Breast cancer lesson 174: Why hitting that ‘cancerversary’ is something to celebrate

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A year ago today, I was taken into a room and told I had cancer.

As days go, I think it is safe to say it is one I would never wish to repeat (I keep a line a day diary where I rate each day and this is the first time I contemplated minus numbers).

But what I could never have imagined or predicted – as I sobbed into any tissue I could get my hands on and rushed round the corridors to find a mobile signal so I could break the news – is the year that followed and just how much that year did to change my life.

One year on and I am sad to say I haven’t baked a boob-shaped cake or popped open the Champagne (dry January will be completed). In fact, with a morning sorting clothes into wardrobes and a trip to see a friend for lunch, you could describe it as any other day. That said, it’s not every day you get a congrats card (cancerversary cards aren’t that popular) just for being alive.

If you’ve followed my story, you’ll know that this is, in fact, the perfect way for me to celebrate (although admittedly, a themed cake would have worked too). Cancer, when it took over my boob and stole my tummy fat (which has yet to make an appearance once more) it also took away my constant desire to rush through life and brought the small details of the everyday into sharp focus. They are the details that I reflect on at night. They are the details I write about in my diary. And, they are the details of which I never want to lose sight. I don’t dream of big parties and lots of cheers. I dream about hugs from friends, nights on the sofa planning new meals to cook and the sunshine on my face in Greenwich park. Little things never let you down.

Keeping up with tradition, a big milestone in the cancer calendar just wouldn’t be properly marked without a run of some sorts (never thought I’d ever say that)! Tomorrow, I am doing my first ever run for fun (a 10k race to boost my half marathon training) and I have also just signed up for the 20-mile overnight Breast Cancer Care walk with my mum in July and the Royal Parks Half Marathon in October. Last year, life decided to throw me my biggest challenge. This year, I’ve decided to set my own.

Being able to call myself a runner (albeit the loosest sense of the word) is not the only thing that’s changed in the last year. I am 7KGs lighter. I wear hats for fun. I look at the leaking in the roof in the bathroom and I don’t panic. I know how to grow vegetables (although Duncan may dispute this). I can make crumpets. I have watched a play at The Globe and sung carols in London. None of these things may sound ground-breaking, but to me, they are a sign I am living the life I had buried away in a handwritten to-do list. I am putting actions before words at last (although I still love lists)

Of course, I will always be ambitious, but I have learned that true happiness is not always about succeeding in the purest sense of the word, but about making the best of the day you have and living in the present. That’s why I’m doing a mindfulness course at the moment. That’s why I am packing my already busy days with swimming, running, meeting friends and, shock horror, relaxing. And, that’s why I am happier than I have been in years.

So, if you are not on dry January today (or having a cheeky break), then I invite you to raise a glass to the little things. May they make you happy. May they fill your days with pockets of calm. And, may they be there to draw on when the big things come along, which they will at a really inconvenient time.

I now realise life isn’t a given, it’s a gift. And, if you know where to look, it’s a gift that keeps on giving.

Breast cancer lesson 173: Good things come to those who wait

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While a trip back to oncology in the first week of January was never going to make the 2015 highlights list, I am delighted to report that, as appointments go, it was actually rather nice.

For starters, when a doctor says the words: ‘well done’, ‘congratulations’ and ‘now go away and forget about us’ in the space of a four-minute conversation (that was actually stretched out because I had waited 1.5 hours to be seen), you know things are going to be just fine.

It was a strange experience walking back down the street to the hospital, passing the chairs where I waited anxiously on more than one occasion and sitting in the waiting room smiling conspiratorially at bald patients. I have to say, if you’ve got short hair (or in fact any hair), an oncology department is the place to go to feel hairy!

With such a glowing report, you’d think there wouldn’t be a test attached but, this being a research hospital, you can’t move across the waiting room without someone waving a consent form and asking you to sign away relevant bits of your body.

This time, I was asked whether I would participant in a genetics research project for 300 women with lobular cancer. Apparently, given lobular cancer (click here for more information) is less common than ductal, they are exploring whether or not there is a genetic reason why people are diagnosed. Sadly, my individual results will not be shared with me (and I didn’t qualify for genetics testing because the cancer in my family is, thankfully, too far away for concern), but I hope that the research study, when it’s completed, will help many more people in the future. Things are easier to fix (or prevent) when we understand them.

