Tag: cancer day unit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breast cancer lesson number 74: What to wear when you’ve got no hair

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy4 Comments

As much as I love my new nude maintenance-free do, it has forced me to develop a rather unhealthy obsession with the weather forecast (you should be impressed that I have written more than 70 blog posts and not mentioned this very British subject). After all, this is England, the land of unpredictable weather. And, while I appreciate there are much more challenging climates, as someone who is known to burn when it’s cloudy in February, I have to be careful not to expose my baldie look to England’s elements all too often.

In an attempt to keep my head warm (and not burnt), I have surrounded myself in a various assortment of hats and scarves (still haven’t made it out in Suzie yet) to match my mood and my colour preferences. I am not sure whether London thinks I’m trying out multiple personalities, making a style statement or just perfecting my ‘ill’ look. Whatever the onlookers think, as long as I’m comfortable, having fun and feeling confident, that’s all that matters.

So, here’s me trying out a few new looks. This is the closest I will ever get to a fashion show, so please indulge me.

1) Meet Carrie. She’s my favourite.
Great for: work, play and everything in between (but maybe not pilates or sleeping). This one will probably be worn when the hair comes back

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2) You can’t beat a T-shirt for the head
Great for: daywear and sports and for head shape appreciation

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3) A scarf a day makes your cares drift away
Great for: hot summer days and elaborate knot-tying experiments

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4) Should the English sun make an appearance, I am prepared! 
Great for: the great outdoors

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5) Just because everyone needs to feel like they’ve stepped out of a Poirot movie at one time in their life
Great for: special occasions

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6) It gets cold at night
Great for: bedtime and lazy Sunday afternoons 

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If you hair is clinging on for dear life, all I can say is, have a play. And, if it’s not, it might be about time you dusted off your summer hats to see whether you’re making the most of your head shape. For the first time in my life, I know I am.

Enjoy! 

 

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

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breast cancer lesson number 70: You can only play the opposition in front of you

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness3 Comments

I have always been one of life’s great worriers. Growing up, my favourite phrase (much to the frustration of my parents) was ‘what happens if…?’. If there’s an opportunity to obsess about something – from slugs and foxes to magazine deadlines – I’m there with my concerned face and (usually) my notebook!

That is, until now. Cancer, for all its flaws, has a way of putting life into sharp focus. It forces the mind to think about the only things that matter – namely life and death and how to enjoy one while avoiding the other. It certainly doesn’t eliminate worry, but it does have a way of helping you be a little more selective.

Cancer, and chemotherapy in particular, has given me a masterclass in a thing called ‘worthwhile worry’. This rather exciting strand of worry is related to concerns about events and side effects that are happening now and over which I have some control. There’s no ‘might’, ‘maybe’ or ‘what if’ in sight. Worthwhile worry, unlike 80% of the concerns that have filled up my diary over the years, is a good use of mental energy and it has a great way of pushing the unexpected phone engineer bills and missing parcels to the bottom of the pile.

Of course, I am not wishing life-threatening worries on anyone just so that they can let go of the empty washing-up liquid bottle and the overflowing laundry basket. But, I do think it is healthy to reflect on your existing list of concerns and challenge a few along the way. This year has already taught me that time is not for wasting. Time is not for throwing away thinking about things that might or could happen. Time is to be spent tackling the important obstacles that life has a habit of flinging in our direction. If it isn’t, you’ll look back and realise that you’ve got a few more unnecessary wrinkles and no time left to straighten them out!

As FEC chemotherapy cycle number two approaches, I am not worried about the side effects or just how pink my pee will be by 7pm this evening. I may not pass the pre-chemo blood test. I may react badly. But, the only thing I know will happen is that, whatever comes my way, I will get through it. I know about mouth ulcers and I have a stocked medicine cabinet to prove it. I have so little hair on my head, there’s not much more to take. I have a tub full of queasy drops and I’m not afraid to use them. By starting my anti-sickness meds at lunchtime, I am hoping I can stop the nausea in its tracks. I am prepared based on the experience of chemo cycle one. I will take it one day at a time. And, if other side effects wish to join the party, I will worry about them only when – and not if – they occur. Go into it relaxed and you’ll have far more energy to tackle those nasty little surprises.

