The friendship and support I had received to date was amazing. I had cards by the dozen, a hamper of goodies to see me through chemo, even some dry shampoo (Janine) – which amused me, as clearly this was not something I was going to need! I had been taken out for meals, and had been given many gifts and messages that were beautiful.

March 13^th, Dad’s birthday. First chemo session. Dad said it would be a ‘good day’ as it was his birthday. Wes and I headed off to the chemo day centre with a bag of ‘goodies’, not really knowing what to expect other than a free lunch! It was 8am when I arrived at the unit. I knew a few of nurses there, and they were all shocked that I was coming in for treatment and they greeted me with big hugs.

Firstly, we watched an information DVD. I can’t say any of it sunk in. Everyone seemed to be really friendly on the unit and the atmosphere was calm and peaceful.  A nurse came and put a cannula (a small plastic tube) in my arm to insert the intravenous medication. I had several pre-medications for sickness, and steroids for joint pain, to mention just a few. Then they commenced the chemotherapy. We received so many ‘good wishes’ from friends and family, including one from Sarah, my friend from school days, who also had cancer. We had made a pact that we would ‘kick cancer’s ass.’ We all passed the day chatting and laughing and supporting each other.

We left the unit eight and half hours later, at 4.30pm. I was exhausted but not really feeling any different. It was all so strange.

A couple of days later I received my results from the PET scan.  It showed three hot spots. One was in the lower right abdominal area (the area where I had been having a lot of pain for the past eight weeks), and one other that was higher on the left side. I was told these were tumours. They wanted to give me another medication alongside the chemotherapy, but it was thought there was too much of a risk of bleeding, with me having Peutz-Jeghers Syndrome. The consultant seemed to be less optimistic because of the PET results and its aggressive nature. Friends meant well and sent me other people’s positive stories. I found this so annoying because, without trying to sound ungrateful, these people were not me and it irritated the shit out of me, but not literally.

I had to take regular medications for the first few days; steroids and anti-sickness tablets. I had terrible right-sided pain, and took analgesia for this, but there was no new pain or feelings during these initial days. However by day four I was in so much pain with my joints that it was difficult to either walk or sleep. But the pain relief I needed was also making me constipated. It was a vicious circle.

I was shattered but did my best to continue with normal life as best as I could and to carry on organising the charity party. Wes started making furniture out of pallet wood (I think this was his way of ‘switching off’).  We joked about him making me a coffin, I wanted a hole to put my arm through so I could flip the bird!

My hair had started falling out in small amounts whenever I washed it. I felt so scared to have a shower as every time I washed my hair, more came out. April 1 st in the shower (this was no ‘April Fool’), my hair fell out in great clumps. I just stood there and cried. I thought I was prepared but it just made it all so real. When I got out of the shower, Wes and Chaz were really supportive and we all shaved our heads. I was so scared to look in the mirror, frightened that Wes would no longer fancy me, but it was obvious he still did, and he gave me so much reassurance.

We started a family ‘Bake Off’, and this was so much fun that allowed us to lose ourselves for a bit, despite the fact that we kept failing. It turns out cancer is not a sad enough ‘backstory’… We should’ve entered X factor instead!!

Three weeks passed very quickly, and the day of the next chemo arrived. Oh, the deep joy! We were greeted in the usual cheerful manner and started the chemo.

We ended up being there for nine hours because the cannula site kept blocking. It was so exhausting.

The next few days passed. I was in agony with joint pain. I had a phone call from a staff member at the Oncology Unit, to ask me how I was getting on. I very much felt that she was asking me a standard template of questions and not listening to me at all. I found this really frustrating and a pointless waste of my time. I was feeling emotionally drained and broke down in Wes’ arms. I told him I did not want to die, that I was so scared, that I wanted to see Chaz meet someone and settle down, I wanted to be there to support Wes with his little one whom I had built a very strong bond with….

