breast cancer and chemotherapy

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 150: Ten things that will never taste the same again because of cancer

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Today I did a little dance after standing on the bathroom scales (a rare event I grant you). That’s because today, one month after the official end of chemo, I have returned to my pre-surgery weight. Thanks to jugs of water (with a squeeze of lemon), bran-based breakfasts, run/jog/walks around Greenwich Park and, yes, the odd comfort cake, I have space in my jeans once more and a great big smile on my face.

When I think back over my food choices over the last nine months, I can’t help but laugh. With my love of water, tea, fish, meat, cheese, bread, biscuits and cake, I have always been fairly predictable. Daring for me is throwing balsamic on the courgettes! Add in a fair few helpings of jelly babies, pints of lemonade and ginger biscuits thanks to chemo, however, and you could argue my diet had started to resemble that of faddy child. Not perfect timing when you consider our garden has been more productive than ever this year (although I am making up for it now by working my way through our tomatoes).

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With the chemo cravings a distant memory, I would like to be able to say order has been restored once more. But, that’s not quite true. For starters, my tastebuds are in overdrive. Everything feels like an explosion of flavour in my mouth.

Amazingly, I have even started savouring my food rather than racing the clear the plate. Whether this slow down will continue remains to be seen, but I will enjoy it (and its impact on my digestive system) as long as it lasts. It is a wonderful feeling to enjoy every mouthful and I’m convinced everything tastes better (although that might have something to do with the fact it couldn’t possibly taste worse).

Of course, when people talk about food and cancer, thoughts immediately turn to chemo – aka, the tastebud stealer. And yes, while it does make a pretty big impression on the dinner plate, it is not the only treatment and life-changing event to alter my view of certain foodstuffs.

So, here are ten things I know will never taste the same again (heightened tastebuds or not).

And, the good news is, it’s not all bad…

1) Chocolate: I have always had a weakness for chocolate and, dare I say it, the cheaper stuff usually (Dairy Milk and Twirl, with a bit of Green and Black’s vanilla chocolate thrown in). Now, every time I even look at a bit of chocolate, I am reminded of the chocolate hampers and treats that arrived in the mail to help me pile on a few pounds before surgery. That chocolate made my new boob possible and I will be forever grateful for it. I had never eaten a Hotel Chocolat chocolate before in my life. Now, I could probably describe the entire range! It was a bit dangerous creating a chocolate cupboard in the house, so while Duncan and I started to think of it as an essential nightly ritual, the new waistline wasn’t quite so sure. There is a little chocolate in the house now, but don’t tell Duncan, because he doesn’t know where it is :-).

2) Mashed potato: Oh, NHS, why is it that your mashed potato tastes so good? I never wish to eat your toast for breakfast again, but your smooth creamy mash is amazing. I appreciate the morphine may have had something to do with it!

3) Bananas: Ok, so they don’t have quite the same impact as they would on that comic book character Bananaman, but now I’ve taken up running (as an act of defiance against this dreaded disease), when I’ve eaten a banana, I feel like my legs could power on forever. Of course, I haven’t actually gone further than a 10k to test this theory, but I will always have a soft spot for this fruity fuel and its ability to get my round Greenwich Park.

4) Anything with ginger in:
I never used to understand why people got so excited about ginger. When you go in search of the ultimate ginger chemo cookie, however, this little ingredient does take on a whole new meaning! I think Delia’s ginger nut recipe is still a personal favourite, but I have enjoyed my journey through everything from gingerbread to ginger syrup cake. That doesn’t mean I’ll be stealing your ginger chocolate any time soon mum, so don’t worry.

5) Grapes: I love grapes, but I certainly won’t be freezing them again any time soon! The freezing idea was a way of eating fruit, while simultaneously trying to cool the mouth in the chemo chair to reduce that cycle’s side effects. I think it is fair to say it was as worthwhile as wearing sunglasses in a darkened room.

6) Ribena: Before cancer, I used to associate Ribena with my great aunt, who likes to drink it warm because she (shock horror) doesn’t do tea. Having been my ‘water’ for the entire chemo period, however, it is now sitting proudly in the fridge waiting to be diluted once more. It is incredibly sweet and it does remind me of the drug epirubicin, which isn’t ideal. But, if I drink it with my eyes shut, everything is ok.