Duncan was spot on when he said: ‘you can only play the opposition in front of you’. It’s something I plan to do today and for the rest of my life – and I hope you do too. Worry about tomorrow once you’ve got the real problems of today out the way. And, if tomorrow doesn’t look too demanding, don’t worry about it at all. That way, you’ll have more time to spend smiling and being productive and more strength for those worthwhile worries when they do come along. Because, rest assured, they will.

Breast cancer lesson number 69: When your ovaries are at stake, do what needs to be done

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Fertility, Zoladex1 Comment

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While most people were on their way to work in the Capital today, I was on a quick detour (also on my way to the office I hasten to add). Yes, it involved the hospital. And, yes it involved this rather exciting gold box.

Now don’t be deceived by its shiny exterior. Inside this box is one of the largest and strangest syringes I have ever seen – and would ever want to see. That’s because, like a lot of syringes, it’s not designed to administer liquid. Instead, it houses an implant (a small pellet) that needs to be injected under the skin to release a drug called Goserelin. In the hands of a nurse with no local anaesthetic cream (and only a side and not a stomach in which to inject said implant), there is only one outcome – and it’s pretty painful.

Why would I want to inflict this optional pain on myself I hear you ask? Well, if you’ve followed my fertility journey, you’ll know that Goserelin (otherwise known as Zoladex) is all part of the try-to-stop-cancer-taking-away-my-fertility plan. Even though we have embryos in the freezer, we would still rather not use them. Zoladex is a synthetic version of a natural hormone that controls how the ovaries work. By switching off the production of oestrogen, it suppresses the ovaries and sends women into an artificial early menopause (hot flushes here we come). Just when you thought you’d had enough of side effects, it throws in a few more!

Now, it’s not the first time I have received this injection (the first one was alluded to in lesson number 42). I have already had a hot flush and I still have three more to go. But, it is the first time I’ve not just slotted it alongside other news of the day. And that’s because, it’s a big syringe, with an even bigger role to play. Nobody wants to sit in the chemo chair thinking they haven’t done everything they can to protect their ovaries and their chance of bringing children into the world. Everyone undergoing chemo should be given the choice, where appropriate, to go up against this oversized needle and endure a period of self-inflicted hot flushes. If the prospect of being able to have children fades before your eyes, you’ll know just why this gold box deserves a little post all to itself. Goserelin is not just a side note in the fight against cancer. It’s a star.

This box also reminds me of just how amazing medicine really is. We often take it for granted as we’re popping our paracetamol and rubbing in our ibuprofen gel. But, medicine has given us hope where are bodies have tried to take it away. Medicine knows how to trick cancer cells – and kill them. Medicine is the reason I can still picture myself changing nappies. And, most importantly, medicine is the reason I am alive today. I am in awe.

Read the Goserelin (Zoladex) factsheets and they sometimes say that the use of the drug during chemotherapy is still something currently being tested as part of clinical trials. Apparently oncologists don’t all agree about its use in this context. I’m not an expert, but I am writing this because I want to help others in my situation find out about the options. You may not be able to receive the drug (or have it recommended to you), but now you know to ask – and that’s all that matters. You also know not to look inside the box or at the needle. You just need to do what needs to be done.

In every other way, it was a normal day at the office. But, as I sat there answering emails and discussing visuals, I couldn’t help but smile at the throbbing in my side. Inside that little pellet is where the magic of medicine really comes into play. It may not work for me, but I will always know I gave it my best shot.

If you are interested in finding out more about the fertility journey as part of cancer treatment, I have written a blog for Breast Cancer Care. Here’s the link in case you find it of use: http://bit.ly/1gnEnyq

Breast cancer lesson number 68: Don’t count the days until the end of active treatment. Make every day count.

On By Jackie ScullyIn Charity, Exercise and breast cancer, Happiness2 Comments

This weekend I went for a run (although I guess jog/walk might be a more accurate statement). Ok, so I realise that in most households, this wouldn’t be headline news. But, if I tell you that, due to my hip, this is the first time in more than a decade that I’ve actually given my trainers more than just a light workout, you’ll see why it’s pretty significant. I’m slow, but at least I’m lapping everyone on the sofa.