I was so tired and all I wanted to do was sleep. I was having hot flushes and sweats through the night and found it difficult to get any sleep. I kept wondering how I could possibly recover.

I was exhausted but I carried on with my life, and we still had many day trips out – Llanrhaeadr waterfalls, ‘Thomas Land’, various farms… We had so much fun and I would sleep in the car. (Wes loved the peace and quiet).

My Dad and Karen came to visit. It was the first time they had seen me since the chemo started, so I think it was a bit of a shock for them. I tried to fit in a number of visitors, but I did have to cancel some due to pure exhaustion, even though I was determined not to let cancer beat me.

I bought myself some beautiful hats. Several other people bought me scarves, including my goddaughter (well, she chose it but her mum paid). I felt reasonably comfortable in them but I couldn’t get used to my wig. I felt like I was in fancy dress every time I put it on. This was just shit, I loved my hair!

The charity party was only a few days away, and I still had no idea what I was going to wear as the chemo had increased my weight too, so now I felt like a fat bald person (Wes said that was how he always felt, which never failed to make me laugh). I managed to get a dress online that I felt reasonably comfortable in, but the mirror had become my ‘enemy’, my constant reminder that I had cancer.

The night before my appointment it felt like I did not sleep a wink.

We went along to the appointment. I had taken two ‘Thank you’ cards and two boxes of Quality Street for the surgeons and the nurses on the ward. They called us through to a small room and gave us both a chair. The Gynaecology Consultant looked me in the eyes, and she started with the words, ‘I am so sorry…’ I could feel tears sting my eyes, and I was squeezing Wes’ hand like my life depended on it. As she continued, she told me she had got a third opinion because she had been so shocked at the results, but I had ‘cancer stage 4b’ (meaning that it had spread to further areas). Although I was a general nurse myself, I did not fully understand the ramifications of the words I had just been told…. In technical terms, I have primary cervical gastric-type adenocarcinoma, a rare cancer with metastatic disease within both ovaries, left parametrium and omentum, not the typical HPV (Human Papilloma Virus)

The consultant said I would need a CT chest scan, and that this would be organised as soon as possible; I would also be discussed at an MDT and referred to a Consultant Clinical Oncologist. I remember telling her I had some cards and chocolates that I’d left in the car, and I would go and collect them for the staff. The nurse then took us into a separate room to go through it all again. I have no idea what she said to me other than the fact they would not give up on me!

My head was spinning. How was I going to tell Chaz, my parents, Wes’ parents and all my friends? It felt like a nightmare, and that maybe I would wake up at any moment. Wes’ little man kept us smiling and somehow we kept ourselves together. Chaz had told us before we went that if it was good news, we should bring him a KFC, but if it was bad news, a McDonald’s (and he wonders why his trousers do not fit), so we went with it. I cannot remember the drive home, I was totally broken and yet unsure how I was still calm and breathing.

I took Chaz his McDonald’s to his bedroom. He was up and awake in seconds, and I had that horrible job of telling him this totally shit news. He did not say too much and played with Wes’ little one. He said he did not want to talk about it unless any of us really needed to. I know he spoke to Kelly and his Dad and Wes, but not to me (I totally understood this), and they were all very supportive.

I had to text mum and ask her to call on her way home. She knew by that text it was not good news. I rang my Dad and told him too. He was very quiet. I then rang my friends and Wes’ parents; these were probably the hardest and most emotional things I have ever had to do.

I kept strong even when friends and family cried at this devastating news.
My mum called in and I told her the news I had been given. This was the worst thing in the world. I had to ring and tell work, but my close friend Alina was at work so I wanted to make sure she knew first-hand off me.  This was another difficult conversation, as Alina had lost a lot of close people, including her sister, in the last twelve months, so she has a fear of getting close to people.  I did not sleep properly for nights.