Of course, for me to be a useful participant, I needed to provide one thing = blood. A year ago (blood donor that I was), I would have thought nothing of this and dutifully presented my arm. Trouble is, with good blood-giving arm permanently banned due to it being a lymphoedema risk, giving blood is no longer the breeze it once was. I signed the consent form willingly, but then I added: ‘Trouble is, you may not be able to get any blood to test.’

Undeterred, the nurse approached my arm and proceeded to prod, press, warm, wiggle, rub and tap it. Anyone familiar with my fertility preservation blogging days will know that no amount of coaxing brings these veins to the surface (eight failed attempts is my record). After a few attempts (given it is elective rather than compulsory she refused to continue) she sent me packing with the promise of a rematch – and hand-pumping exercises to do while watching the TV to strengthen my veins so that I play ball in future. I am not sure any amount of pumping will make my arm needle-friendly (especially as it wasn’t ruined by chemo, but always a bit rubbish, but I would very much like to contribute to the research, so I better give it a go.

I can’t quite say I’m discharged (that revolving oncology door will always be open to me), but with no follow-up form and the suggestion that I go and erase the word oncology from my mind, I’m as good as free (to see the breast surgeon annually – so not quite as free as I’d like).

Next up, the end of treatment clinic, a mammogram and a new nipple. Then I might just take a holiday!

Happy new year one and all. May it not involve too many more waiting rooms!

Next up, the end of treatment clinic, a mammogram and a new nipple. Then I might just take a holiday!

Happy new year one and all. May it not involve too many more waiting rooms!

Breast cancer lesson 172: Christmas miracles do exist!

After friends hailing last Christmas’ engagement (after 13 years together) as a true ‘Christmas miracle’, I am delighted to report I am the welcome recipient of yet another one.

Today, on my official ‘lumpiversary’, my body has decided to celebrate by starting its first period since the start of treatment. Not something I thought I’d ever celebrate – or even talk about publically – this news is the best present those of us who have undergone chemo and risked infertility could hear.

Cancer takes a lot of things, but it I said at the very beginning, if it wanted to take away my chances of being a mother, it was in for a tough fight. But whatever happens in the future, even more exciting is the fact that this 33-year-old body is, at last, fed up of acting like it’s about 62.

Today is the day I reclaim my body and femininity, and that makes it a great day!

I write this for every woman facing or undergoing chemotherapy and hoping that one day soon, they too will smile in face of a packet of tampax. It took 20 weeks from the end of chemo, but it happened. All I hope is that, if you’re reading this and hoping, it will happen for you too.

There is hope for us all.

Let’s just hope the cramps are kind!

Merry Christmas one and all!

Breast cancer lesson 171: Here’s to the Christmas that changed my life

Christmas Eve is one of my favourite days of the year. If I’m hosting, it’s a day in the kitchen cooking ham, whizzing up brandy butter and enjoying a Christmas movie marathon. And, if I’m not, it’s a long walk in the park, it’s chain tea drinking, and a couple of slices of chocolate log. It’s a day that is, in many ways, so simple. A day that doesn’t have to be anything in particular. It’s a day that never lets me down.

For those of you who have followed my journey from the beginning, you’ll know that’s it’s also the day I discovered a lump in my right breast in the shower (making this Christmas Eve my one-year lumpiversary). You could argue it was the day that ruined Christmas, poured cold water on the engagement that happened just a day later (after 13 years together) and cast a heavy shadow over 2014. But, you know what, that’s not how I remember it. Christmas Eve 2013 saved my life.

When I was sat in front on a fire with my parents just a few days before, I talked about the future, I talked about the fact that I had come to accept that I may never get married and may never have a child to call my own. I had been so focused on the next of life’s big landmarks that I had forgotten to enjoy and cherish the life I woke up to every day. That day, I decided I may not lead a conventional life – and that was fine. It didn’t, however, stop me popping open the champagne on Christmas Day and toasting a 2014 I thought would be filled with table planning, venue hunting and dress shopping.

When I look back, I know I thought Christmas Day was the day that had changed the course of my life. Truth is, however, it doesn’t even come close. While we have decided to recreate the whole event this Christmas (we still have the champagne so it would be a crime not to), I know I won’t be toasting a day one day in the future (2017 if Duncan wins the debate). No, I will be toasting Duncan for being the partner I want to wake up to and laugh with every day. I will be toasting my mum and dad and all they have done – and continue to do – for me. I will be toasting the friends that have made room for me in their lives and their thoughts. I will be toasting the charities – Willow, Breast Cancer Care, Younger Breast Cancer Network, CoppaFeel, Macmillan and the Haven – that supported me and that now fill me with such joy as I work to support them. I will be toasting my body, for being strong and letting the memories fade. I will be toasting the life I have now – a life that Cancer forced me to see – not the life I thought I wanted.