7) Wine: I will never forget my first flavoursome sip of wine when my tastebuds reappeared for the last time on chemo cycle six. I was in a restaurant in Padstow and the lady serving us poured a small glass for me to try (no point buying it if I can’t taste it). It was magical. Acidic wine (the more acidic the better), was a friend on chemo. It isn’t a friend any more. I am also glad to say that red wine has been reintroduced once more. It had a bit part in my chemo story. I couldn’t taste it at all, but a glass before each blood test did help those levels (this is not a recommendation)!

8) Ice lollies: For me, ice lollies have always been a real sign of summer (my favourite being the Strawberry Mivvi, which I have avoided of late). Sadly, I think those days are gone. I did have a fruit pastille lolly in Cornwall, but it was for medicinal purposes. When you’ve craved them constantly for months as a way of shocking the tastebuds into action, they don’t quite have the same appeal. Oh well, best stick to farm ice cream and waffle cornets in future. It’s a hard life.

9) Bread: I never want to remember the peanut butter on toast chemo moment that felt like my mouth was being welded together with superglue and cardboard. Now the subtle flavours of bread are once again present in my life, however, I don’t think I will ever take them for granted again. Beautiful crusts, fluffy light rolls and floury baps, I love you all! I am thoroughly enjoying my ‘year without buying sliced bread’ challenge! 

10) Eggs: If all I had to eat for the rest of my life were eggs (with cheese of course), I would be a happy lady. That’s why I was excited when a friend recommended Nigella’s Eggs in purgatory meal. Trouble is, I love it so much, I think I ate it about 40 times during the chemo months. We are, as you can imagine, on a bit of a break right now.

In truth, nothing will ever taste the same again.

And, you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Breast cancer lesson number 119: Do more of what makes you happy

Thank you. Thank you for following, liking, commenting, clicking, finding me by typing ‘boobs cycle door’ and ‘boob bald’ (yes really!) into Google and joining me on my cancer journey now and again. Thank you, because by reading not just this post, but the thousands of words that have come before, you have given me the confidence to write again and a reason to smile.

When I set out on my travels through active treatment, I was determined to do more of what I love. And, by blogging about everything from leeches to dark nail polish, I have done just that. But, for me, this blog has been much more than a playground for positivity and a chance to reflect on my time in hospital. It has helped me rediscover all that is beautiful in the world and indulge my passion for creativity. Cancer tried to take my life away, but has (inadvertently) through inspiring me to blog and celebrate life, actually given it back. And things look even brighter than before.

Cancer has taught me to do the things that make me happy. And that is something I wish for you too (happiness, not cancer that is). I have a new to-do list packed with positive things and it is a real joy to tick off each one. Life has a habit of getting in the way and filling our days with its endless admin. But, take a step back, work out what it is that gives you a real boost (usually the thing you do to procrastinate) and I guarantee you’ll be able to find time to do a little more of it (or get started). Go on, I dare you! Life is too short to have a clean cooker and well-filed bills.

I am reading a book at the moment that says: ‘The real source of happiness can be stated in a word: achievement.’ This is something to which I can really relate. Sometimes the sheer thought of hard work or sitting down to complete a task can be enough to send me in the direction of another ‘boring-but-essential’ job (like laundry). But there is no greater feeling than the feeling of having really achieved something – especially when that achievement can actually help someone else. For me, writing is like that. It’s often hard to get started (I do have very clean clothes), but to finish brings me more pleasure than a long soak in the bath or perfectly-formed sponge (although that is admittedly a close second).

