To continue my list of 100 reasons why I'm thankful I was diagnosed with breast cancer I'd like to mention some of the little things that I appreciate so much more now. And although they're little things, they are important to me.
16. I appreciate my eyelashes and eyebrows
I think I've mentioned before (!) that when I was diagnosed with cancer I was incredibly anxious about losing my hair. But it turns out what transforms you into Generic Cancer Patient is the loss of eyebrows and eyelashes. I learned how to fake them with makeup (see next point), but that only works when your makeup is on. When you first wake up in the morning, or when you're at home or in hospital and too ill or tired to create a face by trowelling on makeup, then every time you look in the mirror you see Cancer. When you're feeling at your best it's depressing. When you're feeling at your worst it leaves you screaming and sobbing at your horrible, ugly face in the mirror. One of the worst memories of cancer that will never leave me is the image of my screaming, sobbing cancer face in the mirror one morning towards the end of last year.
My eyelashes and eyebrows have now grown back. I love them so much. Before cancer, when I'd look at myself without makeup on I thought I looked AWFUL. Not any more. Even if I look a bit tired or washed out, I know now I still look normal. I have all the things on my face that should be on my face. I don't look like a cancer patient.
17. I appreciate makeup
To follow on from the last point.... I was never very good with makeup and never wore much. I didn't know how to do it properly so I didn't bother with much more than powder, eyeliner and mascara. I remember going to the Benefit counter in town when my eyebrows first started to disappear and got the makeup artist to do my eyebrows for me (before I spent a fortune on Browzings). I looked like a twat. The plain face of someone who looked like they'd be most at home in a quiet bookshop suddenly had dark, striking, glamorous eyebrows that belonged on... well, someone striking and glamorous! They were not me! But sooner after that I attended a Look Good Feel Better makeup workshop at the hospital and learned how to fake eyebrows in a much more low key and natural way. And at that session, and from watching my friend Andrea's incredible makeup tutorials I learned lots of other tips too. I'm sure I'll still be lazy with makeup - I kind of think less is generally better cos then you can just get on with having fun without worrying whether your makeup's still ok... but sometimes, when you want to do it nicely, it's really nice to know how. And... if I am ever a cancer patient again, at least I'll know from the start how to hide it a bit better.
18. I appreciate taste
I took taste for granted. Big, bad Tax chemo (the one that did a bloody good job of murdering so much of my cancer) takes your sense of taste away for a while (replacing it with what is officially known as Tax Mouth, and in my case, a nice bout of oral thrush each time).
Before cancer and chemo I thought the tea at work tasted bad. Now I know just HOW BAD tea can taste, and what a disappointment it is when you can't taste your tea at all. (Not that I'm now going to drink the tea at work, I just accept that it could be worse. And I appreciate the cuppas I have at home a million times more now.) Taste is wonderful. I'll try and remember this and not just inhale my food absentmindedly while concentrating entirely on something else.
19. I appreciate my walk in to work
I'm not a morning person, hence, my morning walks in to work have always generally consisted of me leaving the house late and in a bit of a flap,marching as quickly as my legs will move without actually running. Google maps says my walk to work is 31 minutes, I normally do it in 25, my record is 18.5. This rushed walk (slightly different routes depending on where I've been working) has been a part of my daily weekday routine for over 10 years. Cancer (chemo and surgery) took it away from me for a while and I missed it more than I would ever have guessed. Since I've been back at work, the sun has shone every time I've walked in. I don't think that's because it's Spring. I think that's because the Universe realises how much I appreciate the walk to work (the normality, the exercise, feeling fresh air on my face, being a part of the constantly moving and changing outside world) and has organised for the sun to shine down on me each time I go out. Having said that...
20. I appreciate the rain
I remember when my mom was in hospital the week she died. It soon became clear that she would never again leave the hospital bed. I remember looking out of the hospital window at the rain, and thinking how sad it was that she would never feel the rain again. From that moment on I had a new appreciation for rain. This has only intensified since being diagnosed with cancer myself. The rain is amazing and the rain reminds you that you're alive. The way it feels, the way it smells, the way it sounds. I love the rain, and honestly think people should spend more time with their wellies and raincoats on, splashing about in the puddles. Let go a little, have a bit of fun.
I'll leave it there for now ...
Wednesday, 6 May 2015
Monday, 4 May 2015
M'aide! May Day!
Today I had the great honour of speaking at a rally which marked the end of a 3-day march for the NHS from Burton to Stoke. As if being invited to talk at this wasn't exciting enough, I actually spoke after the wonderful 91 year old war veteran Harry Smith. It was a privilege, and I am lucky to have had the opportunity to meet him. If you have not already seen his speech at Labour Conference, please take the time to watch it now. You'll be blown away and you'll probably shed a tear or two.