The following days passed in a blur. I had numerous bouquets of flowers – the front room was like a florist’s

I had a call to go and see the Oncology Consultant on the Friday. Mum and Wes came with me to this appointment. They made me laugh – Wes with his tiny notebook, Mum with her A4 notebook. We sat waiting to be called through by the consultant. I looked around the waiting room. Everyone seemed to be older than me but I suppose this disease is indiscriminate. This was when we came up with the name ‘Cuntcer’, probably the only one time my family did not mind me using the Cbomb!

They called me through. The consultant stood and shook our hands and introduced himself. He seemed a really nice friendly gentleman. He was accompanied by the clinical nurse specialist whom I had previously met at my last appointment. The consultant asked me what I had understood by the diagnosis. I said that I had been diagnosed with stage 4b cancer and that they wanted to check it had not gone to my lungs. The consultant asked me if I understood that the cancer was not curable and the best that they could hope for was to put me in remission.

I don’t know if I had previously realised this or if I had simply chosen not to believe it. So many thoughts were now rushing through my mind. I had only just met Wes and had never felt love like this – how could this possibly be happening? I wanted to see Chaz grow into a man, and Wes’ little man develop. I wanted to see all my friends’ children grow up. I have goddaughters and sons; I was supposed to be here to guide them… How could I go from feeling so happy and carefree just a few months ago to this cancer taking over my body? It made no sense. Had they got my histology confused with somebody else’s? (I suppose that’s a question that most people would hope the answer would be ‘yes’).

I had to ask the consultant to repeat the last five minutes of the conversation as I had not heard what he had said. He told me he wanted to send me for a PET scan (Positron-Emission Tomography), which would help further with the diagnosis of the disease. He explained that this kind of scan helped to show what they described as ‘hot spots’ that a CT did not always show, by injecting me with a radiotracer. He gave a very good explanation that has stuck with me. He said it was like when you plant seeds in the garden; you would not know they were there unless someone told you or they grew.

He explained that he would have to discuss the suggestion of a PET scan at the next MDT as he had to have permission to send me for this (‘politics’, I believe they call it). He said that either way I would have to have two types of chemotherapy, Carboplatin and Paxtel, unless the outcome of the scan showed it was too far gone (something I could not allow myself to think about). He explained all the side effects, but the one that was the hardest to accept was that I would lose my hair. I told him I had a trip booked to Spain, and I wanted to go as I felt this would get me mentally ready to face the challenges ahead.

The nurse gave me a voucher for a wig, and various leaflets containing information.

I made an appointment to see the ‘wig lady’ the week after. I tried several wigs on and finally came away with one. I was not overly enthusiastic and felt a little ungrateful even though I had been able to obtain this on the NHS. This was a bad day for Mum; she found it a very emotional time, and took a few days to come back up to the positive stage.

I told myself I was going to be positive and fight this cancer. I decided I was going to have a party with friends and family, charge them an entrance fee, sell raffle tickets and that way raise some money for the local Cancer Centre, with the help of friends (especially Stacey begging for raffle prizes). I secured a date at the local football club, arranged a friend of Mum’s to do a disco, and then sent invites out. Organising this kept me and my mind busy. The invites asked people to donate into an honesty box.

I had an appointment with a nurse from the chemo centre to talk to me through what I would be facing over the following months, and to show me around the day centre. She did not allow Wes to come into the consultation room with me; I should have been more forceful about this. Those of you that know me would be surprised that I wasn’t, but I just was not myself. I felt like I was watching another version of me go through this nightmare whilst still recovering from major surgery. The nurse was very ‘matter of fact’, and not very empathetic, especially on the subject of losing my hair.

We had a night out with friends that afternoon/evening. The first drink was ‘palma violet prosecco’ (I can hear those of you who know me saying, ‘Oh nooo!’, as I am the world’s worst drinker). This day saw one of the best responses I have had to telling people I had cancer; one of Wes’ friend’s reaction was, “Fuck off!” This made me cry with laughter. We had a fantastic night and forgot about everything, Wes and I having a dance to ‘Simply the Best’, and probably over-doing it for Post-Surgery, but we had so much fun and it was a dance we often perform at home.

