A Number Is Worth a Thousand Words

I have always liked numbers. I hate maths, do not get me wrong – but numbers themselves are comforting. Counting makes sense. Keeping track makes sense.

I like to see numbers. Work out how many days, how many hours, how much time I spend doing this or that.

And when I am particularly anxious, when I struggle to get my brain to rest, I count. I take notes. And I write down the numbers that made up my cancer journey.

538 days since diagnosis.
473 days since my hysterectomy.

Two days until my next check up.
117 days since the last one.

Type 1.
Stage 1.
Grade 1.

31 hospital appointments so far.
Five hospitals.
Two counties.

Four appointments, three hospitals in the next ten days.

146 phone calls.

Nine gynaecologists.
Two nights in the hospital.

Nine blood tests.
Two ultrasounds.
One X-ray.
Two MRIs.
One biopsy.
One operation.

Two ovaries, two tubes, one womb.
No ovaries. No tubes. No womb.

Five Macmillan nurses.

Three therapists.
One clinical psychologist.
17 appointments to discuss my mental health.

Three prescriptions I take daily.

Six panic attacks in the last three days.
Nine unrelated episodes of tears.

One in 36 women in the UK.
Over 26 cases every day.
3% of all cancers in the UK.
The fourth most common cancer in women.

90% chance of surviving the cancer for over 5 years.

World Cancer Day

Today was World Cancer Day. A day to celebrate those who won, remember those we lost, support those who are still fighting and give hope to those who will fight in the future. A day to raise awareness and stop being afraid.

It was a long day. I woke up in pain from the physical repercussions of my low oestrogen levels. I had my first counselling session. I cried hot, burning tears. I had flash-back. I said words I had never said out loud. I took another step towards recovery.

On this day, we all have a part to play. Whether it is taking care of your own body, paying attention to the signs, raising awareness, remembering a friend, making a donation towards cancer research, saying a kind word to a loved one fighting cancer, driving someone to an appointment or listening to someone’s story – it all matters.

And on this day, I am grateful to everyone who has been part of my cancer journey, however big or small your contribution was. Thank you. It all matters.

New Year, New Challenges

There are similarities in the way I rang in the new year those last two years. Same group of friends (minus a few members), same no-drinking policy, same hope for a better year ahead. Minor differences – this time we were in France and had a seemingly unlimited supply of face masks and hand sanitizer. We played games, ate too much and had a chilled, fun-filled evening.

But instead of the fireworks of 2020, 2021 started with a panic attack and hot, burning tears.

I had felt them coming. I had had a few scary moments throughout the evening, moments where I lost touch with reality and slipped into my own mind. Moments when, unable to cope with two many conversations around me (and there were still only six of us), I retreated back into myself, into the mind that used to be my refuge, but has since become booby-trapped with dangerous thoughts.

After a year spent mostly in isolation, I had no idea how I would react to being around people constantly. Over the last three weeks, as I got reacquainted with my family and friends, it proved a challenge.

How do you talk to people who know of your vulnerability, but have not experienced it, witnessed it first-hand? How do you broach an entire year of physical and mental struggles with people who have only known you at your best, healthy self?

As usual, I pretended everything was fine. Most people are comfortable with that, that is what they are expecting. Most of my friends did not ask any follow-up questions. I managed to see both my parents and only mention the word ‘cancer’ a handful of times at most. They were not interested, they were avoiding the subject. It probably made them more comfortable to ignore the issue, so I pretended to do the same.

My mental health struggles, I was not able to hide as well. I felt down at times, which my friends noticed. I realised that confrontation, arguments and aggressive debates automatically sent me into a panic spiral. I cannot deal with conflict anymore – and in a family setting, conflict is sure to arise at some point, particularly if my brothers get started on politics. I guess I needed to experience it to learn of my new limits. I was given plenty of opportunities to test them, and I did not disappoint. Or rather, I did.

Big personalities make me feel small and inadequate. I used to be like that, and now I feel invisible. I no longer have the strength to battle for what I think, so I disappear in group conversations.