The march and the rally are part of a campaign opposing the planned privatisation of cancer care and end of life care in Staffordshire. You can find out more information about this here.
And here is what I said, and some photos from the day!
*******
I'm not a politician or a political campaigner. I'm not a celebrity. And I'm not normally a public speaker! I'm a 34 year old woman who lives and works in Leicester. And on the 18th of July last year, at age 33, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
I'd like start by reading you a short excerpt of a blog post I wrote about the day I was diagnosed. I'd gone to hospital for an ultrasound scan because I'd noticed a small change in my breast. I'd been examined by my GP and 2 breast care nurses, and no one could feel a lump, but because of my family history of breast and ovarian cancer, I was sent for the ultrasound scan anyway, to be extra cautious and to give me peace of mind.
This is what I wrote about the moment I found out I had cancer:
"I was called back in to the ultrasound room and told that the scans had shown "some changes" and that they wanted to take biopsies there and then. I laid back down so they could scan me again to do the biopsies. What changes? There was a 22mm mass under my nipple, a 6mm mass a bit lower down, and some of my lymph nodes were enlarged. I was told that they would use a fine needle to take cells from the lymph nodes and the small mass and that it would be sharp like an injection. I didn't feel it. I was then given a local anaesthetic so they could take a core biopsy of the larger mass. I was told the local anaesthetic injection would sting for a moment. I didn't feel it. I just lay there, looking at the expression on their faces. One deadly serious, the other sympathetic. I asked if there was anything it could be other than cancer. "No..... I'm sorry."
My cancer treatment took 277 days and finished 2 weeks ago.
During that time I had:
3 ultrasound scans, 2 CT scans, 1 MRI, 1 mammogram.
3 biopsies, 2 Fine Needle Aspirations, 9 blood tests, 1 ECG.
8 hours in surgery
15 rounds of radiotherapy.
I've had 1 nipple, 10 lymph nodes and 2 cancerous tumours removed.
It is thanks to my GP, my surgeon, my oncologists, and their registrars. It's thanks to the breast care nurses, the chemo nurses, the radiotherapy nurses, the ward nurses. It is thanks to the phlebotomists, the radiographers, the sonographers, the technicians, the pharmacists, the cleaning staff, the catering staff. It is thanks to all of the administrators, the receptionists, the people behind scenes within the NHS.
Not only did all of these NHS staff keep me alive, but they treated me with kindness and compassion, dignity and respect. I was able to trust them entirely. I was literally trusting them with my life. And I cannot speak highly enough of the care I have received.
But there is something else, very important, that I want to explain.
I'd like to just go back to the moment that I was diagnosed. My world stopped. Everything became a blur. I was in shock, and unable to think. There is very little that I remember about those early days. But one thing I do remember is that I was immediately given two key pieces of information.
The first was the name and phone number of my Breast Care Nurse - the person who would be my key contact throughout all of my treatment. One, named person, who I could go to about anything, at any time. The second was a card with the time of my appointment the following week to meet with my surgeon. My Breast Care Nurse and Surgeon are part of a multidisciplinary team that were allocated to me from day one. This team have been responsible for deciding and planning the best treatment for me. They've kept myself (and each other) informed at all times, answering my questions, explaining things I don't understand - but all the time taking the lead in ensuring I have swift and effective treatment.
From the very moment I was diagnosed, I felt like I had been picked up and was being carried by the strong, supportive and reliable arms of the NHS. That sounds very cheesy but it's absolutely true.
At no point have I had to worry about whether or not I can afford treatment.
At no point have I had to make decisions about what treatment to have based on cost.
At no point have I have to go out and find medical professionals myself that will give me the treatment I need, when I need it.
At no point have I had to fill out claim forms, sit in queues on telephone lines, or risk delays to my treatment because I am too shocked or too ill to deal with insurance companies.
At no point have I had to question the motivations of the organisation that is responsible for treating my cancer, or the basis on which decisions about what treatment I am being offered have been made.
At no point during my cancer treatment have I been made to feel like a "customer".
When I found out about Conservative plans to sell off £1.2 billion of NHS cancer and end of life care in Staffordshire I was horrified. If it goes ahead, this will be the largest private contract in NHS history. I don't live in Staffordshire, but I know that if it happens in Staffordshire, I should expect the same in Leicester soon.
It terrifies me that the care of people who have cancer is being sold to companies whose ultimate aim is to make a profit for their owners.
It saddens me that patients will become "customers" - with associated costs and profits attached to them instead of first and foremost being recognised and treated as individuals, as fellow human beings.