Throughout this process, I have wanted to use writing to help people (by which I mean not just other breast cancer patients, but also those seeking to reflect on and improve their lives). I hope I have achieved this in some small way through my blog. I am also delighted to say that Breast Cancer Care has just asked me to become a regular blogger for them, offering tips around a theme for others in my position. My first post on body image has just been published and I feel so thrilled to have the opportunity to try a make a difference. Here’s a link to the feature and I hope you will support me by having a read: http://www.breastcancercare.org.uk/news/blog/vita-bloggers/jackie

I have also been asked to write a few articles about smiling through cancer, which I hope will encourage people to seek out the positives at what is a very challenging and distressing time. Amusingly, I have just spent the day on a shoot for one feature. Little did I think when the hair started to fall that I would actually be welcoming a photographer into my house just three months later to take a shot of my bald head! But today, in my little corner of Greenwich, that’s exactly what happened.

For someone with a history of ‘red eye’ and a face that is currently sporting dry lips, few eyelashes, fading eyebrows and a sun-grilled cheeks, I was pretty worried I wouldn’t quite scrub up. But, the make-up artist, editor and photographer were amazing and so supportive and that’s why I am currently writing this with stuck-on eyelashes and a painted on smile. It makes me laugh that I have managed to spend my entire working life to date in publishing behind the camera (if we overlook a rather strange mock-mugging shot I was in in my first job – oh and the one of me on a motorbike with an oversized jacket). And, it’s only now, with no hair, that I am brave enough to face the lens!

Here’s a sneak peek of the day. I felt so privileged and humbled by the whole experience to be honest. It was also liberating to spend the day with my bald head in full view. I am so grateful to the lovely ladies who took the time to make the whole experience really special.

There was only one downside. I was stroking my head at the end of the session only to discover two lumps sitting there that I hadn’t noticed before. I tried for about 45 minutes to photograph the top of my head to see them and could only make out a bit of redness. Lumps when you’ve been diagnosed with cancer are never a welcome sight. I spent a good few hours feeling them and googling horrendous things and it was amazing just how quickly my happy day filled up with fear. Cancer does that. It enters your life. You fight it. But, no matter how hard you fight, the fear of it returning will live with you forever. Cancer makes it difficult to know what is and isn’t worth paying attention to. And, for someone still going through active treatment and not yet thinking about it coming back, today’s lumps (which I am sure are just bites or spots) are a harsh reminder that as much as I like to think I’m in control, I’m not.

Now I have stopped googling and have convinced myself there is no link between the dizzy spells, the near-fainting episode of last week and today’s lumps, I am smiling once more. That’s because I am writing, because I am picking out the positive parts of each day and because I am choosing to the do the things that make me happy. If anything, the lumpy blip, was the reminder I needed to tell me I’ve got my priorities right.

I have made a promise to myself to keep writing and do more of what I love. And, I hope that you can find the strength, time, energy and determination to follow your dreams too. We, none of us, know what is round the corner, so we owe it to ourselves to get the most out of every day.

Breast cancer lesson number 117: Turn your scars into stars

Having spent most of my 32 years trying to creatively hide my tummy from the world (I’ve worn bikinis on rare occasions and was once asked to ‘put it away’), I am finding it quite amusing that, now it has a nice long scar right across it, people are suddenly rather fascinated with my not-so-fleshy midriff. Only recently was I at an event where two ladies (interested in their surgery options) asked me to lift up my top. And, as soon as you mention relocating your belly button over drinks, you can tell people are trying to work out just what is going on around your knicker line.

So, for one post only, I have decided to put you all out of your misery and flash my still-flat-but-not-for-much-longer-thanks-to-chemo stomach. For those of you who have stumbled across this blog or would really rather not become acquainted with my tummy (I wouldn’t blame you, it’s still a bit angry), I am tactically posting a pictures of the baked goods that are currently in my stomach first, so that they show up on your feed. To distract myself from the dizzy spells and peripheral neuropathy, I have spent the morning baking (and, of course, licking the bowl, which for anyone not connected to me on Facebook, is today’s #100happydays moment). (Visit lesson 112 here to find out more about my #100happydays project.)

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And, here it is ­– one big smiley face, which will fade over time (and after I have massaged a truck load of cream into it). You can also see the two drain marks just above my trousers, the angry little belly button and the mole (to the side of the belly button) that had been hiding under my boob until the surgery moved everything down. It’s flat, it’s happy (although admittedly it is a smiley face without eyes) and it’s all me. I am proud of my tummy and I am proud of this scar. It reminds me every day when I look in the mirror that I was stronger than the cancer that tried to take my life away.