We received a letter in the post reiterating what had been said in clinic, but the one phrase that stuck out was ‘palliative chemotherapy.’ Wes and I both being in the health care profession immediately thought the same – ‘palliative’ means ‘end of life,’ Wes rang the nurse specialist to get her to explain the letter as I could not face the phone call. The nurse explained they called it ‘palliative chemo’ as it was not going to cure me but hopefully put me in remission. We both had a cry as reality set in; I felt like a ticking time bomb! Life was going to be taken away from me but with no idea when, and yeah, I guess we are all going to reach the same destination but being told that your destination was getting nearer was a very strange and difficult thing to accept.

The specialist nurse called me back the next day to see if I had been informed that I was starting chemotherapy in a couple of days’ time. Obviously I had no idea, and I was set to go to Spain. She knew I had mentioned I was going to Spain, hence her calling me back when she had read my notes. I also hadn’t had the results from the PET scan as yet. She said the consultant wanted to get me started on chemo as soon as possible. To my mind, I had already waited for four months, so I couldn’t see what difference another week would make. So, against best advice, I decided I was going to Spain.

A nurse from the chemo unit rang and also tried to persuade me to go in, but I declined. They felt it would be better for me to go and watch a DVD with other cancer patients. But I felt this was of no benefit to me as I was on my own ‘journey’, not on a train of cancer patients. My family agreed with my decision and with my reasoning for delaying the chemo.

Chaz took us to the airport and we had the obligatory pint. Meeting Wes’ parents was a little bit strange. I had previously met his mum, Gail, and although I hadn’t met his dad, Simon, we had chatted loads on Facetime, so I felt like I knew them really well. We had a fantastic break, making pizzas and cooking ‘calcots’ (onions) on the fire, watching the world go by over a ‘cortado’, and having plenty of time on the beach. It was a sad farewell after a lovely break.

We knew the journey ahead was a road to hell.

Surgery day arrived.

My overnight bag was packed. I still looked like I was off to the Labour Ward.

Wes drove me to the hospital, and we were greeted on the ward and asked to sit in the waiting room. We had been asked to be there for 8am but, guess what? No bed. So we just sat patiently in the room, waiting to be called through. Whilst we were there, the Colorectal Surgeon came to meet me and talk me through his part of the procedure. I also had to sign a consent form for him, after talking through the things that could happen, such as a stoma bag and even death. Thankfully I’m not an anxious person, as these things would have frightened most other people, and even some brave people might have had a ‘code brown’ (a nurse saying for ‘skidding pants’). Eventually at about midday I was called to my bed. The perks of being a nurse; I had a side room.

They came to collect me about an hour later. With me having my sexy gown and stockings in place, Wes gave me a kiss goodbye, and I felt really emotional as I was wheeled down to theatre.

We entered the anaesthetic room, where I was greeted by two friendly members of the team. They introduced themselves and explained how they would put a cannula into my hand, and would give me some analgesia, antibiotic and a relaxant through the cannula. We chatted away about theatres, and how ‘theatre nursing’ was possibly my next adventure (or at least that was I thought at that time). Then they placed a mask over my face, and they encouraged me to take deep breaths and think happy thoughts. It is a really strange sensation as you feel yourself lose control, but I had a real sense of peace.

I woke in recovery in pain. I remember crying and asking the nurse for pain relief. They gave me some intravenously through my cannula. This did not seem to help, so they gave me a PCA (Patient Controlled Analgesia). This was also inserted into a vein, and I could press the button as and when required.

They took me back to my room about 7 pm, where Wes was waiting for me. I felt really spaced out and cannot remember too much. I do remember the Gynaecology Consultant coming into the room to tell me the procedure had been a difficult one; my bowels had been stuck together due to fluid having leaked, so the Colorectal Surgeon had had to separate the bowel first. Also, during surgery one of my ovaries had ruptured, but they had removed everything that they had hoped to. Wes said it was really funny chatting to me, as it was like I was drunk – I was emotional and funny, and did not want him to leave me.