I do not want to disappear, but I also constantly feel like I am not enough. Like I am a hindrance, rather than a help. Like I am imposing myself on others, just by being there, by taking up space, quietly, without contributing much. I feel like I am a bother, like people do not want or need me around.

I struggle to make decisions. Weirdly enough, it does not affect me much at work, in a setting where I know I have to make calls as part of my job. But choosing between five different types of tea, what room I want to sleep in, or deciding what music we should listen to, all of that sends me into a panic.

It all culminated at New Year’s. Too many people around, too many different things to pay attention to, too many small decisions – where do you want to sit, what do you want to drink, which conversation do you want to listen to, too many things to look at and people to smile at. I could not keep the pretense long enough and I crumbled.

There were so many thoughts in my head at midnight. How everyone was hoping for a better year, even if quietly and without much confidence it would happen. I find it difficult to hope, to think about the future, which is what New Year is about. Closing the door on a terrible year, and leaping into a new, unknown one. To me, that sounds terrifying. 365 more days, and any one of them could bring terrible news and things.

Seeing people around me being happy is hard – it reminds me of how much I have changed, how I used to be one of them. It draws me into a downward spiral – I feel guilty about being down, about not being able to enjoy a few hours with my friends when I have the opportunity. My guilt transforms into shame, into self-hatred. Panic and tears settle in.

When it finally happened, just after midnight, it was not pretty. I withdrew into a dark room and let my tears flow, my breathing returning to normal after a good twenty minutes. It was my first panic attack of 2021, but I already know it will not be the last.

Last year, my only New Year resolution was to beat cancer. It was a worrying time, but the goal was clear, and could be achieved with medical procedures and treatment. This year, I do not have any resolutions, but I have challenges I want to reach and win. Feeling more confident. Achieving things and enjoying small victories. Letting go of the guilt. Allowing myself to shine and be myself, proudly and unapologetically. Having fun, saying goodbye to doubts and worries, and not being afraid to be happy.

The Ghost of Cancer Past

I woke up this morning in my mother’s guest room at home, a kitten biting at my bare feet, head pounding.

My first conscious thought was that I really should close my bedroom door. The second one was that today was the one-year anniversary of the actual operation.

365 (well, 366 – obviously 2020 had to be a leap year) days since life-changing surgery. A year ago, at the time I am writing this, I still had a womb. I still had ovaries. I still had cancer.

I would be lying if I said I did not feel a sense of loss. But strangely enough, it is not only the loss of my reproductive organs that I feel today. I also mourn the fact that this is the second-to-last one-year anniversary that I will have on my cancer journey. Today, and then all that is left is the 13th of January, the one-year anniversary of the final staging, the day I was told that for all intents and purposes, and as far as doctors could tell, there was no trace of cancer in my body. I was in remission.

For a year, I have clung onto these dates, the small anniversaries of each step in my cancer journey. They were frightening, I dreaded them, each one more intense than the previous one. But I also found comfort in them. I reached milestones. No matter how hard those days were, they made me realise I was moving forward. They helped me retrace my journey and let go of feelings I did not know I have.

Tomorrow, I will not be able to say ‘I had surgery less than a year ago’. I will not be able to use it as an excuse for however I am feeling.

In four weeks, I will not have any more one-year anniversaries to celebrate. It is daunting. It feels like I am losing a timeline that helped me stay anchored for the past year.

I did not expect to feel that way, I did not even expect that I would think about those anniversaries coming to an end. I am discovering more aspects of my grief every day.

Am I looking forward to being free of those dates? Will things get easier when I do not wake up each day knowing exactly what I was doing a year ago? Will I rejoice in the fact that, come mid-January, I will no longer associate each day with memories of cancer?

I will not blow a candle today. I will not celebrate the birth of my new womb-free, cancer-free body. But I will light a fire in the living room (I am not turning into an arsonist – there is a fireplace), and let it consume a year’s worth of memories and grief for the organs I no longer have.

One Year On: We Are in the Clear

If I had any energy left after my one-year follow-up appointment this afternoon, I would probably blow up some balloons and put them up in my flat.