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It seems I am not the only one happy with my new look. At my plastic surgery check-up on Monday, my breast reconstruction nurse and the doctor on duty were pleased with what I like to think of as my recent body enhancements! The doctor did confirm she thought the right one was larger than the left (I think they are quite fixated on making me even) and we did have a laugh about tops that exacerbate the situation. But, with radiotherapy planned, the nipple and tuck chat is now on hold until the autumn. By this time next year, I should be fully reconstructed!

Don’t worry, I won’t be making a habit of flashing the flesh. My tummy can’t be exposed to the sun for a good year at least, so it is now going back into hibernation. And, as for my new boob? No chance! And, for any ladies out there considering DIEP surgery, I would highly recommend it. While, at times, the recovery can be tough, the results are more than worth it.

Thank you surgeons for finding a practical use for my tummy fat, thank you cake and chocolate supplying friends for making the surgery possible and thank you tummy for healing so nicely. I will try not to feed you with too much cake in future, so you retain your shape just that little bit longer.

 

Breast cancer lesson number 116: How to do nothing – and not feel guilty about it

The worst kind of day on chemo is the kind that starts with you already wishing it was over. That’s the wish I expressed on the corner of my mum’s bed this morning when I was talking through my restless night, the peripheral neuropathy, the cramping of my hands and feet, the chronic fatigue, the feeling of heaviness (yet also emptiness) and the loss of taste I am currently experiencing. It’s a feeling the day is already wasted before it has even begun. If life were a pack of cards, you’d want to reshuffle and pick again. Trouble is, you can’t.

Strangely, it’s not the pain or the exhaustion I fear. It’s the guilt. Guilt for spending the day without the structure of a to-do list. Guilt for making ‘eating a banana’ an actual objective. Guilt for giving up on another precious day of life when my life itself was challenged just a few months ago. Guilt for seizing up rather than seizing the day. Trust me, that’s a lot of guilt. 

Of course, I have nothing to feel guilty about. Only yesterday, was I lying on the kitchen floor with my legs in the air after nearly collapsing. I have a fridge full of injections and a body full of pills. And, eating a banana when you have no tastebuds is actually something to be applauded. I just wish doing nothing was an art form I had mastered long ago.

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Taking time to do nothing has a way of bringing everything into perspective. Having sat here on the sofa for the last three hours – moving only to shed or add clothes and eat – I am starting to realise that you can get something from nothing. Because nothing is never really nothing. Nothing today is my body’s chance to recover. Nothing today is life’s little way of getting me to slow down so I can be strong again. Doing nothing today gives me a better chance of making something of tomorrow.

Google the definition of nothing and, under adjective, it says: ‘having no prospect of progress.’ In chemo terms, I would say a ‘nothing day’ is quite the opposite. It’s a necessary pause. And, if chemobrain is an issue, it’s probably the safest thing to do. 🙂

From this day forward, I, Jackie Scully, promise to do nothing if nothing is the right thing to do! And, I would urge you to do the same – unless you’re an extreme procrastinator and really should keep busy. 

How to start? I have been saving the Game of Thrones boxset for just such an occasion. I may be gone for some time…

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Breast cancer lesson number 115: Think positive and positive things will happen

Strange as it may sound, I am starting to enjoy chemo day. This has nothing to do with being hooked up to toxic drugs and a saline solution (oh yes, the beautiful saline) or visiting the hospital (third day in a row) and everything to do with the positive routine I have established for myself.

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It starts – after a steroid-fuelled restless night – with the baking. Today, we tried out a chemo cookie recipe from one of mum’s beautiful friends alongside an experimental lemon and ginger muffin recipe (complete with ginger and rhubarb jam tucked away inside). Both were topped off with a drizzle of melted lemon chocolate. It always feels good to do something for other people and the thanks I got at the unit today meant the world to me. I know some of the cookies ended up as one nurse’s lunch (she was too busy for a break). I also got a wonderful phone call earlier thanking me for my latest pink heart, so I have pretty much smiled all day long.