It disgusts me that instead of being invested into a public service, our National Insurance contributions are being given to the private sector on such a large scale, and without any real public consultation. On Saturday even Nick Clegg, Deputy Prime Minister, claimed that he knew nothing about the sale of NHS cancer care in Staffordshire. I find that difficult to believe, but if he is telling the truth that is incredibly worrying.
I would like to end here by encouraging everyone to not only have the NHS in mind when you vote in the election on Thursday, but also over the next 4 days to be talking to as many people as you can about the NHS and the piece by piece privatisation of it under the Coalition government over the last few years. I really think this election could be our last chance to save the NHS. I hope we can do it.
And thank you for taking the time to listen to me.
The wonderful Harry Smith, telling the crowd what life is really like without a National Health Service.
Me with the other event speakers. My friends are making fun of me for being a poser so I just want to say, for the record, we were all instructed to stand in the exact way I was stood. If I knew that in reality we could all freestyle with our poses, I'd have bear hugged Harry. Or Tristram. ;-)
And I just want to end with this....
If there is any part of you that wonders if the privatisation of the NHS might improve it... consider this. The first privately run NHS hospital, Hitchingbrooke in Cambridgeshire, has been condemned as "inadequate."
The march and the rally are part of a campaign opposing the planned privatisation of cancer care and end of life care in Staffordshire. You can find out more information about this here.
And here is what I said, and some photos from the day!
*******
I'm not a politician or a political campaigner. I'm not a celebrity. And I'm not normally a public speaker! I'm a 34 year old woman who lives and works in Leicester. And on the 18th of July last year, at age 33, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
I'd like start by reading you a short excerpt of a blog post I wrote about the day I was diagnosed. I'd gone to hospital for an ultrasound scan because I'd noticed a small change in my breast. I'd been examined by my GP and 2 breast care nurses, and no one could feel a lump, but because of my family history of breast and ovarian cancer, I was sent for the ultrasound scan anyway, to be extra cautious and to give me peace of mind.
This is what I wrote about the moment I found out I had cancer:
"I was called back in to the ultrasound room and told that the scans had shown "some changes" and that they wanted to take biopsies there and then. I laid back down so they could scan me again to do the biopsies. What changes? There was a 22mm mass under my nipple, a 6mm mass a bit lower down, and some of my lymph nodes were enlarged. I was told that they would use a fine needle to take cells from the lymph nodes and the small mass and that it would be sharp like an injection. I didn't feel it. I was then given a local anaesthetic so they could take a core biopsy of the larger mass. I was told the local anaesthetic injection would sting for a moment. I didn't feel it. I just lay there, looking at the expression on their faces. One deadly serious, the other sympathetic. I asked if there was anything it could be other than cancer. "No..... I'm sorry."
I will never forget that moment. I won't forget the expression on her face. I won't forget the sound of her voice. That's the moment my life as I know it ended. Nothing will ever, ever be the same again. I feel like I'm still in that moment, like time hasn't really moved forward since then. I'm stuck lying there, looking away from the woman, and across to the dark image on the ultrasound screen, hearing the words "No.... I'm sorry" echoing round my head.
I don't remember leaving the room, or what happened next. The following few days are a blur."
My cancer treatment took 277 days and finished 2 weeks ago.
During that time I had:
3 ultrasound scans, 2 CT scans, 1 MRI, 1 mammogram.
3 biopsies, 2 Fine Needle Aspirations, 9 blood tests, 1 ECG.
I had 9 appointments with my surgeon, 8 appointments with my oncologists, 2 appointments at Genetics.
6 rounds, which is 18 weeks, of chemotherapy.
8 hours in surgery
15 rounds of radiotherapy.
I've spent 4 nights in hospital.
There have been 13 cannulas, 30 injections, 1 catheter, 3 drains.
I've had a lot of drugs including 1 general anaesthetic, 2 local anaesthetics, 4 different chemotherapy drugs, 3 types of anti sickness drugs, 2 kinds of antibiotic, 18 days on steroids, and all the painkillers ranging from paracetamol to morphine.
I've had 1 nipple, 10 lymph nodes and 2 cancerous tumours removed.
I've got scars. My hair, eyelashes and eyebrows fell out. My veins collapsed. But today, I'm standing here talking to you, alive and with no evidence of disease. And that is all thanks to the NHS.
It is thanks to my GP, my surgeon, my oncologists, and their registrars. It's thanks to the breast care nurses, the chemo nurses, the radiotherapy nurses, the ward nurses. It is thanks to the phlebotomists, the radiographers, the sonographers, the technicians, the pharmacists, the cleaning staff, the catering staff. It is thanks to all of the administrators, the receptionists, the people behind scenes within the NHS.