Tomorrow, I won’t be sad, I will be thankful. Thankful that I am here to cook another ham. Thankful that I have the chance to pull another cracker. And thankful that the future Duncan gifted to me 14 years ago when he decided to take a chance on me (not the future he promised me last year) is the future I am around to enjoy. The greatest gift of all is life and it is a gift I will never take for granted again.

Merry Christmas to you all. As you turn to a diet of mince pies and crisps and reflect on the year you’ve had, I don’t want you to think about all the things that didn’t work out this year or all the times life didn’t go your way. I want you to think about the fantastic memories and the moments (however little) that no challenge, serious illness or crisis in the future will ever be able to take away from you.

Raise a glass to health, happiness and the people that make you smile.

Because that’s all you’ll ever really need.

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Breast cancer lesson 170: Tis the season to wear winter hats

It seems only fitting that my hair should be entering its ‘elfin’ phase as the season of advent begins. Anyone who knows me well knows that Christmas is my favourite time of year, so I am delighted that I don’t just have hair, but I also look the part. It isn’t yet in need of a cut, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t look like a sick person. And, you know what? That’s a great feeling.

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People keep asking me whether I am going to go back to the basic bob I sported for a good six years. The answer? Absolutely not. While I think I need a little more up top so that Duncan stops calling me ‘boy’, I don’t think it will be too long before I am declaring my hairdo an official style. I would never have taken the risk and cut it this short had I not been forced into it. But, now I don’t think I’ll ever grow it long again. Wash and wear is something everyone should try!

It may sound strange, but when I look in the mirror and see my nearly-cropped-but-not-quite hair, I see a side to me I actually quite like. It’s a side of me that’s strong. It’s a side of me that knows how to fight. It’s a side of me that isn’t afraid to face the opposition in front of me. It’s still a little vulnerable and sensitive, but it’s a face that says if I can take on death, I can take on anything. And, now that I am firmly rooted back in the real life, it’s a face of which I need to be reminded.

There is another plus side to having short hair, however, that I hadn’t fully appreciated until now and the beginnings of what I call winter. With less than an inch on my head, even the hot flushes can’t stop me from feeling the cold. That’s why this weekend, I stepped out in my first ever winter hat that isn’t a bobble hat or knitted beret. Yes, with no pom pom in sight, it was just me and a winter cloche-style number. It’s not a hairloss hat. It’s a high street hat that I have the confidence to wear because of hair loss. Because, let’s face it, if you can rock bald, no other headwear will ever really raise an eyebrow!

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The furry addition to my wardrobe is yet to make it off the coat hook, but I am excited to have progressed from tea cosy to something with shape!

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I appreciate this isn’t particularly cancer-related, but after having had so much fun with Breast Cancer Care’s Headstrong service and enjoyed a summer season of head wear, I felt winter needed its moment in the spotlight. I am still in my summer scarf and coat, so hat wearing does constitute news in my book.

Talking of Breast Cancer Care, I have just enjoyed my first ever carol service in London – and what a wonderful service it was! Candlelight, beautiful singing, lovely speeches and even a tasty mulled wine and mince pie. It was on my brighter life list and I am delighted to have ticked it off!

Thank you to this amazing charity for the most magical start to advent I have ever had!

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Breast cancer lesson 169: Why getting organised helps me get closure

This weekend has been dedicated to the cancer-equivalent of a spring clean. I have cleansed my cupboards and drawers of sleep caps, hairloss hats, information leaflets, running medals and PICC line covers and I have, at last, sealed the cancer capsule I wrote about in lesson 158.

It was long overdue, but it was as liberating and therapeutic as it sounds.

Getting closure is the subject of my latest blog for Breast Cancer Care (which will be uploaded to their site soon, but here is a link to the others if you’re interested). And, sealing that Cancer capsule is a big part of it.

For those of you wondering what I mean by a Cancer capsule, it’s this. Over the last eleven months I have accumulated a lot of cancer-related ‘stuff’. Of course, the natural thing would be to donate everything to charity so that others can benefit. But, the trouble is, the last thing I gave to charity was a lightweight dressing gown I wore in hospital when I had hip surgery in 2007. I hadn’t really worn it since so, on January 1 2014 it left the house – just a few weeks before I had to buy another one! I am a little superstitious, so giving the things away that kept me going sadly isn’t part of the post-treatment plan.