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Next up is a good walk. By Sunday, I will probably find it increasingly hard to get round Greenwich Park due to the bone and muscle pain, so today is a good day to make the most of my legs while they are still working! In the absence of tastebuds, exercise has been my comfort eating. I do it to feel better and it is certainly does wonders for the waistline and the soul.

People often worry about what to eat before chemo. For me, I like to keep things simple. A bran-based brekkie keeps the constipation at bay and a simple lunch (with an afternoon appointment) means you go well fed, but without having eaten anything you’d avoid for life if you saw it again. My time at the chemo unit is always packed with planned-in treats!

By the time I reach the hospital, I am ready for action.

For those who have never been to a cancer day unit (and I hope if you haven’t, you never will), here is a quick glimpse behind the scenes:

1)     First you arrive, book in, hand over your appointment card and receive a hospital wristband in return (printed out of special wristband paper).

2)     Next, you wait in the lounge (this time in front of Wimbledon) until the drugs have been delivered and the chair is ready.

3)     Once in the chair, the nurse allocated to your zone takes your blood pressure and checks the oxygen levels in your blood.

4)     Providing all is well, the anti-sickness meds (Emend and Domperidone in my case) are administered.

5)     Once they’ve settled in the stomach, the PICC line is flushed and the drugs are hooked up to both a pump (so they can be released over time) and the PICC tube.

6)     Then (with Docetaxel), you get a good hour to eat (lollies and muffins), drink (tea, water and hot water) and chat.

7)     Summoned by incessant beeping from the pump, the nurse comes back to do a final saline flush.

8)     After everything has been disconnected, the rucksack-sized pharmacy bag arrives, complete with eight injections, and enough pills to make your stomach rattle.

9)     Before being released, the last job is to pick up the appointment card. We think mine may have gone home with another Jackie, so I had a nice new one to take home today.

And that’s it. Providing you don’t have an allergic reaction to the drugs, it is a fairly pleasant experience.

Back home, I am happy in the knowledge I have five behind me and just one poison to go. I have started planning my last chemo day (let’s ignore the fact I have radio and 10 years of hormone therapy for the moment) and I am pretty excited. This is the last cycle that ends with another poisoning. And that means the end of chemo (albeit six weeks away) is finally in sight.

It’s been a happy Friday for me. And, I hope it has been a happy Friday for you too!

Breast cancer lesson number 114: Keep your face to the sunshine and you won’t see the shadows

With four rounds under my belt, the day before chemo is now less a time for thinking about the side effects desperate to keep me awake over the next two weeks, and more a chance to enjoy a bit of normality before the poison starts to flow. With chemo five scheduled for 2pm tomorrow, I’m feeling positive.

The good news is I know what to expect. And the bad news? It’s Tax and not FEC that awaits me in the chair (who would have thought I’d be craving pink rather than sugary sweet pee)! Three weeks ago, I was pumped up on steroids worried (and rightly so) about the new Docetaxel regime and the impact it would have on my body and my life. Three weeks on, having narrowly avoided A & E and experienced a whole raft of side effects (bone pain to me feels like my bones are growing out of my skin, which is certainly an unusual feeling), I am ready for the next one. When you don’t know what’s coming, it’s hard to prepare. Now, I fully intend to take painkillers and fluconazole before I get any side effects, to stop them in their tracks. After all, prevention is better than cure.

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So what do you do on a pain-free and as-normal-as-you-can-feel-on-chemo day? With steroids egging me on, I have cleaned, written pink heart messages for two of my medical team, had a massage, enjoyed a rather exciting yoghurt shake and, most importantly, made the most of the sunshine. Together with a walk to the train (I walk to the third station on the line now not the one behind my house to help the weight and the wallet) and a jog/walk around the park, my mum and I have banked around 15km. She thinks she comes up to care for me and what actually happens is she gets roped into a workout! Right now, I feel I could take on the world, but I think I will just focus on taking on the clear toxic infusion that’s dying to find its way into my PICC line.