Not only did all of these NHS staff keep me alive, but they treated me with kindness and compassion, dignity and respect. I was able to trust them entirely. I was literally trusting them with my life. And I cannot speak highly enough of the care I have received.
But there is something else, very important, that I want to explain.
I'd like to just go back to the moment that I was diagnosed. My world stopped. Everything became a blur. I was in shock, and unable to think. There is very little that I remember about those early days. But one thing I do remember is that I was immediately given two key pieces of information.
The first was the name and phone number of my Breast Care Nurse - the person who would be my key contact throughout all of my treatment. One, named person, who I could go to about anything, at any time. The second was a card with the time of my appointment the following week to meet with my surgeon. My Breast Care Nurse and Surgeon are part of a multidisciplinary team that were allocated to me from day one. This team have been responsible for deciding and planning the best treatment for me. They've kept myself (and each other) informed at all times, answering my questions, explaining things I don't understand - but all the time taking the lead in ensuring I have swift and effective treatment.
From the very moment I was diagnosed, I felt like I had been picked up and was being carried by the strong, supportive and reliable arms of the NHS. That sounds very cheesy but it's absolutely true.
At no point have I had to worry about whether or not I can afford treatment.
At no point have I had to make decisions about what treatment to have based on cost.
At no point have I have to go out and find medical professionals myself that will give me the treatment I need, when I need it.
At no point have I had to fill out claim forms, sit in queues on telephone lines, or risk delays to my treatment because I am too shocked or too ill to deal with insurance companies.
At no point have I had to question the motivations of the organisation that is responsible for treating my cancer, or the basis on which decisions about what treatment I am being offered have been made.
At no point during my cancer treatment have I been made to feel like a "customer".
When I found out about Conservative plans to sell off £1.2 billion of NHS cancer and end of life care in Staffordshire I was horrified. If it goes ahead, this will be the largest private contract in NHS history. I don't live in Staffordshire, but I know that if it happens in Staffordshire, I should expect the same in Leicester soon.
It terrifies me that the care of people who have cancer is being sold to companies whose ultimate aim is to make a profit for their owners.
It saddens me that patients will become "customers" - with associated costs and profits attached to them instead of first and foremost being recognised and treated as individuals, as fellow human beings.
It disgusts me that instead of being invested into a public service, our National Insurance contributions are being given to the private sector on such a large scale, and without any real public consultation. On Saturday even Nick Clegg, Deputy Prime Minister, claimed that he knew nothing about the sale of NHS cancer care in Staffordshire. I find that difficult to believe, but if he is telling the truth that is incredibly worrying.
I would like to end here by encouraging everyone to not only have the NHS in mind when you vote in the election on Thursday, but also over the next 4 days to be talking to as many people as you can about the NHS and the piece by piece privatisation of it under the Coalition government over the last few years. I really think this election could be our last chance to save the NHS. I hope we can do it.
And thank you for taking the time to listen to me.
The marchers start arriving!
Me! Telling everyone how wonderful the NHS has been in the treatment of my cancer. Yes, in the background, that is Tristram Hunt listening carefully and applauding!
Got my photo with the 38 degrees NHS ambulance!
And I just want to end with this....
If there is any part of you that wonders if the privatisation of the NHS might improve it... consider this. The first privately run NHS hospital, Hitchingbrooke in Cambridgeshire, has been condemned as "inadequate."
Sunday, 26 April 2015
Spring time
On Tuesday I went to the hospital for my last session of radiotherapy - it marked the very end of my active treatment for breast cancer. I took this photo - the tree is on the grounds of the Leicester Royal Infirmary. I just looked up, saw the blossom against the bright blue sky, and was immediately reminded of the interview with Kylie where she talked about treatment for breast cancer and said "Coming out the other side - it's like spring time."
She is absolutely right. It really is.
This photo is special to me, not because it is a pretty image, but because it is a perfect representation of the way I feel about life right now.
I want to share it here for any women out there who are currently going through treatment for primary breast cancer - especially chemo. The world can seem like a very dark place at times. But please believe me - you will get through it, and when you do (whatever the time of year) it will feel like spring time.
She is absolutely right. It really is.
This photo is special to me, not because it is a pretty image, but because it is a perfect representation of the way I feel about life right now.
I want to share it here for any women out there who are currently going through treatment for primary breast cancer - especially chemo. The world can seem like a very dark place at times. But please believe me - you will get through it, and when you do (whatever the time of year) it will feel like spring time.
Tuesday, 21 April 2015
Thank you NHS. You've saved my life.
On July 18th last year, at age 33, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
That was 277 days ago.
