of course, sometimes it’s just not possible to change the course of a day. But even if chronic fatigue, mouth ulcers, temperatures and sickness stand in your way today, just remember there is always tomorrow.Chemo isn’t conquered in a day. Don’t aim for 110% if 75% is all that’s needed. And, don’t feel guilty if the day you thought you’d have is not the one you end up living. For all its nastiness, chemo is at least trying to make sure you have lots of tomorrows.

And, one bonus tip: THERE IS NOTHING TO BE GAINED BY STANDING ON THE SCALES ON A MONDAY MORNING AFTER EATING A LOT OF TASTELESS AND UNSATISFYING THINGS THE NIGHT BEFORE!

Chemo or no chemo, it’s a rare day that brings with it the right amount of sunshine. It’s up to you to find a break in the clouds or, better still, smile even when the rain falls.

Breast cancer lesson number 73: Cancer strips away the things we think define us and, in so doing, shows us who we really are

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness, Reflections on cancerLeave a comment

It seems rather appropriate that, while everyone is chomping on the last of their Easter chocolate, my head should start to resemble that of a spring chicken.

Since the number two head shave, the darkish brown (even the odd black) spiky strands have disappeared, only to be replaced by what I can only describe as a bit of blonde baby fluff and a lot of baldness. It’s not shiny, I now have less hair than all the babies I have met in the last few weeks (I just wish they could talk so we could share tips) and Duncan still insists I move seamlessly from the sleep cap to the day headwear, so he doesn’t have to experience the ‘ill look’ too often. For him, it makes my invisible illness visible. For me, it’s a sign the drugs are working.

With the quickest haircare routine ever, I am still finding the whole hairloss side of treatment quite liberating. So, I have decided it is perfect timing to share my no make-up selfie with the world. I appreciate I am about a month or so behind, but having already donated a good few pounds to breast cancer charities recently, I didn’t really feel the need to yank on my hair to speed up the process. This, for me, is the true face of cancer. It can’t be masked with make-up. It’s a face that suggests that I’m fighting, but that won’t ever give away quite how much. It’s a face that looks well, but, in truth, it’s not a face I ever thought I’d see (especially not in my early 30s).

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I am lucky in that I have never been defined by my looks. I am also lucky in many ways that cancer has chosen to give me a glimpse of a life without hair to show me just how little any of this image stuff really matters. I never thought I’d say this, but I am more comfortable in my own skin now that I can see a lot more of it.

Throughout my childhood, I was teased for having the wrong straw-like hair, the wrong complexion, the wrong waist and hip measurements and a raised birthmark on my neck that made people point and stare. I felt out of place in my gym kit, out of place in my leotard or swimming costume and without a real place in life. I used to envy all the girls with their beautifully braided hair, flat stomachs, fashionable clothes and string of admirers. I used to dream of waking up as someone people would want to be. Now, I couldn’t dream of being anyone else.

Strange as it may seem, cancer has made me take one long hard look in the mirror and come away smiling. Cancer strips away the things we think define us and, in so doing, shows us who we really are. Cancer hasn’t made me stronger or happier, but it has let me see just how strong and happy I really am.

I no longer search for beauty in a perfectly-styled hairdo or glossy lips. I look for beauty behind the eyes. Anyone can paint on a vision of happiness or hide away under a layer of foundation. But beautiful people can laugh and smile without seeking the reassurance of others or the support that comes with a brightly-coloured lipstick.

So maybe, just maybe, you might like to ditch the make-up on more than one occasion this year. You don’t have to post it on Facebook and you don’t have to donate money every time you leave the mascara at home. But, you might just surprise yourself and discover that your real beauty doesn’t come from a tube of tinted moisturiser. It’s been there all along waiting for you to stop covering it up.

Thank you cancer, for making me feel beautiful. And, I hope that by reading this, you might learn to love the skin you’re in – hairless or otherwise!

Breast cancer lesson number 71: You may be sore today, but you can be strong again tomorrow

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness4 Comments

I have only been sick three times in my life. That is, until about 12 hours ago. FEC chemo two brought with it more pink pee, another ice-cream headache and, yes, you guessed it, a bit more vomit than I’d bargained for (three lots so far!). Thank goodness a) I can read my body well enough to avoid the bedding and the new mattress and b) I had an old washing up bowl by the bed (just in case).

Having experienced nausea in cycle one, I went into yesterday’s session prepared. With an extra dose of anti-sickness medication, I wasn’t even expecting to feel sick, let alone be sick. Just goes to show that, when it comes to chemo, even the best laid plans can prove fruitless.

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As with chemo cycle one, the session itself was really rather nice. I passed by blood test and had a good laugh with the nurses. I got my medication ahead of schedule and everyone seemed to like not just my pretty PICC line cover, but my chemo-friendly Shakespearean T-shirt too (it says: ‘Though she be but little she is fierce’ and it was bought for me by a kind and lovely friend).

Everything was going so well. I enjoyed my dinner and even managed a few Miniature Heroes for dessert. Then the side effects kicked in. They were two hours earlier than round one and they were more intense from the start. Once in bed, I had to lie flat. If I rolled to either side and I felt like a spirit level knocked off balance. I tried to deep breathe my way out of the nausea, but it wasn’t long before I was saying hello again to my chicken and rice supper.

My poor tummy (thank goodness I’m back at pilates so it didn’t hurt to retch) and I made it through the night (along with a very concerned Duncan and mum), only to be greeted by another pile of bile-coloured vomit. The worst bit is when you’re tummy is empty, you’ve got nothing left to give, but your body is still trying to expel something.

Eight pills, two glasses of flat lemonade, a cup of tea and two pieces of toast later and I am still (touching all wood available) keeping food down. Let’s hope that I may make it out of my pyjamas/sleep cap/dressing gown/slanket combo at some point and face the world today. And if I don’t, there’s always tomorrow.

This is the first day in a long time that I actually feel like a sick person. You can read it in my face and the bags under my eyes. You can see it lurking under my sleep cap. And, I can certainly taste it in my mouth. Chemo hasn’t defeated me, but it’s giving me a bit of a beating.

Today, I have one objective: avoid vomiting. Chemo drugs, I plan to put up a good fight.