It was hard. My eyes are raw from crying. I used about two boxes of tissues – one in the waiting room and one in the exam room.

I cried in front of the receptionist. I cried in front of the nurse who checked my height and weight. I cried in front of the doctor, and I cried in front of the cancer nurse specialist.

Follow-up appointments are rough. You can go about your life for months, but you know that everything could change in a matter of seconds, in that same room where you first got the news. The. Exact. Same. Room.

I had a new doctor again, who asked me plenty of questions about how I was diagnosed, how it came to be, what tests were done, how thick the lining of my uterus had been on the MRI scan (I have no idea). As I was battling my way through my tears, she told me it was ok to cry. It was ok to be overwhelmed, to be traumatised. She told me that I had gone through a lot for someone so young – terribly young, and she could say that because we were exactly the same age.

I do not know why that comment struck me as odd. Why of all the things she said, that is the one that stayed with me.

But it is all said and done now. A quick exam, a lot of background info, a chat about any symptoms I could have had, an inventory of the medication I am on, and I have been declared cancer-free, until my next appointment in four months.

I will have more to say in the coming days. About how they told me if things remained the same, I would be discharged after one more year, instead of four. About how my dedicated nurse was self-isolating so I was not able to speak to her, but arranged a phone catch-up in a couple of weeks to discuss my ongoing mental health problems.

For now though, I will crawl under the covers, put a good audiobook on and try and get some much needed rest. I may order a celebratory takeaway later, making up for the fact I have had maybe 4 meals in the last 6 days. I will make myself a hot chocolate and put the Christmas lights on.

In the wise words of Adore Delano – Party.

From Diagnosis to Surgery – Part 2

After the surgery was cancelled, I probably hit one of the lowest points of my life. I was completely spent, both physically due to the lack of sleep, and emotionally due to… Everything.

I had marked the day in my diary. I had really focussed all my energy on holding up until the third of December, on pushing all my feelings aside, on staying strong. And when that day turned out to be just another day of limbo, another day where I still had cancer, I crumbled.

The day after the cancelled surgery, my father left. He was concerned, but I kept reassuring him that I was going to be fine. What I really wanted was to be alone, to lie in bed in the dark and wallow. I had never been one for wallowing – I am usually restless, and the thought of doing nothing gives me anxiety. But for the first time of my life, I wanted to do nothing, think about nothing and just let the hours and days pass.

I had to call work, explain what had happened. I actually cannot remember how I did it. Maybe I emailed my manager, maybe I phoned her – I have absolutely no recollection of that. All I remember is her telling me not to come into work that week, but to stay home and take care of myself.

I did not, not at first. About an hour after my dad left, my phone rang. One of the doctors on my team, the one who had been with the surgeon the day before, was calling to ask me how I was doing, and to confirm the date when the surgery would finally happen. I apologised for breaking into tears and falling apart the day before, I apologised on behalf of my father for him having lost his cool, she apologised on behalf of the hospital for not having been able to perform the surgery I was so looking forward to.

She reassured me that nothing would change in the two and a bit weeks until the new surgery day. The cancer would not grow, it would not spread, the prognosis would not suddenly worsen. I felt like I could breathe a little bit better. But then she stopped, and told me that unfortunately, I would have to have another MRI.

They cannot, or will not, operate on a patient without an MRI dated less than six weeks. Mine expired two days after the date of the original surgery. Delaying it by two weeks meant I would have to take another one. Just that thought made me lose it again altogether. I was in tears on the phone, I could not wait to hang up and slip under my blanket again. She told me I would receive a letter informing me of the appointment for the scan, and that she would see me a couple of weeks later.

Despite her reassurance that everything would be fine, that it was unlikely that the cancer had spread further, I was terrified again. In my head, there was still a chance the new MRI would show some significant change. A part of me understood that it was a just formality, that it was something they had to do to comply with their stringent processes, not because they were particularly worried. But another part of me was convinced that if they needed a more recent scan in order to carry out the surgery, it meant that there was a possibility that things had changed. And knowing my luck, the odds would be that it had gone against everyone’s expectations, yet again.

