Tag: breast cancer and chemotherapy

Breast cancer lesson number 90: Life is short. There is no time to leave important words unsaid

On By Jackie ScullyIn Happiness, Pink hearts3 Comments

I am grateful that last night was just a night of sweats, broken sleep and nasty nausea rather than a night wedded to the washing-up bowl (I must stress the bowl has been retired from active washing-up duty in case you were worried). And, looking at the faces of mum and Duncan in the morning, I think I wasn’t the only one who was grateful!

I made it through. But I had to dig deep. The nausea and night sweats were among the worst I have ever endured. The Aprepitant drug worked wonders on the sickness and the quick hat and sock changes helped with the hot flushes. But there is one other trick I’d like to share, which – in between the waves of nausea – made the whole experience memorable in a more positive way.

I have never been one for counting sheep or filling my mind with the colour blue in an attempt to drift off. So, last night I introduced a new technique. From the beginning, I listed out all the wonderful and kind messages and gestures people have sent through over the last four months. By this, I don’t just mean the obvious. By this, I mean the well-timed tips, the lucky pre-surgery safety pin, the comment from an old schoolfriend about what she thought of me back then and how I hadn’t changed, the thank you from a girl I once helped in a small way and never thought much of it. Just yesterday, a lady I had met a month ago and showered in cancer-related tips stopped me in reception to thank me for my kindness. Those words meant everything to me. Each one of these moments has made an indelible mark on my heart. And, yesterday, I used them to build a patchwork quilt of happiness to comfort me at my lowest ebb. The great thing is, when I got out of bed this morning I smiled knowing that I have just scratched the surface, with many more patches to add.

Being at the receiving end of a lifetime of kindness has got me thinking about just how much we really say to those that inspire us and make us smile. When was the last time you turned to a friend and thanked them for just being there? When was the last time you contacted an old acquaintance and told them just how big an impression they have made on your life? When was the last time you thanked someone and meant it from the bottom of your heart? People can’t guess you’re your thinking unless you tell them. When the business of life gets in the way, it is hard to step back, reflect and not take all those you love and admire for granted. But, I can tell you now, there is so much I want to say to people while they are still around to hear it! People come and go in life, tucked away in chapters. But, their kindness will live on through you. I’d love to think that if someone were to cut me open (in a nice, non-cancer-surgery kind of way), I would be made up all of the brilliant people who have touched my life.

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So, I have chosen today, laced as it might be with a cocktail of drugs and a vat load of liquid, as the day to hand out my first pink hearts. The first is for my astonishing and truly wonderful mum who is one of the most beautiful people you’ll ever meet. She may weigh less than me currently (although we are having words), and she may not be able to take the pain of a cancer diagnosis away, but she has made living with it as comfortable and relaxing as possible. She has put her life on hold, so that I have the chance to get mine back. As a daughter, I have not always thanked my mother quite as often as I should. But she means everything to me and I plan to spend the rest of my days reminding her of that. While I won’t share the contents of my letter with you, I will share one line: ‘Life is no easy street, but you have made walking down it, so much more enjoyable.’

And, the second heart? You’ll just have to wait and see! I will also be posting more details of my pink heart plan (first mentioned in lesson number 30 – click here) in the weeks to some to inspire others to send ripples of kindness all across the world.

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All I ask is that you take a moment of your day to thank someone who matters to you. What is it about them that makes you smile? What it is you should have told them years ago, but never thought to mention? How have they helped make you the person you are today? I guarantee you’ll feel good saying it – but not as good as the person hearing it (especially if it’s for the first time).

Make today the day you start following your heart. Trust me, there’s no time to lose.

NB: it will take years to deliver all these hearts, so do bear with me. The accompanying letters are all handwritten and contain a piece of my heart. Plus, I have to make sure I don’t get arm ache! 