So, that’s why I decided to create a cancer capsule – a box I can fill with hats and sleep caps and PICC line covers and tuck away in my house as a little insurance policy. It started life as a shoe box and is now a giant pink plastic box (with a lid) packed with everything from my boob cushion and plastic shower sleeve to the running vest I wore when I completed my first ever 10k in July this year.

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Yes, it is practical (I would never want to rebuy these items if it ever came back), but by filling it with every single card, note, letter, good wish, running medal and fact sheet I have received this year, it’s a box that says: ‘I can do this’, if I ever have to ‘do this’ again. This box is my story. With the words ‘be brave, be bold, be you’ stuck on the lid, I know that if, one day, I have to open it again with tears in my eyes, I will be reminded of both the support I had and the strength I found. This box has everything I need should I have to smile through dark times once more.

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Of course, cancer-related organising does go further than packing old items away. This little pill pot organiser is my new best friend, making sure I take my Clonidine and Tamoxifen every day without fail – and making sure I don’t accidentally overdose in the process. It’s more colourful than the clinical packaging and, thanks to a card packed with Boots Advantage points, it didn’t cost a thing.

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Today I declare myself free of cancer clutter!

With the wig burning and the capsule tucked away out of sight, I know I am getting closer to that wonderful thing called closure. I’m not there yet, but I know one day I will be.

My cancer capsule is packed away – and so too, for now, are my memories.

 

Breast cancer lesson 168: Why I am about to run for my life – and for charity

One thing you may not know if you haven’t had the pleasure of being prescribed an oestrogen blocking anti-cancer drug is that Tamoxifen, my new friend for the next decade, has a nickname. It’s a bit too ‘rude’ for me to mention it here (you’ll just have to trust me that it isn’t nice), but let’s just say, it’s a nickname that only now I fully understand.

While I will be forever grateful that there exists a drug that can reduce the chance of my cancer coming back (and I really am grateful), I do just wish it could do its stuff without raising my anxiety levels (trust me, this pill can make the washing up seem like an uphill struggle), stealing my sleep and generally ageing me by about forty years. When I heard about people’s experiences of the drug I honestly thought that, after chemo, it couldn’t be that hard. But, faced with taking a potentially mood altering drug for ten years, part of me would rather endure another short-term course of the toxic stuff than have to ‘check in’ with my body every five minutes to make sure it’s in one piece.

Don’t get me wrong. I am still really happy and thankful I have my life. And, if this is what I have to do to prolong it, I will do it. But, I guess Tamoxifen (the effects of which I think are starting to kick in now my body is leaving the effects of chemo and Zoladex behind) is my daily reminder that, far from finishing the fight for my life, I am still very much at the beginning.

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Which brings me to the title of this blog post. When I knew things were about to get tough before chemo, I hit the road with my, then, tatty trainers for the first time in a decade. I hit the road, not because I was a runner, but because I wanted to stay sane and counteract the weight gain. I did it for me (as well as raising money for charity) and I think it is one of the biggest reasons why I started and finished treatment with a smile on my face. Running (or more accurately, jog/walking) saved me this year. And, you know what? I think I need it to save me again.

I confess, I hate the thought of running. I even hate the getting dressed for running part. But, the feeling I get when I arrive back home after a jog through Greenwich Park is a feeling I wouldn’t give up for the world. It was that feeling that got me round the streets of London when I had chemo drugs running through my veins. It was that feeling that made me choose a run over a party at the end of active treatment. And, it is that feeling that I hope will help me over the finish line of my next, and biggest, running challenge to date. On March 1, I will be back on home soil running the Bath Half Marathon.

Whether my legs will go the distance is still a subject hotly contested at my family home in Wiltshire. But, while I can’t predict the future and second guess whether the hip problems that plagued my twenties will return, I know that I will give it my best shot. This time, it’s not about weight management (although I do get to eat more cake). This time it’s all about the mind and showing my body that, however hard it tries to bring me down with its cocktail of drugs, it will never take my spirit and my determination to succeed. However I do it (and it won’t be graceful), I will be crossing the line in March for every person who needs Tamoxifen to keep them alive. It seems a cruel joke that after nine months of active treatment, just when we all want a break, we should be faced with yet another drug-induced challenge. This is one challenge, however, I will overcome.