I spent the rest of the week at home, watching TV shows and doing the Christmas crafts I had planned for my recovery. On the Friday and Saturday, I went to the gym a total of five times. I had had a sudden regain of energy, and I could not sit still. And then, it was time to go back to work for the last ten days of the year.

It felt wrong to be back at work, but it felt good to be able to focus on something. I fielded questions about why I had been away the week before, and why I was back when I had told everyone I would be away for the rest of the year. My mind was half there, half on the surgery – the one that was cancelled and the one that was still to come.

The MRI was scheduled for that week. The friend who had been coming to most of my appointments drove me there again – another nice little trip to Oxford. This time, it took three members of staff and 30 minutes to locate a vein and place a cannula into my arm to inject the muscle relaxant and contrasting agent needed for the scan. It took so long that when I emerged from the prep room, my friend thought we were done with the MRI and got up. But no, they were simply taking me from one end of the ward to the other to carry out the actual scan.

No music this time – different hospital, different processes. I had earplugs. I closed my eyes, and in I went. Each cycle of the machine to take a scan seemed to last longer than the last. I felt nauseous, I had trouble breathing but they kept telling me to try and stay still, to breathe as calmly as possible so as not to blur the images. Finally, someone came into the room to let me know I was done. I turned around and sat up, putting my feet on the floor. I felt faint as soon as I started standing up, and had to sit back down. They tell you that you should not drive for an hour after being injected with muscle relaxant. I do not know if that was linked, but it took me over five minutes to be able to get up and walk back into the waiting room.

The next two weeks went by very slowly, and extremely fast as well. Work was busy. I managed to attend the Christmas party for our whole company, which is usually a huge bash that I barely remember the next day. This time, I was not drinking, but it went by in a flash. I was the sober friend dancing the night away.

At the weekend, I met up with a group of friends and went to the Oxford Christmas market. It felt almost incongruous to be in Oxford for something that was not cancer-related. It was all I could think about. There, in the midst of my friends who were chatting about their Christmas plans and theirs wishes for the New Year, I felt out of place. I felt so detached from everything that was happening around me. It felt like I was watching the world go past, do its own thing, and I was just there, witnessing it all without taking part. I did not know what my Christmas would be like, nor did I know what I could expect for the months and years to come.

My mum had made plans to come and stay with me for that second surgery. She would then stay all the way through Christmas, when my brothers would join us for a few days, before they all left on Boxing Day. Then, a couple of my uni friends would come and stay until New Year’s Day. It felt good to have plans, to have a schedule to look forward to once the operation was over. I had no idea how I would feel, whether I would be able to walk, but I knew I would have people with me.

The day before the surgery, I was off work again. I met my mum in London – she was coming by public transport, and I did not want to let her loose on the tube – who knows what could have happened. We had lunch in London, and then took the train back to mine. I laughed at how she struggled to walk up the hill from the train station to my place. For over a year, she had made fun of me for being overdramatic about living at the top of a steep hill. Well, that served you right, mum.

I had been told to be at the hospital at 7am, as soon as it opened. I was first on the list for that day, so there would be no delays. We took a taxi to Oxford, I was watching the sun rise outside the windows. We arrived early (very out of character for me), and walked into the hospital. This time, I knew the shortest way to get to the surgery ward. I knew which turns to take, which papers to present to the nurse behind the desk. Christmas decorations were up, and the bell stuck to the front of the desk kept falling to the floor. I picked it up a couple of times whilst we waited.

I was called in for them to check a few details – I confirmed I had not eaten since the previous night, and all I had had for breakfast was a glass of water. They put hospital bracelets on my wrists – the same ones I had had two weeks previously, and which I had torn away from my arms on the way home. They told me the surgery would probably start around 10-10.30, after the surgeon had visited the wards. I spoke with the anaesthetist again – a different one to the one I had seen before. I had to take a pregnancy test – the last one of my life. It felt ridiculous but also so meaningful.