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Thank you sunshine for giving me the motivation to hit the training ground (aka Greenwich Park) and keep my spirits up. And, thank you mum for keeping me company. I am £15 off my £1,000 fundraising target and I hope that, barring a big infection or debilitating side effects, I will be on the start line (and the finish line) on 13 July to do my bit for Breast Cancer Care. I feel proud of myself that, before my diagnosis, I had never thought about (let alone trained for) a 10k. I also feel proud that I am exercising more on chemo than before it! That’s certainly a reason to smile, even on a cloudy day.

Chemo, I feel fit and I feel ready (just ginger baking left to go). After tomorrow, there will be one left to go!

Breast cancer lesson number 113: Being strong sometimes means not holding back the tears, but letting them fall

Today, I took my brave face and my busting-at-the-seams pink notebook – complete with list of side effects from Tax – to the oncology clinic. As I sat there reading them out and describing the last three weeks, however, that brave face quickly fell away.

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Knowing that this is the first day of my #100happydays project (you can read lesson 112 here to find out more), you’re probably thinking I’ve had a bit of a false start. But, I have to say that having a good cry in front of my oncology nurse was actually rather liberating.

It’s often hard to successfully describe symptoms when you’re no longer experiencing them. But tears never lie. Reliving the panic I felt the night my temperature spiked teased out those teardrops. Describing just how hard it is to spot the symptoms and determine what is and isn’t serious accounted for more than a few extra drops. And, discovering that my liver may be struggling with the chemo and that they may need to lower to dose to stop it being damaged permanently, certainly increased the flow. (Fingers are crossed for Friday chemo). 

For me, these tears were an acknowledgement of the fact cancer has shown me just how fragile life really is. One day you’re just another person trying to decide which kind of breakfast cereal to try. And then all of a sudden you’re a patient with no hair, clutching a thermometer hoping you don’t have a potentially fatal complication. That is, after you’ve got rid of the cancer! Life is fragile and oh so precious. And, having a good cry about that fact made me feel so much better. 

I did learn a few interesting facts once I had wiped away the tears. Firstly, when on Tax, the temperature thing is a slight red herring. Not hitting 38 degrees that night was no reason not to call the out-of-hours registrar. If you feel unwell, you need to pick up the phone. I also learned that, as well as lowering the dosage, they can transfer me to a drug called Paclitaxel (on a weekly infusion) to try and lessen the side effects. The prospect of another six chemos instead of two made me resist this option, but it may be something to revisit if chemo five is as brutal as four. I also learned that I should carry tissues more often. NHS paper towels aren’t so kind on the eyes! (Coincidentally, the opportunity to buy some came moments later on the train home when I was approached by a lady selling them to feed her children. Good will and soft tissues works for me.)

Of course, I did find more than a few happy moments to offset the tears. I had a good chat with the nurse about her PHD and how different patients respond to the same information. I had a lovely cup of tea in Greenwich with a thoughtful friend (who bought me such beautiful flowers), received a beautiful e-card from another and have just spent the last few hours eating birthday cake (not constantly I hasten to add) and watching my nephew (to be) stack plastic doughnuts. The icing set nicely on the cake too. In a strange way, being reminded of the fragility of life made me even more grateful for the little details it had to share with me today.

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We, none of us, are guaranteed a tomorrow. But that doesn’t mean we should hide our tears today.

There is also no greater smile than the one someone gifts you when you still have tears in your eyes.

Breast cancer lesson number 112: Today is a gift. That’s why they call it the present.

Long before chemotherapy got hold of my veins (back in lesson number 19 to be precise – click here to read), I described happiness as a little moment in time that makes you smile. Happiness is a piece of cake on a cold and rainy day. Happiness is a flower in bloom (with an extra smile if you grow it yourself). Happiness is sitting with a good book in a comfy chair. Happiness is a cup of tea you can taste – and preferably one that doesn’t bring on a hot flush. Happiness can come from nothing and mean everything.

