The post I never wanted to write
20 May 2012 141 Comments
Sadly it’s not Ellie writing this post but Tom. Many people will already have heard the news that Ellie passed away in the early hours of May 18th after a 9-day stay at James Cook hospital in Middlesbrough.
The last few weeks were tough; before Ellie started her final course of chemo we had high hopes that the GemCarbo would have a significant impact, but it was soon evident from little lumps and bumps popping up on Ellie’s chest that it wasn’t having the required effect. The first two doses had already taken their toll on Ellie’s body, reducing her platelet count and leaving her with little energy even to move from the bedroom to the living room.
Despite this, Ellie’s indefatigable spirit and relentless optimism meant that she refused to allow the debilitating physical effects to deny her a possible lifesaving dose of the drug, but the third cycle would prove too much. Walking any kind of distance was becoming harder every day and even travelling to the train station was too great a challenge, so I drove her to North Yorkshire where she wanted to continue making wedding preparations with her mum.
It was soon clear to her family that Ellie needed proper medical care, but even after she went into hospital we all hoped it would be a question of an energy-boosting blood transfusion giving her the strength to carry on; we were still talking about moving house and rearranging a holiday to Crete we had postponed because of the hospital stay.
The nurses at James Cook were – and still are – a remarkable bunch. Ellie was a reluctant guest at several hospitals over the past year and while we’ve almost always found the nursing staff friendly and efficient, the team on Ward 14 really went that extra mile for her, myself and the rest of Ellie’s family. It probably didn’t do them any harm in Ellie’s eyes that they all admired her engagement ring too.
After a few days in the hospital we were given the devastating news that all they could offer was palliative care, that Ellie’s liver was too damaged to be able to save her and that it was simply a matter of managing the pain. She’d already had a lung drained of fluid to help her laboured breathing, and it was traumatic to see her suffer so every shot of morphine that eased her pain was just as much a relief for those of us by her side.
Everything happened so much more quickly than we had anticipated. When the doctors told us just a few days before Ellie died that she wouldn’t last until the wedding date I debated trying to arrange a wedding in the hospital. However, being on so much pain medication had caused Ellie to drift in and out of lucidity, making it hard to gauge her true feelings on the matter; occasionally she would acknowledge the lack of time remaining and the next she would be arranging plans for the wedding guests to go for a walk on the beach the day after the ceremony.
During one of her periods of clarity I asked her if she wanted to get married on the ward; she instinctively said no – she didn’t want to be wheeled up the aisle. I’m not sure if she realized that we wouldn’t get the chance to have the wedding she had so beautifully planned, but either way I knew that I didn’t want to put something last minute together that would bear no resemblance to the wonderful occasion she wanted. While we desperately wanted to marry each other, we didn’t need any old ceremony to validate our love. Our lives were utterly entwined, and whatever happens from now on I’ll always regard Ellie as my life partner.
Ellie’s close family and I have all received so many touching messages from friends and extended relatives. She was one of those remarkable people who have the ability to make others feel special just by talking to them. In social situations people would gravitate towards her and she had a truly unique ability to disarm anyone; she was a kind of personality Jedi – anyone who interacted with her was utterly charmed.
The clichéd numbness that accompanies bereavement is mixed in with regular waves of sorrow, but despite this I am determined to continue Ellie’s legacy. I know from everyone who has commented on the positive effects of reading her blog that Ellie has touched the lives of many people who weren’t lucky enough to know her in person as well as those of us who were.
On Ellie’s behalf I would like to thank everyone who has read the blog, and those who have left comments of encouragement. I hope that despite Ellie’s untimely death people can continue to derive benefit from reading it and I plan to look into the possibility of publishing it as a reading aid for those living with cancer, their loved ones and of course the medical professionals treating cancer patients.
We also have many people to thank for their kindness and help in the course of Ellie’s own treatment. We will be making a collection at Ellie’s funeral for Ward 14 of James Cook University Hospital and we would also like to invite anyone who feels they can afford it to make a donation to either of the following two organisations that helped Ellie: Maggie’s and Action Against Cancer.
https://mydonate.bt.com/fundraisers/ellieactionagainstcancer
https://mydonate.bt.com/fundraisers/elliemaggies
I’m not going to close the blog immediately as I’d also like to post a handful of photos of Ellie and possibly a video (should I work out how to!) but for now I’d like to finish this post by sharing with you all a draft of my wedding speech which I wrote in the hospital when we still hoped things would work out. I read it to Ellie on the last day of her amazing life and although she was drifting in and out of consciousness I’d desperately like to think that she heard and enjoyed it.
In the time we were together she was everything to me and although right now things seem incredibly bleak I know that my life is much richer for having known and loved her.
****************************************************************************
Wedding Speech
Ladies, gentlemen and of course my amazing wife Ellie Thostrup, I’d like to start by thanking you all for taking the time and effort to come to be here today. People have come from Denmark, Spain, France, Italy, Slovakia, Holland, Germany, Australia and even Scotland so we’re very grateful to everyone for travelling to a place you probably never imagined yourselves visiting. Please feel free to avail yourselves of the local Whitby Dog ale but if you find yourselves getting peckish in town later tonight and someone offers you a parmo it’s probably best to just say no.
Ellie and I would like to thank her beautiful bridesmaids: Sarah, Miffy and Jess and her little flower girl Izzy. We’ve got a little thank you for you (give gifts)
We’d also like to thank the best men Kamron and Mike (give gifts) and our ushers Terry, James and Ali. Nothing for you guys, I’m afraid – you have to draw the line somewhere.