I went back to the waiting room, prepared to wait for a long time. But they called me back in almost immediately, to meet the team that would handle the surgery. This felt like the moment of truth. We were in the exact same room where they had cancelled the surgery before. But this time, it was different. The doctors were not the same. This time, it was the right one. I signed consent forms, I confirmed I understood everything and I was ready for it. And then, they asked me to change into a hospital gown, put on my dressing gown and slippers. I left my suitcase with them and a nurse gave me a bag in which we would put the belongings I still had with me. And then she told me to go back to the waiting room whilst they prepared everything.

I went back and sat down next to my mum. We chatted for a while. It was nowhere near 10am, so I assumed we still had still some time left. But after a few minutes, a nurse came in and asked me to follow her. I turned to my my mum, I did not quite know what to say. The nurse must have understood, because she said ‘Oh, is that your mum? Come on, give her a hug!’.

I am not a hugger. I cannot remember ever hugging my parents – I am sure I must have done but not in the last fifteen years, at least. I hesitated, but then said ‘Oh, we’re not really like that.’ I keep thinking about that moment. My mum probably would have liked a hug, but she did not say it. So I nodded, and probably said something meaningless.

I followed the nurse through the door. I could see someone rolling my suitcase to the lockers where it would stay until I woke up, and I realised at that point that my phone was still in the pocked of my dressing gown. I ran to give it to them – I guess I needed to do one last silly thing before the surgery.

I remember walking down a long corridor, past a number of closed and open doors. They had told me it would be cold but I think the adrenaline running through my veins made it impossible for me to feel it. We arrived into the room where they would put me under. It was not what I expected. There was a hospital bed for me to lie on. Lots of medical equipment. A second nurse, and the anaesthetist.

My memories there are quite vague. They needed to put a cannula in my arm, for administering medications and fluids. I remember telling them about my fine veins, and them saying they would put it in the back of my hand anyway so it did not matter. I remember thinking how odd it was, to have something stuck in my hand like that. Over ten months later, I still have the scar on my hand. It is a tiny, round scar. No-one else can see it, but as I sit writing this, I stare at it. It is the first scar I got as a result of my cancer.

I have no idea how they administered the anaesthetic. They tell you that your brain stores traumatic events away, that you have a selective memory for these moments you could have done without. This is where my pre-surgery memories end.

Getting Diagnosed

Most people in the UK get their diagnosis through the ‘Two-Week Wait’ referral. Mine took eight months.

  • FEBRUARY 2019

    I registered with a GP for the first time since moving house the year before. I had mentioned to friends I was not registered with a GP and they were appalled and convinced me to do it – just in case something happened.

  • MARCH 2019

    Once I was registered, I booked a routine check-up, just to see how things were. I mentioned my irregular periods to my GP – at that point, I had them every couple of months, sometimes they were even more spaced out. My GP was not concerned, and told me I showed signs of PCOS – Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, a very common condition that affects many women in a lot of different ways.

  • APRIL 2019

    A blood test confirmed my hormone levels were a bit all over the place. There are three main symptoms for PCOS: irregular periods (check), abnormal hormone levels and polycystic ovaries. You only need to have two of those three to be diagnosed with PCOS. A blood test confirmed my hormone levels were a bit all over the place. My GP had also referred me for an ultrasound, to check for symptom number three.

  • JUNE 2019

    I went for the ultrasound – I had always thought ultrasounds were for pregnant women only. The ultrasound technician was very friendly, and by the questions she asked me, I could tell the ultrasound was confirming the diagnosis. I had to wait a week or so for the results, which then came through a phone call from my GP: the ultrasound had confirmed the diagnosis, I officially had PCOS. However, the ultrasound had also picked up on a small abnormality in my womb, which seemed to suggest a blood clot (from irregular periods) or a small benign polyp. I was told to have another ultrasound after six weeks – if it was a blood clot, it was likely to have disappeared by then. If it was a polyp, then I could be referred to a gynaecologist to remove it – very common again, and not worth worrying about.