I do not recall much of that night.

In the morning the nurses came in bright and early, and wanted me to walk to the bathroom and then sit in my chair. I totally refused, and said that I would do it when I was ready (the ‘awkward patient’).

I was in hospital for a few days, which all seemed to roll in to one. I had had a vertical cut and was very sore. I did eventually get out of bed and walk to the bathroom, but I was exhausted. I spiked a temperature and was in pain. Wes and Chaz stayed with me whilst the doctors reviewed me. I had to have antibiotics, and I felt sick and vomited on several occasions. I also started having hot flushes, feeling like I was burning from the inside out. Kelly (Chaz’s step mum) brought me some ice cubes to suck on. These were a great help.

On the Sunday I pleaded for the doctor to let me go home. I had been there five nights. They agreed, so my son came to pick me up after his night shift. It was very painful and difficult to walk, so Chaz took me to the car in a wheelchair. He found this highly amusing! I surprised Wes as I had not told him I was coming home. He seemed genuinely pleased to see me; I think he had missed my non-stop talking…

In the following weeks I had visits from family and friends, and I tried to do a bit more each day. When Wes was on nights, I was lucky enough to be able to go and stay at my mum’s. I was totally exhausted. I was not sleeping due to hot flushes because the surgery had brought on surgical menopause. I felt dreadful but kept smiling. The only bonus was there was no more spending money on sanitary products.

These weeks were also a very difficult time whilst I waited for the results. I think I googled everything from ‘ruptured ovary’ to when I was able to become sexually active again! This latter issue was a worry because Wes and I had been together for a short time and we had enjoyed an active sex life as part of our very happy relationship. Thankfully all was good, and I seemed to be in working order.

I rang the hospital to chase up my results after two weeks had passed, but there was no news yet… Anytime a person told me, ‘no news is good news’, I felt I was going to scream.

Then I had a phone call asking me to go for an appointment. This was now four weeks since my surgery, so it must be ‘good news’ – right?

The day of the MRI arrived. I was a little nervous because I had heard all these horrid stories of how people had sometimes felt claustrophobic during the procedure. The staff were very friendly, and again made me feel at ease. Wes had given me a CD to listen to by Michael Kiwanuka. The staff gave me some headphones, and they played my chosen CD for me to listen to during the procedure. Even with my music on, the noise of the MRI machine was like a dentist’s drill – but louder. I concentrated on my breathing and closed my eyes. I tried to imagine being on a beach (the kind they had in Benidorm when the hotel next to the beach was getting built). The procedure took about half an hour. I was told my MRI results would be discussed at the next MDT (Multi-Disciplinary Meeting), which takes place weekly on a Wednesday.

Towards the end of the week I chased up the appointment with the consultant’s secretary. She told me no appointment had been made yet, but she believed that what I had were cysts, and that in her opinion this was most likely good news. It was so comforting to know that a secretary felt that her experience over the years, being the consultant’s PA, gave her the confidence and knowledge to inform me of this kind of positive news!

In the second week of December I was given an appointment to see the consultant in clinic.

Early December. MRI results day. Wes and I drove early to Telford (we needed matchsticks to keep our eyes open). Everyone was rooting for me; I had had numerous messages to say, ‘Thinking of you,’ from kind friends and family, who had taken a small moment to send me a much-appreciated text. We sat in the waiting room as people got called one by one.

Eventually my name was called. I felt sick to the stomach and my pulse was racing. I was introduced to both the consultant (she had smiley eyes) and the Clinical Nurse Specialist for the Gynaecology/Oncology team. The consultant discussed the results with me. It appeared that I had two pelvic masses, 22 cm size in total, and that one seemed fluid-filled. There were no issues with my lymph nodes. The consultant seemed very positive that there was no cancer, but she said it couldn’t be totally ruled out until the biopsy. The plan was surgery, but she would need a Colorectal Surgeon in theatre alongside her, and she would get me a date as soon as possible. I signed all the paperwork to consent to parts of my body being removed. The Clinical Nurse Specialist then took us next door to go into further detail about the surgery. She gave me some written information on the procedure and my hospital stay. She explained that even though they did not think I had cancer, I would remain under the care of the Oncology team as I had now been referred to them.