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One of my biggest fears throughout this entire process is weight gain. I’ve been there. I’ve got the T-shirt. I gained more than a stone after hip surgery. And, I remember how much it hurt me when the clothes didn’t fit and the scales wouldn’t lie.

I went into chemotherapy with a body bruised from major surgery. Chemotherapy (contrary to popular opinion) does not tend to make you shed the pounds. The combination of steroids, appetite and fatigue-related side effects has led to people gaining stones not pounds. I say, not this time. The side effects have been kind so far, so I am taking advantage. Cancer already messed up my wardrobe once, and once is enough.

I am, however, not just running to keep the weight off. Every post-surgery recovery step I take is a step with a purpose. On Sunday 13 July I will be dragging my PICC line and my wonderful fiancée around the streets of London to raise money for Breast Cancer Care. Yes, it’s just 10k. Yes, it might sound more like a sightseeing tour than a serious race. But, for someone with a hip full of metal and chemotherapy drugs coursing through her veins (I will be 5 cycles in by race day) this is my iron man.

I am not a runner, but I am determined to give it my best shot to raise funds for a charity that has not just provided the literature to help me make informed decisions about my treatment but also given me the confidence to smile through hair loss. They have already done so much for me and I don’t want to wait until the end of active treatment to do something for them.

This charity – along with two school friends who reconnected with me earlier this year and are running the muddy version of the Race for Life to help fight cancer – is my inspiration.

Why run if I am not a runner? Running is my nemesis. Growing up I was teased for the way I walk (a walk I still have). In my twenties, I was worried I’d never run again when my leg started to fail me. I entered this race in 2006, but my hip pain meant I never made the starting line. If pain has done anything for me, it has made me a fighter. I will fight every step of this course for every person who has battled cancer and for every person with hip problems that can’t run the distance. This time, only the finish line will do. It won’t be fast. It won’t be graceful. It will hurt. But, if I can smile through eight months of cancer treatment, I can smile through this.

So, whether you can donate a few pounds, fancy coming to London on race day to cheer us on or feel like running the course too, I would be so grateful for any support. Click here for Justgiving page link if you’d like to donate or send me an email on jackie_scully@hotmail.com if you’d like to get involved on race day. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Together we can help more people smile through cancer.

Breast cancer lesson number 63: You can be hair free and carefree

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness1 Comment

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Ok, so hair free may be a slight exaggeration, but as far as I am concerned, a number two with a couple of bald patches is pretty much there. While I am not sure it is right that I should have less hair than my fiancée, I have to say, I like my head shape and, as haircuts go, it was pretty exhilarating. Who needs wig Suzie when GI Jackie is in town?!

Sitting in the hairdresser’s chair (not sure I should have chosen lunch hour at Canary Wharf but never mind), I didn’t feel at all sad. Funny as it may sound, I felt privileged to have the chance to experiment and liberated at the prospect. Four weeks ago, I couldn’t imagine having a pixie-shaped do, and I loved it. One month on, and all I could think about as the locks fell was how lucky I am to a) have a head shape that doesn’t resemble an egg and b) have so many wonderful friends and family all willing me on.

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How did I prepare for my exciting turn in the salon? As well as a nice glass of wine last night to toast my old locks, I plucked my eyebrows. Now it may sound strange to be voluntarily attacking the hair that doesn’t want to fall out (yet). But, my view was that if my head was going to look a little naked, I best make an effort everywhere else. Why the leg can’t fall out first is beyond me!

This morning, after examining my bald patch, applying some eye makeup and adding a headtie, I met up with Duncan and headed for the clippers. My hairdresser was amazing. He tucked me away at the back of the salon and cut my pixie down to size (first with scissors and then clippers) before washing and oiling my head. It felt like a proper appointment. I even got time for a cup of tea. And, the best bit? It was free! I do think the lady sat opposite actually thought I was making a conscious style decision as I laughed through the whole thing. Her facial expression first had a hint of pity and then a hint of confusion (or maybe just fear). It felt good – and a little naughty.