  • JULY 2019

    I went for my second ultrasound. The lady who did the examination was not as calm and reassuring as the first one. She mentioned she could see an abnormality, which she believed could be a polyp, or could be endometrial hyperplasia, which is a thickening of the lining of the womb. It is fairly common, especially in women with PCOS, and in some cases can lead to cancer after many years. In other cases, it is completely benign, and might resolve on its own without treatment.

  • AUGUST 2019

    I came back from a week of holiday to a couple of letters from my GP. One was a request to call back to arrange an appointment with the GP, the other one was a request to arrange a gynaecologist appointment at the local hospital. I went online immediately and booked the first available slot at the hospital, which was on the 15th of October. I rang the GP and made an appointment, she explained that she had referred me to the hospital as the abnormality they had spotted back in June was still there, and I should hear from them soon. Well, that had already happened and as usual, I had not done things in the correct order.

  • SEPTEMBER 2019

    What a month! Between an attempted burglary and a 10-day trip to New York, I received a letter from the hospital asking me to come in for a hysteroscopy ahead of my appointment in October. The appointment was scheduled for a Thursday in the middle of my trip to the US, so I called to rearrange it and pushed it back to the 30th of September, a couple of days after my return. The hospital was very arranging – it felt like there was no urgency at all.

    The hysteroscopy happened and all I can say is – not a pleasant experience at all. The doctor performing the procedure spoke to me, explaining what she was going to do and what the expected findings were. She mentioned the possibility of endometrial hyperplasia, which could be either benign or pre-cancerous. If it looked like the abnormality was a polyp, she would try and remove it – if it was too large, we would have to schedule another appointment. If it looked like endometrial hyperplasia, she would need to take a biopsy and send it for testing.

    She carried out the procedure and I would not wish it on my worst enemy. It is painful. She was showing me on a screen what was happening, and mentioned that it looked abnormal, like a lot of little polyps, too many for her to remove. She took a biopsy. She reassured me – if it was atypical endometrial hyperplasia, it would be at a very early stage and would take years to develop into cancer, and it could be monitored and treated to make sure that did not happen. It was easily reversed, either getting better on its own with lifestyle changes, or with treatment. She told me the results would come through in about two to three weeks.

  • 15TH OCTOBER 2019

    Because the biopsy had been taken only two weeks earlier, when I walked into the hospital that morning, I wondered whether they would have the results already or whether it would end up being a pointless appointment and I would be asked to come back in the following week. My appointment was at 9am. At 9.10, the doctor called my name. I stood up and shook his hand, he brought me into an exam room. I sat down, he sat opposite me at his desk. He asked if I knew what the appointment was about, I said I was a bit unsure, since I did not know whether the results from the biopsy would be back yet, and I had booked that appointment before being asked to come in for a hysteroscopy… I was babbling. He stopped me and told me that they had the results. He told me that unfortunately, the results were not good. They were not what anyone had expected. He told me that they had done tests to see whether the endometrial hyperplasia was ‘normal’ or atypical. And unfortunately, it had progressed further than just atypical. It had progressed further than anyone could have predicted. He told me he had to be blunt. We were talking about cancer.

    Whilst I was sitting there, in shock, he told me it should not have been him delivering the news. That he had no interest in gynaecology oncology. That because I already had this ‘routine’ appointment booked, it had fallen on him to give me the news. Normally, they would have arranged for me to see an oncology specialist, they would have made sure there was a Macmillan nurse with them, they would have asked me to bring someone in with me if I felt like I needed some support. I will write a full post about this appointment, as I think it moulded my perception of my diagnosis, and accounts for a lot of the anxiety and PTSD I have to this day. For now, I will just say that he asked me if I wanted him to arrange an appointment with the specialist team the following day. Obviously, I did.

  • 16TH OCTOBER 2019

    My appointment with the specialist team was in the afternoon. I went to work in the morning, and a friend drove me to the hospital and waited with me for the doctor to call my name. When we walked into her office, I sat down and she gave me the official diagnosis. The biopsy had revealed cancer cells. They believed it showed Grade 2 lesions. They were hopeful it would be very early-stage, probably Stage 1, where the majority of endometrial cancers are being diagnosed, but that would only be confirmed after the surgery. In the meantime, I would have to attend MRIs and X-Rays to make sure the cancer had not progressed locally or spread to the rest of my body.