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I have calculated that, all being well, I have around 100 days left before I can declare active treatment officially over. And, if I’m honest, it’s getting hard to greet every day with a smile. That’s not because I’m not remaining positive when I can, but I think the sheer volume of appointments, needles and pills and the ever-increasing list of side effects is starting to catch up with me. I can’t look in the mirror without seeing cancer. I can’t look at my hands typing away without seeing cancer. I can’t even look at my diary without seeing cancer. Every night I go to bed hoping for sleep. And every night it eludes me. Every morning I get out of bed wanting to make a difference. And every morning I am reminded of the fact that now is not my time. And, you know what? It really hurts.

I knew there would come a time when I would have to dig deep. My oncologist warned me of this moment. But, before I get out my spade and hit the soil, I would like to try a new tactic. Many people have recommended the 100 happy days project to me (you can read more about it here). And I think, with around 100 days to go, now might be the perfect time to test it out. The idea is simple. By actively seeking out and photographing one thing every day that raises a smile, the project encourages us to enjoy the moment and cherish those little details.

When the next round of bone pain descends, I want to remember the Dahlia flowering in the garden not the next dose of painkillers (although I don’t want to forget them otherwise there would be trouble!). I want to remember the things and the people that transport me far away from the drugs in my bloodstream.

With my next round due on Friday, you might think now is not the time to take the challenge. But I think anything that distracts me from the prospect of injections, muscle aches, taste changes and sore throats can only be a good thing. I believe you can be happy and have bone pain! I don’t want to spend the next 100 days thinking about the life I want. I want to enjoy it now. The big picture is not for now. The small details are what matters. 

As a quick dress rehearsal, here is a beautiful cup of flowers that reminds me of a wonderful two hours spent with a friend this morning. For me, this is less a cup of purple flowers and more a representation of my friend. It’s beautiful, it’s thoughtful, it’s bursting with life and it makes me smile. 

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#100happydays starts tomorrow on chemo bloods day. I will be posting the photos on Facebook and providing updates on the blog. Question is, are you brave enough to join me (with the project not the blood test you’ll be relieved to hear)? Click here to sign up.

Breast cancer lesson number 111: Patients make good carers

There has been a bit of a patient/carer role reversal in our household of late. Duncan has sadly hurt his knee (the bad knee from a few years ago, so we have everything crossed that it recovers well) and is finding everyday activities like walking down the stairs quite difficult.

Having been there many years ago with my hip, I understand just how frustrating it is to go from an active person to someone who struggles to answer the door, so my heart goes out to him. But, secretly (or not so secretly as I am posting it here), I really rather like having someone to look after. Of course, I would obviously rather no one told Duncan this fact, otherwise I might find myself climbing the stairs for chargers and T-shirts and shoes just that little bit more often!

While I like to think I am a patient patient, I think the shoes of a carer are a much better fit. So, I am writing this post to say to all my amazing and exceptionally wonderful family and friends that if I ever hear the opening line: ‘It’s nothing like what you’re going through, but…’ again, I think I might have to have words (gentle and soothing ones of course!).

Yes, cancer is brutal and the treatment for it even worse. Yes, I wish I could find a cure so no one would have to hear the word again. Yes, it (or the fear of it returning) will stay with me forever. And, yes, I can’t wait for treatment to be over so I can rebuild the life I have temporarily paused and watch my hair grow back (grey or otherwise). 

But, that doesn’t mean that I don’t have time or space to hear about the gas man who never came, the house move hell that is dictating your life, the job interview you wish you’d never started, the horrid work assignment, the dentist appointment you are dreading or the illness that you – or someone close to you – is facing (sore throat, man flu, the works). They didn’t remove my listening ear when they took my lymph nodes. It is still in full working order and would actually quite like to hear ALL your news – not just the Jackie-is-fighting-cancer edit!

As I see it, cancer is not the trump card. Cancer is just another card (albeit a very nasty scary one) in the pack of life sent to make our days just that little bit more challenging. In many ways, it is easier to deal with, because I have a massive team of experts, friends (old and new), fellow patients and family to draw on. I have an emergency hotline and a whole house full of pills. I sometimes wish I had such support when I have to face the broadband helpline or the water board!

I may have no hair, but I have a big heart and lots of love to give, so let me be part of your team.

As cancer will tell you, I can be a pretty tough cookie – and I also like to bake them (a bit softer though)!