I've had 3 ultrasound scans, 2 CT scans, 1 MRI scan and 1 mammogram. 3 biopsies, 2 Fine Needle Aspirations. 9 blood tests, 1 ECG.
9 appointments with my surgeon, 8 appointments with my oncologists, 2 appointments at Genetics.
6 rounds of chemo, 8 hours in surgery, 15 rounds of radiotherapy.
4 nights in hospital.
There have been 13 cannulas, 30 injections (which I did myself), 1 catheter, 3 drains and 17 hours spent with a -4 degrees cold cap on my head.
I've had a lot of drugs including 1 general anaesthetic, 2 local anaesthetics, 4 different chemotherapy drugs, 3 types of anti sickness drugs, 2 kinds of antibiotic, 18 days on steroids, and all the painkillers ranging from paracetamol to morphine.
I've got a skin graft and 2 other impressive scars. I've had a seroma drained, and an expander implant filled twice.
I've had thrombophlebitis and oral thrush (3 times). My hair fell out. My eyelashes fell out. My eyebrows fell out. My nails became thin, yellow and flaky, and I lost two of my toenails twice. The veins in my arms collapsed.
I've had 1 nipple, 10 lymph nodes and 2 tumours removed.
In the end, I only fainted 5 times :-)
Last Wednesday I had an appointment with one of my oncologists. He checked how my skin was; fine. He checked how I was; fine. He asked if I had any questions; I didn't. He wrote me a prescription for Tamoxifen (a drug which I'll take for 10 years), told me to eat healthily, get moderate exercise and most importantly to be happy. And then he wished me well and sent me on my way.
So I write this just as I am about to leave my house to go to my final radiotherapy session. Today marks the end, finally, of my cancer treatment.
I am alive, with no evidence of disease. And it is all thanks to the NHS.
I don't have better words about the NHS than Harry Smith, who is 91 years old, and knows what life is like without an NHS. Please, take the time to watch this video.
I would like to join with Harry in telling the Conservatives to keep their mitts off our NHS. And I will say it once again, this election I will be voting Labour, and I will be doing it for the NHS. Please, please use your vote, and please also think carefully about the NHS when you do.
That was 277 days ago.
I've had 3 ultrasound scans, 2 CT scans, 1 MRI scan and 1 mammogram. 3 biopsies, 2 Fine Needle Aspirations. 9 blood tests, 1 ECG.
9 appointments with my surgeon, 8 appointments with my oncologists, 2 appointments at Genetics.
6 rounds of chemo, 8 hours in surgery, 15 rounds of radiotherapy.
4 nights in hospital.
There have been 13 cannulas, 30 injections (which I did myself), 1 catheter, 3 drains and 17 hours spent with a -4 degrees cold cap on my head.
I've had a lot of drugs including 1 general anaesthetic, 2 local anaesthetics, 4 different chemotherapy drugs, 3 types of anti sickness drugs, 2 kinds of antibiotic, 18 days on steroids, and all the painkillers ranging from paracetamol to morphine.
I've got a skin graft and 2 other impressive scars. I've had a seroma drained, and an expander implant filled twice.
I've had thrombophlebitis and oral thrush (3 times). My hair fell out. My eyelashes fell out. My eyebrows fell out. My nails became thin, yellow and flaky, and I lost two of my toenails twice. The veins in my arms collapsed.
I've had 1 nipple, 10 lymph nodes and 2 tumours removed.
In the end, I only fainted 5 times :-)
Last Wednesday I had an appointment with one of my oncologists. He checked how my skin was; fine. He checked how I was; fine. He asked if I had any questions; I didn't. He wrote me a prescription for Tamoxifen (a drug which I'll take for 10 years), told me to eat healthily, get moderate exercise and most importantly to be happy. And then he wished me well and sent me on my way.
So I write this just as I am about to leave my house to go to my final radiotherapy session. Today marks the end, finally, of my cancer treatment.
I am alive, with no evidence of disease. And it is all thanks to the NHS.
I don't have better words about the NHS than Harry Smith, who is 91 years old, and knows what life is like without an NHS. Please, take the time to watch this video.
I would like to join with Harry in telling the Conservatives to keep their mitts off our NHS. And I will say it once again, this election I will be voting Labour, and I will be doing it for the NHS. Please, please use your vote, and please also think carefully about the NHS when you do.
Off I go.... see you on the other side! And a big high five from me!
XO
Thursday, 16 April 2015
Being a woman
If you are a woman, and you speak out about anything online, you will be on the receiving end of, at best, sexist remarks, or at worst, targeted harassment, abuse and threats.
I want to give two examples. They both stem from this....