Breast cancer lesson number 89: A chemo day can be a good day

On By Jackie ScullyIn Baking, Chemotherapy, Happiness4 Comments

Believe it or not, today was a good day. I should qualify this by saying that most good days do not come with a helping of toxic drugs on the side. But as days on active treatment go, it was a complete success.

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I passed my blood test (yay!). My levels are good for someone on chemo (could be seen as a compliment). I had a lovely lunch with my lovely mum (that I could taste) and a walk along the river (in the sunshine). I met a friendly nurse who furnished me with a whole rucksack full of pills, mouthwashes and eye drops (including the mighty Emend/Aprepitant for vomiting). I got the chemo drugs (yay-ish because it wasn’t delayed) and actually waved goodbye to Epirubicin as the last red syringe was drained into my PICC line. I now know the name of the lovely lady who does my PICC line flushing every week (she doesn’t wear a name badge and after a few sessions, I felt it would be wrong to ask). I have sorted out my appointments for the next round (chemo is moving to a Friday). And, most importantly, the chemo unit LOVED the ginger cookies (although you could question whether or not a unit of patients with questionable taste buds is a robust test).

I also discovered a few new things (and we all know how much I love learning things)! One, there is such a thing as a menopause clinic, because I’ve been referred to it in an attempt to help me get a convincing night of sleep! (watch this space). Two, baked goods (with ingredients listed) are welcome on the unit (I did wonder whether health and safety would get in the way). Three (not the best revelation), the next set of chemo cycles requires me to have around 24 injections to help keep my white blood cell count at a good level (nothing like a few sub-cut injections to remind me of those fertility days). And last but not least, according to my stats, somebody discovered my blog by searching ‘extraordinary boobs’. Whoever found my blog by searching for this, all I can say is: great search terms (I wimped out after Googling it and sizing up the main subject matter) and I am sorry that I really don’t have extraordinary boobs. They are certainly not ordinary, but I am not sure that is what you were after!

Here’s a piccie of me in the unit ‘copping a feel’ (albeit not exactly going for a full grab) to show my support for the wonderful charity Coppafeel (click here), which was set up by a wonderful women called Kris, who was diagnosed with Stage four (advanced breast cancer) at the age of 23. Her mission is to make sure young women are more aware of their boobs, completing those regular checks that could just save their lives. It’s a simple and powerful message, and one I am going to help her spread over the coming months and years.

I may be nibbling my ginger cookies at a rapid rate to tackle the nausea inside me, but I think, as days go, it was a goodie. Let’s just hope I don’t have to make friends with my old washing-up bowl again tonight!

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I hope you’ve all had a good day!

 

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 84: You’re a person, not a hospital number

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Reflections on cancer2 Comments

There are so many things I love about the NHS. There is, however, one thing I don’t. It’s the administration. Why do I have to be the one to join the dots? Why is it that when there are plenty of other things for me to worry about, is it the one thing filling up my thoughts by night and my mobile minutes by day. The NHS is made up of wonderful hard-working people who really care. It’s just such a shame the systems connecting those people together don’t.

Today’s administrative conundrum reduced me to tears. Here’s why:

1)    Three weeks ago, my oncologist in the Monday clinic took the decision that, having coped so well with the first round of chemo, I could be referred to a nurse-led programme for the remainder of my treatment. I happily agreed and was booked in for an appointment on Wednesday 7 May. Tick.

2)    At my second chemo session on 23 April, the receptionist informed me that I couldn’t attend the clinic on a Wednesday if I am to keep my three-week Wednesday cycles. Wednesday 7 May is a week before round three and therefore too early for blood tests. She suggested I call the breast care nurses to schedule an appointment at the Monday clinic again. Made sense to me!

3)    The breast care nurses were lovely as ever and confirmed that a Monday clinic appointment was needed and, a few days later, a letter arrived through the post. They cancelled my nurse-led appointment. Tick.