    I was officially a cancer patient.

I will write a different post about the phase between the original diagnosis and the confirmed staging in January 2020, three and a half weeks after surgery. This timeline shows the time it took for me to first get diagnosed, after going through a number of tests and appointments where I was diagnosed with various conditions (which I did have, to be fair), and reassured it would not be cancer. Had it crossed my mind it could be? Of course it had. But I trusted the professional opinions of various health professionals with a lot of experience. Sometimes though, things do not go the way anyone expects them to.

The Post That Started It All

Although I have always loved writing, I had never thought of writing a blog to share my experience. One the eve of the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis, I decided I wanted to share my experience with people, and wrote and shared a long facebook post. The response I received was overwhelming. People reaching out, comments about how much they related, how much they appreciated that I had shared that with them. I realised that not only had sharing this post lifted a weight off my chest, but it had helped others as well. And overnight, the idea to start a blog came to me, and I decided to make the jump. The post below is taken from the message I wrote on that night, the 14th of October 2020.

If you know me, you probably know I am not a fan of feelings.

They are unpredictable, they are messy, they make you vulnerable, they are overwhelming. I am uncomfortable experiencing them, let alone talking about them or sharing them on facebook.

I have been thinking about it a lot this past year.

A year ago, if you had asked me where I would be in a year, I probably would have given you some positive, commonplace and deliberately hopeful answer, like ‘oh, I hope I have my life together, a good job, a boyfriend, maybe a new flat, I will have made some progress with my writing, started a small calligraphy business, who knows.’

Well, let’s be honest, it turned out slightly differently.

Tomorrow morning, I will wake up and it will have been a year since I was given a diagnosis of cancer. A year since I first cried in front of friends, family, and strangers (I will make an exception for all those times I cried when I was drunk before – it does not count), and since I started doing it most days, because it is often the easiest answer to the question ‘how are you doing?’. Crying is not a feeling, and it is all my feelings at once.

I truly thought that when the dreaded one year mark would come up, I would be feeling all positive, ready to put it all behind me. After all, the prognosis was extremely good, the operation went well, I am expected to make a full recovery, recurrence is fairly unlikely.

But then, cancer had been very unlikely too.

A year is the perfect moment to turn the page on everything that has happened. A new chapter, a new beginning, that is what everyone has been saying, and I have too. Only, I have been lying.

I still cry every day, and that is not likely to magically change from tomorrow. I think about it every day, I think about the exact moment, at 9.10 in the morning, when I saw the first of scores of doctors. I cannot remember the name of the surgeon who operated on me, or the nurse who chatted to me whilst I was recovering, but I can remember the name of the doctor who gave me the news, telling me he was not supposed to be the one to tell me, as he had no interest in oncology, that it should have been done differently, not at a routine appointment, that he wished he was not the one delivering these news, that they should have asked for someone to come with me, that they did not because they did not expect it, that they did not even have a specialist nurse available.

I did not cry, even as he explained what the treatment would involve, and what it meant for the rest of my life. I asked if I could call someone. I had no idea who I was going to call. I could not even think straight, but I was obsessed with the idea that I had to save face, that I would not cry in front of him. They set me up in a quiet room with a cup of tea – even asked me what kind of tea I wanted. I took out my phone and without hesitating, I called my mum.

And then I started crying.

I have not stopped. I cry in the mornings, I cry when I make a cup of tea, I cry when I look at my scars, I cry when I think about the plans I had a year ago.

I am not turning the page, I am continuing to write on a scroll that only gets longer and longer, and that is ok too.

I have had the best support over the past year. Friends, family, colleagues, housemates, Macmillan nurses, everyone has been fantastic.

I still do not like feelings. I do not talk about them, but I have started writing them down, in the hope that in the future, I will be able to make sense of them, and help someone else like people have helped me.

I will continue saying I am fine when you ask me how I am doing.

And one day, it will be true.