A number of weeks ago I was contact by a company who were doing some filming for 38 degrees. They were looking for people who'd had good experiences of the NHS for a Save Our NHS campaign. I said yes! They came to my house, filmed me, and the video went online a week ago. I've mentioned previously that I was nervous about it as I've never done anything like it before, but actually the response has been FANTASTIC. The video has had over 350,000 views! Well over 10,000 people shared it online. And I've been busy online since, sharing the link, responding to messages, engaging in conversation and debate. Much of it is constructive and friendly, but some of it... not so much.
Example of being a woman with a voice online number 1
I don't think this needs any commentary. Just have a look at the comments I have been receiving from Frank on the 38 degrees Facebook page. This is in response to me not wanting the NHS privatised. Sexist much?
I want to give two examples. They both stem from this....
A number of weeks ago I was contact by a company who were doing some filming for 38 degrees. They were looking for people who'd had good experiences of the NHS for a Save Our NHS campaign. I said yes! They came to my house, filmed me, and the video went online a week ago. I've mentioned previously that I was nervous about it as I've never done anything like it before, but actually the response has been FANTASTIC. The video has had over 350,000 views! Well over 10,000 people shared it online. And I've been busy online since, sharing the link, responding to messages, engaging in conversation and debate. Much of it is constructive and friendly, but some of it... not so much.
Example of being a woman with a voice online number 1
I don't think this needs any commentary. Just have a look at the comments I have been receiving from Frank on the 38 degrees Facebook page. This is in response to me not wanting the NHS privatised. Sexist much?
Clearly Frank is a sexist idiot. I'll just leave him to it.
Example of being a woman with a voice online number 2
When the video was put online, one of my friends tweeted it to Kate Godfrey who is parliamentary candidate for Labour in Stafford - where £1.2bn privatisation of cancer and end of life care is planned to take place. Kate really liked the video! She has been sharing it lots, and a couple of days ago I spoke to her on the phone about the NHS, privatisation of cancer care, and about the impacts of breast cancer.
Last night I went and had a look on her Twitter page to see if she'd shared the video again and I saw that she was being persistently hassled by another Twitter user because she had blocked people who were trolling her - this included messages that were obscene and threatening. She was repeatedly having to defend her right to block accounts that were abusive towards her and was being told that by doing so she was into "victim politics." I then searched for tweets sent to Kate and immediately spotted a troll account that has clearly been set up purely to harass her.
This all makes me furious. I am sick of seeing women being harassed and threatened online simply for being women.
I've been on the receiving end of a lot of abuse for supporting the No More Page 3 campaign. Some of it is childish, some of it is threatening. But sadly, if you are a woman who is going to speak out about sexual objectification you quickly come to expect that. I guess I just wasn't expecting the same harassment to be in my face when discussing cancer care and the NHS. I should have expected it though.... because it really is true. If you are a woman, and you have a voice online or in the public arena, you'll be harassed, threatened and abused no matter what it is you're taking about, just for being a woman.
Monday, 13 April 2015
THE RADIATOR
Hi! So I've been all sorts of opinionated recently but it's been a little while since I did an actual update on cancer treatment and as people are starting to ask (and as I am massively behind on my emails - sorry) I thought I'd write a bit about my new best friend.
My new best friend is called THE RADIATOR * and it's a beast.
(*Alright, it's actually called "Charnwood" but I prefer THE RADIATOR.)
I love it. Here's why it's my new best friend...
I spent 18 weeks having chemo. I am grateful to chemo for killing off the majority of my cancer, it was really nice of it to do that for me, but in the process it poisoned the hell out of me, and nearly ruined me both physically and mentally.
I then had surgery. Thank you to my wonderful surgeon (lots of hearts for my surgeon) for chopping out what was left of the visible cancer and the whole areas surrounding it. I'm very grateful, and it's totally worth it, but surgery did hurt, and does leave me with scars and risk of lymphedema.
I am now having radiotherapy. This is to blast the left side of my chest wall, and the area where the next load of my lymph nodes are (the ones further up the chain from those that got removed in surgery). It hopefully means if any individual cells managed to avoid death by chemo, or being chopped out and chucked in the bin by the surgeon, then radiotherapy should kill them. That area of my chest is now a danger of death zone for any cancer cells.
DIE YOU BASTARDS, DIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE.
I have to go to the hospital every weekday for 15 days. I've been 9 times so far (6 more to do). Peeps did not lie when they told me radiotherapy is a breeze compared to chemo.
I usually spend about 5 minutes in a very quiet and peaceful waiting area that looks like this:
(I know, I know, I'm just trying to demonstrate how completely non-traumatic this whole stage of cancer treatment is!)
And then this is where go through to see my new bestest buddy, The Radiator.