4)    Yesterday (Wednesday 7 May) I received a call querying why I wasn’t at the hospital for my nurse-led appointment. I explained the situation and the fact that I was led to believe the appointment had been cancelled. The lady informed me that I no longer qualified for the Monday clinic (I guess because I am a relatively well sick person) and that this appointment would need to be cancelled. Instead I would need to attend the Wednesday 14 May clinic at 10am and then have my chemo at 11am the same day. I agreed.

5)    Once the call had ended, I felt a bit concerned about the timings. Usually a blood test should happen about two hours before chemo so that the results can be processed and the chemo drugs prepared. As a result, I decided to double-check the timings at my PICC line dressing change appointment this morning.

6)    The receptionist confirmed that my Monday appointment had been cancelled, but that the nurse-led appointment was 11am (not 10am) and therefore at the same time as chemo. She added that I am not supposed to have the two on the same day (had I not queried it, I imagine my chemo would have been cancelled when I turned up next week). Wednesday clinic means Friday chemo. She confirmed that my chemo would now have to be moved, at which point the tears started to flow.

7)    After a few more calls, the receptionist confirmed that I would need to come to hospital on Wednesday for blood tests and to see the nurse. I would then (providing the test results were positive) need to return on the Thursday for the drugs. From chemo four onwards, I would need to attend the Wednesday clinic with Friday chemo. Happy Friday to me!

In chemo land, two days is a long time. By nudging my chemo to the end of the week, three months of careful planning (weddings, parties, training, holidays, train trips) were thrown into question in the space of half an hour. I am determined to make every single event. I just wish I didn’t have to dig deep (and maybe even pack a my old washing-up bowl) to do so!

I get it. Put the well people on the Friday list so they won’t clog up A&E on a Saturday. I don’t mind being a well person (the alternative is not particularly attractive). It’s just not great to feel that no one really wants to see you and that I am being shuffled around the system to make room for everyone else. I need someone to help me control the vomiting. I want to discuss my ice-cream headaches and my taste problems. I need my next Zoladex prescription. Plus, my diary is just one big mess of scribbled out appointments and I like tidy pages. Even my appointment card has tip-ex on it!

I have a voicemail message on my phone. I think there’s an apology coming. I just wish I didn’t have to let the tears flow to get it – and a proper appointment.

This cancer stuff is hard enough without having to worry about getting a seat at the clinic (or a chemo chair). I’m a person (and a very accommodating one at that), not a hospital number in the system. Dear NHS, please don’t forget me.

NB: as an amusing aside, I met someone for lunch today who I hadn’t seen for years. I was out in Suzie (he didn’t know, so I thought it only fair to act normal). What was the first thing he said to me? ‘Wow, you’ve changed your hair since we last met.’ He will never know why this one sentence made me smile so much. Suzie is obviously pretty convincing! 

Breast cancer lesson number 83: Dare to bare!

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy4 Comments

Today I conducted an experiment on behalf of every woman currently grappling with the physical effects of cancer. I left my hats and my ‘fake’ hair at home, threw caution to wind and started out on my commute across the capital with my bald head in full view.

For me, it was bold (or bald). London, however, with its preoccupied commuters and eclectic fashion sense has a great way of looking in the opposite direction. With the exception of a few pitying stares and a couple of double takes, I was just another person navigating the crowds to get to my destination. I didn’t want a seat. I didn’t want a hand. I just wanted to blend in. And, that’s exactly what I did.

While I do think a ‘new boob on board’ badge may have helped me avoid the elbows of those fighting for a bit of personal space, it was a fairly pleasant experience (as much as a commute across London at rush hour will ever be). It also reminded me that most people have so much to think about, that the potential plight of a stranger across the carriage really doesn’t register.

So, my advice to all you lovely ladies currently without lovely locks is dare to bare! Bald can be beautiful and pretty liberating. I shall leave you with the words of Larry David (slightly amended in itals): “Anyone can be confident with a full head of hair. But a confident bald man (or woman fighting cancer) – there’s your diamond in the rough.”

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!