I had such mixed emotions at this point. So – I apparently did not have cancer now, so why had the registrar told me differently? Was it definitely him who had got it wrong? Surely it must be, as the ‘mass’ was the gynaecology consultant’s specialist field of work?

I sent a message to all those closest to me to tell them the good news. I still had a niggle in my mind that I could not explain to anyone, but everybody was really happy with the news.

I was now dealing with a new emotion; I was about to become half the woman I was. The procedure I was facing was a total abdominal hysterectomy. I did not want any more children and luckily neither did Wes (he was happy with his little man), but it was still a hard thing to accept, knowing that any choice would be taken away from you.

It was a very difficult situation to explain to friends, as everyone was ecstatic (so was I of course). I seemed to not have cancer anymore. But a full hysterectomy….? This was huge. Of course I started googling and reading about hysterectomies, and how you can put on weight, suffer with vaginal dryness, a reduced sex drive and mood swings… It all sounded so wonderful. Oh, how lucky I am to be female!

Feelings ran high with friends and family. People were angry with the registrar. They could not understand why he would say it was nasty; ‘How could do that and get away with it?’ But I just replied with, ‘He is human, he would never have said it if he didn’t believe it.’

I still had that niggling doubt – or was it just shock, going from believing I had cancer and hurting inside like never before, to now getting my head around the fact that apparently it was not cancer? I was scared to deal with this, as I was too angry to sit and think what I had been through in the last few weeks, all the thoughts and feelings I had had to deal with.

I returned to work on administration duties. I worked part-time using annual leave to enable me to do this. I looked as if I was about to give birth.  

I was in a lot of discomfort, I struggled to fit into my clothes, was hardly sleeping due to constantly needing to pee, and I was taking Codeine to keep the pain under control. Work was not the best atmosphere to be in either, due to ‘words’ having been had between myself and another member of staff before I went off. And I felt people were staring at my stomach; I wanted to scream, ‘No, I am not pregnant!’ The amusing part of this was when I went to the pub and had a few alcoholic drinks, with people looking at me in disgust… I did look like I was a pregnant lady getting drunk.

In December Wes and I enjoyed some evenings out and a night away in Liverpool with friends, Alina and Ade. I struggled through this month, but the happiness and the love I felt for Wes got me through, along with Chaz’s support. We had our first Christmas together and it was magical, and we also brought in the New Year together with a bottle of Prosecco and much laughter. I had very mixed feelings ‘bringing in the new year,’ as there was so much uncertainty. Needless to say, I don’t recall the walk home. Christmas however did not pass without sadness; my good friend lost her mum on Boxing Day, a cardiac case, and a terrible sadness.

On my return to work in January I was bigger than ever. I had wind pain and farts that I could knock a room out with. I was surprised they didn’t make my glasses steam up! Colleagues joked about the amount of sprouts I must have eaten. I really did begin to struggle. I usually arrived at work being really breathless. My manager sent me home and I took some ‘adhoc’ annual leave days. I chased the hospital to see if they had a date for my surgery as yet.

Eventually on January 13^th (lucky for some), I had a call to tell me my operation would be on the 17^th. Wes and I enjoyed a romantic break in Llandudno. On our way we visited friends, Cheryl and Nige. They gave us a bottle of Prosecco to take with us. We stayed in a big old hotel, and our room had a sea view. We had so much fun and laughter. We ended the evening sitting in a bus stop drinking our Prosecco out of plastic cups, looking out to sea. I felt so happy and content whenever I was with Wes, despite being in pain.

 

Cancer. The very word that took me away from my happy and comfortable life, a force that was greater than me, and one that I could not walk away from!