I lie on the bed thing with left arm up in the arm rests, and the radiotherapy people dim the lights and exciting green lasers beam across the room. They use these to line me up into the exact right position - to the millimetre! Before radiotherapy started I had to come in for a CT scan so they could see where organs like my heart were, I then was given 4 dot tattoos (permanent! I've got 4 tats!) and they use these and the lasers to line me up exactly right.
They then leave the room and The Radiator blasts me.
But I don't feel a thing! I just lie there. That big, bad beast of a machine is blasting me with radiation and I don't feel a thing. Today I closed my eyes and thought, if it wasn't all done so quickly, I could actually have a nap in there. The nurses come back in, check the lasers and stuff again, then go out while I get blasted a second time. And then that's all repeated a third time. And then we have a quick chat about what we plan to have for tea while I get dressed and they put the bed away, and then I go home. The whole thing takes no more than 10 minutes.
Easy peasy!
My skin is looking and feeling a bit like it's sunburned, but so far it's ok really. And I've been horrendously tired. But I'm not going to lay all the blame for that on The Radiator. Chemo and surgery still have a lot to answer for (I've now been told that by my surgeon, Breast Care Nurse, Oncology Registrar, Senior Radiotherapy Nurse and Occupational Health Nurse).
There is one strange thing though. This is me being strange, not The Radiator. Most days when I'm lying there being blasted, I have moments where I feel incredibly emotional, and have to stop myself from crying. But I'm not sad, and I'm not scared (and I'm not in pain). I'm not sure what it is. I just think I love The Radiator and I'm grateful for it blasting me. Just in case, like. Because after next Tuesday, I am officially finished with cancer treatment.
My new best friend is called THE RADIATOR * and it's a beast.
(*Alright, it's actually called "Charnwood" but I prefer THE RADIATOR.)
I love it. Here's why it's my new best friend...
I spent 18 weeks having chemo. I am grateful to chemo for killing off the majority of my cancer, it was really nice of it to do that for me, but in the process it poisoned the hell out of me, and nearly ruined me both physically and mentally.
I then had surgery. Thank you to my wonderful surgeon (lots of hearts for my surgeon) for chopping out what was left of the visible cancer and the whole areas surrounding it. I'm very grateful, and it's totally worth it, but surgery did hurt, and does leave me with scars and risk of lymphedema.
I am now having radiotherapy. This is to blast the left side of my chest wall, and the area where the next load of my lymph nodes are (the ones further up the chain from those that got removed in surgery). It hopefully means if any individual cells managed to avoid death by chemo, or being chopped out and chucked in the bin by the surgeon, then radiotherapy should kill them. That area of my chest is now a danger of death zone for any cancer cells.
DIE YOU BASTARDS, DIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE.
I have to go to the hospital every weekday for 15 days. I've been 9 times so far (6 more to do). Peeps did not lie when they told me radiotherapy is a breeze compared to chemo.
I usually spend about 5 minutes in a very quiet and peaceful waiting area that looks like this:
These are the chairs that I sit on.
(I know, I know, I'm just trying to demonstrate how completely non-traumatic this whole stage of cancer treatment is!)
And then this is where go through to see my new bestest buddy, The Radiator.
I lie on the bed thing with left arm up in the arm rests, and the radiotherapy people dim the lights and exciting green lasers beam across the room. They use these to line me up into the exact right position - to the millimetre! Before radiotherapy started I had to come in for a CT scan so they could see where organs like my heart were, I then was given 4 dot tattoos (permanent! I've got 4 tats!) and they use these and the lasers to line me up exactly right.
They then leave the room and The Radiator blasts me.
Easy peasy!
My skin is looking and feeling a bit like it's sunburned, but so far it's ok really. And I've been horrendously tired. But I'm not going to lay all the blame for that on The Radiator. Chemo and surgery still have a lot to answer for (I've now been told that by my surgeon, Breast Care Nurse, Oncology Registrar, Senior Radiotherapy Nurse and Occupational Health Nurse).
There is one strange thing though. This is me being strange, not The Radiator. Most days when I'm lying there being blasted, I have moments where I feel incredibly emotional, and have to stop myself from crying. But I'm not sad, and I'm not scared (and I'm not in pain). I'm not sure what it is. I just think I love The Radiator and I'm grateful for it blasting me. Just in case, like. Because after next Tuesday, I am officially finished with cancer treatment.
Friday, 10 April 2015
Save Our NHS
Hi!
A few weeks ago I was filmed for a Save Our NHS video for campaigning organisation 38 degrees. They put it online this afternoon! I've never been in a video before so I've been a bit nervous about it! But ... here is a link:
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10155433079945788&pnref=story
I'm quite blown away because it's already had a lot of views* (over 71,000!) and a lot of shares. (over 3,700!)