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Surprisingly happy with the new look (and the fact that I will be saving loads in shampoo and conditioner), I left Suzie in her bag and opted for a fun blue hat. On the train on the way to work, I found myself fascinated by the lack of hair demonstrated by other passengers (style choices I might add). I also had a burning desire to whip off my hat and join in. One thing I love about London is that nobody cares. They’d probably just think I was channeling my inner Jessie J.

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The hat didn’t last long (lovely as it is, it just feels wrong wearing it indoors). My office were quick to embrace the new look and share in the excitement of the day. After that, it was au naturel all the way. Yes, people had a good look. But, the truth is, I don’t look ill. I just look like I’m making a rather bold fashion statement.

How do I feel now? I couldn’t be happier. I took control. I no longer have to watch the strands fall. Cancer can’t take what isn’t there and just knowing that makes me feel empowered. Plus the feeling of a light breeze on my head is unlike anything I have ever experienced. It soothes me in a way I can’t articulate. I’d say try it, but that might be a bit extreme, so you’re probably safer taking my word for it.

Today I was strong. I looked cancer in the eye and I took charge. I also discovered that hair is over-rated. It isn’t a part of who I am. It’s just a little nice-to-have. I will miss it, but I know I’ll be a better person for having lost it.

Coco Chanel once said: ‘a woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life’. It’s only now I truly understand the meaning of that phrase.

All I can say is, if it’s coming off, take it off. It may not be a haircut I’ll ever choose again, but it’s probably the best haircut I will ever have – and the one you will probably always remember.

Breast cancer lesson number 62: How to bear losing your hair

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy3 Comments

Today was supposed to be a quiet day. Working at home with just a cup of tea for company, the day was there to be filled with sunshine and strategic thinking. Turns out cancer had other ideas. Today is a day I will never forget.

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I thought hair loss would be a gradual thing. There is, however, nothing gradual about scratching your head while pondering over a paragraph of text, only to be greeted by a clump of the stuff. And we certainly won’t be dwelling on what happened when I went to the toilet.

I thought I would find it amusing in some way. After all, while I had started to think it might never happen, I knew deep down it always would. I thought I was prepared for the emotions that came with it. But, the truth is, you can never really prepare for something like this. When hair you have known and loved is no longer on your head, but in your hand, there’s only one thing to do – have a good old cry.

As soon as the tears subsided, it was time to get practical. My hair (or what’s left of it) is too short to donate (if you’re about to go through this and have more than 17cm of hair, I would urge you to follow in the footsteps of this inspiring young woman Connie, who has just donated some bunches to charity). But, given I am not one to sit around waiting for something to happen (and I certainly don’t want to clog up the sink), I have already made my decision. It’s time to take back the control. It’s coming off, at 12.20pm tomorrow!

So, what started out as a quiet day at home is now the last day pixie and I will be together for quite some time. I think the hardest part is knowing that my hair may never be the same again. I’m not afraid to lose it (although there are a few marks on my head I am not particularly excited to see). I’m just worried that what grows back may be a new version of me that I may not like straight away. It may be better. It will probably be different. It’s an adjustment I never thought I’d have to make. And, now I am staring at a spring/summer season of baldness, part of me wishes I could just grab it from the sink and stick it back on. I’ve done the scarf shopping. I just didn’t really think I’d need to wear the scarf.

Every side effect that suddenly appears is a rather harsh reminder that, while on active treatment, you can’t get comfortable. You have to be prepared. Because, if you’re not, something will creep up and try to steal your happiness when you least expect it.

Tomorrow is head shaving day. Tomorrow I lose a little bit more of myself to cancer. Tomorrow is the day I may also be introducing my alter ego Suzie to the world (or not, so will be packing some fabric-based alternatives just in case).

Of one thing I am certain. With a trip to the office scheduled for the afternoon, tomorrow is going to be interesting! Wish me luck.

Think Duncan and I might be raising a glass to my mousey locks tonight! 