Of course, I am not just running for me. I am running for amazing charity CoppaFeel. Those of you who have been following the blog will know just how important CoppaFeel is to me. You just need to spend a few moments with twin sisters Kris and Maren (who founded the charity) to know just how special they are. They work so hard, with very few resources, in their fight to wipe out the late detection of breast cancer. Kris is dying. Maren has to watch her sister fight the disease every day. And yet, both are dedicated to making sure other people they don’t even know – or will ever meet – have the chance to enjoy a long and happy future. It seems to me the ultimate selfless act to give your life to helping others when you don’t know how much of it you have left. If that’s not worth a few quid, then I don’t know what is.

As with the last two races, I won’t be heading to the starting line alone. Back in July my wonderful friend Fran stuck by me (when I knew she could run faster) as I completed first the British 10k. She turned out again in September and has been persuaded to join me on this, no doubt, cold wintery day. She believed in me when I thought I had nothing left and, for that, I will be forever grateful. Duncan will be heading out too (we may even get him in a giant boob this time), although we probably won’t see him after the warm up. And, it means the world to me that my amazing school friend Alex will be returning to the course (after tackling it last year of CoppaFeel) to help me round. With that kind of back-up, I just have to hope and pray my legs don’t let the side down.

Running as a non-runner has been an emotional and amazing journey. This time, with winter training, double the distance to run and the same dodgy hips, we need all the support we can get. If you can spare just a few pounds to make that training (followed by mince pie eating) worthwhile, then please head to our Virgin fundraising page. Then all I ask is that you return to this page to post (as a comment) the song you think will motivate me, make me smile and remind me of you. I want to create a playlist of requests that remind me of the people who believe we can get there. I know that will give me the motivation I need to step out over the coming dark months even when the lure of Christmas lights and cooked ham is more appealing.

Together, we can help Kris and Maren make secondary cancer a thing of the past – and show Tamoxifen who’s really the boss of this body!

Thank you.

Together, we can help Kris and Maren make secondary cancer a thing of the past – and show Tamoxifen who’s really the boss of this body!

Thank you.

Breast cancer lesson 167: Set your wig free!

On Saturday, I did one of most liberating things I have ever done. I chucked my wig on the first fire of the season and I watched it burn. I turned my back on its odd acrylic strands and unnatural sticky-outy bits. I decided that I would never again look in the mirror and not recognise the person starring back. And, you know what? I loved every second.
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Those of you who have followed my journey from the Orthotist’s office to meetings in town, will know that Suzie and I were not the best of friends. We tried, but after three awkward outings, I took the call that I’d rather be bald than wear something that would disguise my true self – and that may blow off in the wind leaving me bald anyway. It may have looked a bit like my old hairstyle, but it just wasn’t me.
Surprisingly, Duncan (aka the fire starter) wasn’t best pleased when I presented the extra fuel for the evening. Having paraded it around the house and channelled his inner David Walliams, I think he was actually quite attached to Suzie. Describing it as a fancy dress item, however, only strengthened my resolve. She just had to go.
So, after a series of comedy pictures, we went our separate ways – me to the shower to rub in more of the lush hair-growth shampoo and Suzie to the fireplace. It was strangely emotional, but it was the right thing to do.
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If you’re worried that this is in direct conflict with my cancer capsule idea (see lesson 158), then do not despair. This is not the same as the dressing gown I gave to charity in January. The truth is, even if I were to find myself bald again any time in the future, I wouldn’t reach for Suzie. I might reach for my hairloss hats and my sleep caps, but not my wig.
On Saturday I took control. And, if there’s something in your life that is stopping you from being yourself, then I would urge you to do the same.
NB: apologies to the environment and to charity, but Suzie needed to go. I am sure you understand.

Breast cancer lesson 166: Why we’re all allowed a wobble

When I said goodbye to active treatment, I remember being told that there would come a time when I would feel the fear. There would come a time when I would obsess over a breast change, worry about a persistent cough or be reduced to tears by a headache. While I felt positive at the time, I remember thinking that I knew the day would come. The thing is, I didn’t expect it to come so quickly.

I guess it comes from the fact that, while I love the bits I have left, I no longer trust my body. In January, I felt fit, well and happy – and we all know how that played out. Roll the clock forward ten months and I have just spent the morning at the breast clinic hoping and praying that the firm bit of fat I can feel just above my left breast is nothing more than a firm bit of fat.

I knew it would be nothing and it was – fat tissue and a rib bone I can feel more because the chemo weight has dropped off. But, a little part of me was scared it might have been something more sinister. And, that fear is not something I would wish on anyone. I have just started to get my life back. Curveballs aren’t part of the plan!