Before I go into that though, let me tell you a little bit about myself. I’m Carla, in my fourth decade of life (it’s rude to ask a lady her age!). I’m a mum to Chaz, whom I raised as a single parent. I have had a few career changes to fit in with having a young child at home. In 2013, I qualified as a general nurse, which was my dream job. Relationship-wise, I have always been a bit of a disaster. I have endured both physically and mentally abusive relationships, and had given up on love until I met Wes, my ‘knight in shining armour’ (he told me to type that). I had finally met the man that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. That saying that people have, “you just know when it’s the right the one,” I knew that about Wes. This relationship also came with some background noise from his Ex, and some extremely unpleasant communications. Wes is a kind caring man whom I had fallen in love with, and it was a two-way thing. Wes also has a son whom I had the privilege of meeting in January 2018, and whom I now have a very strong bond with.

It was November 2017. I had been off work following an incident that had brought back a traumatic time of domestic violence. I was also due to attend a Coroner’s Court following a death in my nursing career. It was a week before I was due back to work.

I had some abdominal bloating/swelling that I put down to stress from everything that was going on. Two days further on, I was unable to fasten my jeans and was in some discomfort. I phoned to try and get an appointment with my GP. We all know how difficult this is, and probably consider ourselves lucky if we can get past the receptionist and see a doctor within two weeks. I was able to get a telephone consultation – one of those amazing new systems where you can be diagnosed over the phone without so much as your pulse being taken. The GP called me. I explained my symptoms. He said that this kind of bloating was most definitely caused by constipation and wind. I explained that I had my bowels open that day and so did not believe that this was the problem, but what did I know it was after all just my body. The phone consultation ended with the GP advising me to go and get some Buscopan. Being a nurse myself, I knew this was pointless as I did not have spasm pain and this was buscopans main job.

Wes and I went to the local pub that evening for a quiz night. On the walk home, Wes was laughing at the way I was walking. We were both laughing really, but I said to him that I couldn’t walk properly as my back was in agony. The following day, still in discomfort, I tried to get an appointment at the GP surgery. I was offered another phone consultation. I declined it, as I felt this was completely pointless. So I took myself off to the Walk In Centre The doctor said he could feel a mass in my lower abdominal area but was very unsure as to what this could be. He decided to refer me to the Surgical Assessment Unit because of my history of Peutz-Jeghers Syndrome. I knew the nurse and she was very friendly, taking my observations and apologising in advance for the wait ahead, as we both knew too well that the area was very busy and under-staffed. I spent 4 hours in their waiting room where Wes joined me. Eventually we saw the registrar who had spoken with the consultant, and they wanted me to have a CT but this could not be organised until the following morning. They gave me the choice to stay as an Inpatient or to return the next morning. I chose to return the next morning.

8am Saturday morning. Wes dropped me off (with my book) at the unit in preparation for another uncomfortable and long wait.

I went for a CT after an hour and half. I knew most of the staff in this area, having worked in this hospital as a nurse. Everybody was really cheerful and made me feel at ease. The CT involved a small cannula in the back of my hand where the radiology staff would insert a dye in order to do the procedure. It gave a strange feeling to my body, like a ‘Ready Brek glow’ feeling, and made me feel that I would pee my pants.

Following the procedure it was back to the waiting room with my book whilst I waited to see the registrar. One of the nurses came into the waiting room to inform us that the surgeons had been called to theatre and there would be delays in us being seen. (I did not know that this was to be a blessing in disguise otherwise I would of been alone when called through). Wes came back to the hospital to meet me after having spent the morning with his son.