Breast cancer lesson number 61: Great care comes from people, not bricks and mortar

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Reflections on cancerLeave a comment

‘Never judge a book by its cover’ is a phrase that could easily apply to hospitals. With perfectly painted walls and shiny equipment often comes an expectation that the care will somehow be better. But, the truth is, when it comes to treatment, it’s the person administering it (and of course the treatment itself), and not the room in which it is administered, that really matters.

Don’t get me wrong. I smiled when I saw the comfortable chemo recliner chairs (although I never did work out how to put my feet up) and the bright cancer day unit suite with its great views. And, I’m not sure standing room only is the right look for a cancer clinic. But, when I think back over my time in hospitals over the years, it’s not the flashy equipment or the chipped paintwork I remember. It’s the people – and usually the ones that have made me smile.

It was my faith in the team treating me that made me put people before private cover after my initial diagnosis. My Breast Care Nurse admitted that the only difference between private and NHS treatment for cancer was the environment and not the speed at which things happened. In fact, if I had called in my cover, there would have been a delay while the diagnostic tests were redone and the diagnosis reconfirmed. I liked my team, I liked the way they treated me, and the blend of kindness and humour that worked well with my temperament. I wasn’t going to trade that in for a private room and artwork on the walls. Looking back now, I know I couldn’t have made a better decision.

It’s not often I leave hospital with a huge smile on my face (just doesn’t feel appropriate on most visits). Today, however, I did. Admittedly, this was, in part, due to giant carrier bag of drugs I had managed to secure for myself at my oncology appointment to help control the side effects from chemotherapy (never before have I been so excited about getting mouthwash on prescription). But, it was really down to the kindness and care shown by those around me – from the smiling barista at the café to the warm receptionist at the Cancer Day Unit.

I started the day with an early-morning reflexology and aromatherapy massage session courtesy of Dimbleby Cancer Care, a free service designed to offer support and care for people living with cancer (be that patients or family members). I don’t think I have ever started the working week by being coaxed into a state of relaxation and covered in a thin layer of lavender oil. It was amazing as both a source of escapism and a chance to chat to the lovely lady rubbing my feet and back. Instead of lying back and closing my eyes, I quizzed her on everything from her nursing past to her experiences and downloaded all my latest recommendations (from bold beanies to PICC line covers). The best part? It wasn’t the wonderful scent of the oil, the free bolster cushion (for extra PICC line protection in bed) or the fact that my back knots almost melted under the pressure. It was the moment at which she said she thought I was an extraordinary person. I’m not sure my Monday mornings will ever be as soothing again.

An hour later, I was sat in front of another nurse experiencing the easiest blood test of my life thanks to my trusty PICC line. Little did I know when I sat down for my ten-minute appointment that we’d cover everything from her singing ambitions and band to her love of children’s medicine and shift-based work. It was nice to feel like I was chatting to an individual with hopes and dreams rather than a lady in a blue dress with yet another syringe of saline solution.

Next stop, the oncologist. Three weeks ago, he told me he would be behind me 110%. And, true to his word, he was. The appointment was less about having a nice chat and more about him furnishing me with the contents of a small pharmacy. With extra Domperidone (bye bye nausea), Zoladex, Corsodyl and Difflam, plus soluble paracetamol and codeine (to experiment with as a mouth rinse because he’d seen it work before), I feel ready to tackle chemo 2. Even the oncology receptionist wanted to add in a mouth ulcer-related recommendation when I popped back to get the prescription adjusted a few moments later.

Finally, there was the smiling man at the pharmacy desk. He took great delight in both booking me in early (while I popped back to the clinic to amend my prescription) so I wouldn’t have to wait, and then walking me through my medical goodie bag. Service with a smile is often hard to find in the capital, which makes the experience even more satisfying.

I couldn’t describe the contents of the oncology consulting room, the massage seat, the pharmacy or the blood test cubicle in any great detail. That’s not because I’m not observant. It’s because, when the care is brilliant, there really is nothing else to see.

So, if you ever find yourself looking up at a tired hospital block, think not of the peeling paintwork, but of the people inside willing you on. For when you close the consulting room door one last time, it will be the kindness of those caring for you – rather than the chair they sat on – that will stay with you forever.