I am slightly embarrassed to admit though (especially given I deliver talks about breast awareness and the importance of knowing what’s normal) that I was more worried about wasting hospital time than I was getting checked out. I didn’t want to be typed as someone petrified of the future, because I’m not. What I failed to realise though is that, after all I’ve been through, feeling the fear and questioning your body is not just a natural reaction, it’s pretty much expected.

Today wasn’t just about fear though. A trip to the breast unit brought with it the memory of a cold Friday back in January. Today, I wasn’t just seeing my amazing surgeon and breast nurse. Today, I saw the window ledge where I tried to get mobile reception to call my parents that day. Today, I saw the room in which I was originally told I might have cancer. Today, I sat in a waiting room surrounded by frightened faces. Today, the experiences of the last ten months came flooding back. And, I had to draw on every little bit of strength I had not to let them back in.

Of course, it wasn’t all bad. I ended up having a bonus arm measurement (part of the clinical trial), which put me at ease and was the source of much banter (even if I ended up having to undress twice and flash my knickers in the mirror at the end of the examination table). I also came away having had my boobs examined and my left boob scanned so I feel like I’ve had a bonus thorough check-up, which is really reassuring.

As I left the hospital all I was focused on was how I had wasted everyone’s time (they were all so nice to me) and how I was desperately in need of a biology lesson. Then I realised that this emotion is the exact emotion that stops women going to the doctors when they feel something, the exact emotion that prevents some women being diagnosed at a treatable stage. And it is the exact emotion I will try not to feel ever again. Today is was nothing. But, why should I ever take the risk? My team didn’t mind – and nor should I.

So if you’re reading this and you’re sitting on something you need to get checked out (boobs or otherwise) make Monday the day you pick up the phone. Don’t let anything stand in your way!

Breast cancer lesson 165: Why loving the stars has made me less fearful of the night

On 16 January, before the cloud of cancer cast its shadow on my life, I didn’t know a single person who was dying. Now, I could give you a list.

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Over the last ten months, while being chemically transformed into a cancer-repelling machine, I have lost new friends, new inspirations, acquaintances and amazing people with which I have shared a bit of Facebook banter. I got my life back, but, in so doing, I have seen just how easily it can be taken away.

For someone with a primary diagnosis, I haven’t really spent much time thinking about the prospect of this disease bringing my own life to an abrupt end (although I did have an amusing – if morbid – hypothetical chat with Duncan about the rigorous screening process I would implement if the end was in sight and finding another lady was on the agenda).

But, what I didn’t consider after being diagnosed was just how much time I would now spend thinking about other people who have lost their lives. Every time I hear that cancer has systematically destroyed another family’s world, I think about just how cruel and unforgiving this disease really is and just how many people are affected by it. At the moment it feels like my heart is being stamped on about once a fortnight, which is stark reminder of how fragile our lives really are.

Breast cancer is a killer. And, for young women, a pretty ruthless one at that. According to Cancer Research UK, 32% of all cancer deaths in women between 25-49 are due to breast cancer. I have heard people on more than one occasion say that breast cancer is: ‘the best cancer to get’. Truth is, the only good thing about cancer, is not getting it in the first place. Get it young and the chances of it being aggressive are high.

This post blog, however, is not meant to be sad. While I wish with all my heart the scientists could find a cure for cancer, some astonishing people have filled my thoughts, my house and my inbox this year. It’s awful that it was cancer that brought us together, but I couldn’t now imagine my life without the imprint they’ve made on it. There are some truly amazing people in this world. You may not always see them as you rush from day to day, trying to complete that to-do list. But they’re there and, I guarantee they’re fighting hard every day.

These women have taught me that if I’m not having fun, I’m doing something wrong. They have inspired me to greet each day with a smile. They have inspired me to race through my brighter life list (last week’s sausage roll making fest being my last achievement). They have inspired me to say what I mean to the people I love and admire, while they are still around to hear it. They have inspired me to be a better person in all that I say and do. And, for that, I will be forever grateful.

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So tonight, as you tuck into some wine or mug of cocoa, I want you to raise a glass to all those beautiful people who have touched your life and made you who you are even though they may no longer be a part of it. Life is so short and so precious too.

We owe it to all those whose lives have been taken, to make the very best of every day.

NB: If you are reading this and have not checked your boobs in the last month, they please ‘Cop a feel’. If not for me, then for this stunning woman Kris (Boob chief at CoppaFeel), who I feel humbled and privileged to have met