After 5 hours we were called to go to the consultation room. I felt sick when I realised it was the Registrar and the sister in charge of the shift, because in my nursing career this usually meant bad news. All of sudden I had gone from ‘nurse’ to ‘patient.’ The registrar introduced himself, and the sister I already knew. He was a cheerful and polite man. He started with the words, ‘I am sorry…’ My head started spinning, and my heart was beating fast and loud. I could feel tears stinging my eyes, as he said, ‘You have an ovarian tumour and I believe it to be nasty…’ I did not really hear anything else he said…. The sister brought us the standard cup of tea that supposedly makes the British feel better; you become the privileged patient when it’s bad news, as your tea is served in china cups with a saucer!  I had so many questions flying round my head. Could he be wrong? Has he read someone else’s results by mistake? How was I going to tell my family, my son..? Wes held me tight whilst we both shed some tears in a silence that was deafening.

Eventually I was able to bring myself to ask further questions and what the plan would be. I was told that I would be referred to the gynaecologists as an urgent patient. I told them I had a four-day break away with my partner, and that I planned to still go – I had a feeling that I was going to need this break. My son Chaz joined us in the room as he also worked within the hospital. For one of the first times ever I was stuck for words. Wes could see that I was struggling, so he told Chaz what had been said. Chaz was very quiet and said he needed to go and that he would see me later. He had very recently lost his Nan on his Dad’s side to cancer.

We left the building with a prescription in hand and sat in the car. We decided how to handle the situation. How could I tell my friends? This was not really the thing you could just text somebody, and could I really be sure this was cancer? I rang my friend Sharon to tell her, and her reaction was of shock and sadness and I realised that this was one of the most difficult conversations I had ever had (worse than breaking that boy’s heart at the age of 18). I asked Sharon if she would tell Jeanette and Claire for me, which she did without question. Stacey and Alina had already texted me to see how I was. I met them both at Stacey’s house to explain to them (as best I could) what had been said to me. Wes left me to spend some time with my friends whilst he went to collect my prescription (and to have some reflection time for himself). I told Alina and Stace, and they were both visibly upset. I just wanted to take their pain away. I stayed for a while and played with the boys, whilst hoping I would be around long enough to see them grow up. There was a funny atmosphere in the room; although there was laughter from the play, there was what I can only think goes with the saying about an ‘elephant in the room.’

I messaged Chaz’s step-mum. She has a close relationship with my son. I told her what had been said and asked if she could kindly make sure Chaz was okay. I knew he would find it hard talking to me as we are so close – more like best friends than mother and son. I also knew he had struggled watching his Dad’s pain when he lost his own mum earlier that year.

Now it was time to go to my mum’s house, where I was also meeting my friends Sarah and Will. (They were another family that had suffered cancer, Will losing his dad to the disease at a young age). The journey to mum’s seemed to take forever. My mind was working overtime – how was I possibly going to tell my mum?

It was again an extremely difficult conversation, clearly causing devastation. This was so difficult; I am used to being the kind person, the person that helped people when they felt sad, tried to make people smile. Now here I was making people feel sad. My mum was clearly in shock, and angry with the situation, and wanted me ‘to be seen now!’ To which I simply replied that we both knew that is not how the NHS worked, and that I was going on my planned break to Spain as I needed to get away and reflect.

The next was a phone call to my Dad and Karen as they lived a two-hour drive away. Dad answered the phone, and again it was another very hard conversation. Normally our conversation just flows, but I could hear in my dad’s voice that this was difficult for him to take. But he tried to remain as upbeat as he could for me.

The next few days all seemed to roll into one. We went off to Spain for our mini break. We were really lucky because the weather was so beautiful – just what the doctor ordered!! We managed to have fun, and we did our best to push that ‘dark cloud’ away as far as possible.

I returned home to a discharge summary from the Surgical Assessment Unit. It stated that I had a 10 cm mass in my lower abdominal area, and another lesion to the right of this, which was 6 cm by 6 cm. I had not been informed about the second lesion although my discharge summary stated I had. I had still received no date for my MRI. I had to chase this up. Eventually, after much pestering, I got a date for the end of November. It became a very busy and emotional month; Coroner’s Court, a very angry ‘ex’ still in the background, and me awaiting the MRI and results…….