(*See the end of the post for an update on this....!)
Bonkers! However, this is not because I am a celebrity superstar - it's because people know we are in serious danger of losing the NHS for good, and that's a frightening prospect.
As a result of the Coalition Government's policies over the last 5 years, the NHS is being systematically dismantled. The latest is that cancer and end of life care in Staffordshire are being privatised. Think about it. The treatment and care of cancer patients and people at the end of life will be in the hands of companies who exist not as a public service, but who exist to make profits for their owners / shareholders. And consider this: between 2012-2014 private companies with financial links to Conservative politicians won NHS contracts worth £1.5bn. Our NHS is being sold to private companies in order to make some already rich and powerful people, even more rich and powerful.
This is what being treated for cancer (a life threatening illness where time is everything) on the NHS has meant for me:
What the Coalition Government has done to the NHS is so incredibly upsetting and terrifying. When it comes to the NHS, the outcome of this election means everything. Another 5 years of Conservatives in power and the NHS will be gone.
Labour have made the following promises if they are elected:
Update 12/4/2015
Oh my goodness.... In less than 48 hours the original posting of the video on 38Degrees Facebook page has had 239,000 views (and has been shared by over 9,000 people). And a second post of the video yesterday has had a further 20,600 views .
That's over a quarter of a million people?!?!?!?!
People really care about the NHS. I guess that's becoming very apparent this election and that's why the Tories have suddenly panicked and started pulling figures and campaign "promises" regarding the NHS out of thin air. Don't believe a word they say. (Obviously.)
A few weeks ago I was filmed for a Save Our NHS video for campaigning organisation 38 degrees. They put it online this afternoon! I've never been in a video before so I've been a bit nervous about it! But ... here is a link:
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10155433079945788&pnref=story
I'm quite blown away because it's already had a lot of views* (over 71,000!) and a lot of shares. (over 3,700!)
(*See the end of the post for an update on this....!)
Bonkers! However, this is not because I am a celebrity superstar - it's because people know we are in serious danger of losing the NHS for good, and that's a frightening prospect.
As a result of the Coalition Government's policies over the last 5 years, the NHS is being systematically dismantled. The latest is that cancer and end of life care in Staffordshire are being privatised. Think about it. The treatment and care of cancer patients and people at the end of life will be in the hands of companies who exist not as a public service, but who exist to make profits for their owners / shareholders. And consider this: between 2012-2014 private companies with financial links to Conservative politicians won NHS contracts worth £1.5bn. Our NHS is being sold to private companies in order to make some already rich and powerful people, even more rich and powerful.
This is what being treated for cancer (a life threatening illness where time is everything) on the NHS has meant for me:
- I have not had to pay for any of my treatment. This means I have not been put in the position of delaying treatment, of not being able to afford treatment, or of not being able to afford the best treatment. This would not be true if the NHS did not exist and we had a private healthcare system.
- I have been treated by people who work for an organisation whose entire purpose is to care for my health and give me the best care and treatment possible. This would not be true if the NHS did not exist and we had a private healthcare system.
- I have not had to search for appropriate doctors, nurses, oncologists, surgeons etc etc and make arrangements myself, hunting out which medical professionals do or don't do what, and where, and when. It has all been done for me (thankfully - because trust me, when you're diagnosed with cancer you are not thinking straight). I was allocated a Breast Care Nurse who is my key point of contact, and I have a multi-disciplinary team that were allocated to me based on my individual circumstances. They work together, they update each-other and my GP in writing and always keep me informed. They are responsible for entirely different elements of my treatment, but they all work for the same organisation and they all work together. This would not be so straightforward if the NHS did not exist and we had a private healthcare system.
What the Coalition Government has done to the NHS is so incredibly upsetting and terrifying. When it comes to the NHS, the outcome of this election means everything. Another 5 years of Conservatives in power and the NHS will be gone.
Labour have made the following promises if they are elected:
- They will repeal the Health and Social Care Act
- They will guarantee a national health service free at the point of use
- They will remove enforced competition - they will ensure the NHS is focused on collaboration, not competition between different private companies.
Update 12/4/2015
Oh my goodness.... In less than 48 hours the original posting of the video on 38Degrees Facebook page has had 239,000 views (and has been shared by over 9,000 people). And a second post of the video yesterday has had a further 20,600 views .
That's over a quarter of a million people?!?!?!?!
People really care about the NHS. I guess that's becoming very apparent this election and that's why the Tories have suddenly panicked and started pulling figures and campaign "promises" regarding the NHS out of thin air. Don't believe a word they say. (Obviously.)
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