I’d like to thank my mum and Ellie’s parents for their contributions to the wedding and personally I’d also like to thank Ellie’s mum Chris and dad Keith for raising such a remarkable human being. Ellie is everything I have ever wanted in a girl; she’s beautiful, funny, loving, inspiring and challenging. She supports and encourages me, she indulges my follies but also reins me in when necessary – sometimes more often than necessary as far as I’m concerned!
She’s a source of inspiration – the company Michael and I have started bears her name and without her we wouldn’t have got our first commission (catch it on E4 this October!). She advises me what to wear to look less like an unemployed teenager (admittedly, I frequently ignore that advice), and in exchange I correct her spelling and grammar. We’re a perfect match.
Everyone who meets Ellie is charmed by her. People love spending time with Ellie and I’m so grateful that she’s chosen me to be her husband, the one who gets the lion’s share of her time. I think you all know that it’s not been the easiest time of late, but whatever the circumstances and wherever we find ourselves you know I love you and I promise that I will always do everything in my power to make our married life as happy as you make me.
(Toast) To Ellie Thostrup
Finally, I’d also like to toast absent friends. There are many people I’d like to have had the opportunity to introduce Ellie to; my grandparents, my godfather and most importantly my dad. I know he would have loved Ellie and they would have gotten on famously.
(Toast) To absent friends
Now I’ll hand over to Ellie’s brother John who I should warn you has lived in Australia for several years and has developed a very Australian sense of humour.
The safety of routine
17 Apr 2012 106 Comments
For the moment I’m wrapped in a safety blanket of routine and because this chemo is a fairly easy one I’m able to go about my life pretty normally, something I am very grateful for. The Gemcitabine and Carboplatin are administered intravenously at the same time and for the next few days I’ll sleep like a sloth but the sickness is kept under control by the drugs and the next two weeks are mine. I’m supposed to have a second dose of just Gemcitabine a week after the first infusion but both times my platelets have been too low so it has been missed.
The red mark on my chest is changing but the lump in my breast seems to be the same size so I am at a loss as to whether this stuff is working. Women who’ve had the treatment have told me that it is very effective and maybe it’s too early for me to call but the huge fear that it’s not working tugs at my safety blanket daily.
The wedding is drawing closer, now less than eight weeks away! I always felt I would make this date, despite what my previous doctors told me, but I can’t escape the fear of ‘what ifs.’ The diagnosis of brain mets and the two stays in hospital early in the year really rammed home how fragile my situation is. There aren’t many options left when it comes to chemo and I need to be in good shape if a trial were to come up again.
Sometimes it doesn’t feel real; how could all of this have happened to me? How did I come to be in such an unlucky situation? I don’t feel bitterness towards others, for what they have, but I can’t help but look around in restaurants and on the Tube and see healthy people with their whole lives ahead of them. I can honestly say I wouldn’t want anyone else’s life but I do envy their health.
On our way back from a house viewing the other day I had to tell Tom that something had been nagging at me whilst we noseyed around other people’s homes. I was scared that we would find a new place, move in and then if I died he would be stuck in a three-bedroom house on his own. He reminded me, and I know he’s right, that we can’t live our lives like that. If we’d believed the stats we wouldn’t be having a wedding in two months time; if you let the cancer take over completely then you’re letting it win before you die.
I never contemplated death before my cancer diagnosis. I don’t think anyone truly expects to die. It’s a universal truth that we’ll all pop our clogs but it’s in the future so there’s no need to think about it and we’re all so busy living our lives there’s no time for it anyway. But when you’re told you have months not years, when lumps and bumps of cancer are popping up all over your body, when the extent of your ambitions is to get out of the flat to meet a friend for lunch, you can’t help but ponder what a world without you in it would be like.
I’m not sure anyone is ready to die, certainly not in their twenties. Even my 89-year-old neighbour who lives alone and has no family says, “I’m not ready to go yet!” I’m torn between hoping for what many medical professionals will tell you is the impossible and accepting that I might not see my 30th birthday.
There are periods of escape from ‘the fear.’ Having felt quite well on this chemo I’ve spent lots of enriching times with Tom and my wonderful friends. Momentarily it is possible to forget; sharing some salacious gossip or laughing so much your stomach hurts. Then on the Tube journey home you feel a twitch of pain in your head and you assume the worst; it’s a tumour, it’s happening again, I’m going to die.
I’ve never suffered trauma like this in my life. I’ve been lucky; a stable upbringing, no deaths of people who were very close to me, no tragedies. I think this is why going through cancer has altered the way I look at the world so dramatically. My friend Matt said that of all the people he knows I was the one who least needed life lessons but that’s not how it works. Cancer is arbitrary – there’s no reason behind it, I was just unlucky.
The great thing about the routine I’ve been able to have over the last couple of months is that it’s afforded me the chance to sort the wedding out. I’m so excited to have family and friends all under one roof. My hair is coming back but if it’s not quite the length I’d like then Miffy’s locks will be adorning my head on the big day – I just need someone to colour the wig (if anyone knows anyone who does this please drop me a line). I’ll be taking a short break from chemo so I feel the best I can on the day and most of all I can’t wait to marry the man who gives me the strength and support I need to get through this.
Cancer is a shitter, there’s no doubt about it, but there are ways to make your life work with it. It’s not easy but for the moment I feel lucky to have the security of routine and the ability to hold on to hope.
P.S Congratulations to Matthew who completed the Brighton marathon on Sunday, all in aid of Cancer Research. I can’t express how proud I am of you Matt. You’re a star.
Matt still managing a smile at 26.2 miles
“But you’re so young.”
01 Apr 2012 51 Comments
As a cancer patient in your 20s certain doctors seem to somehow take a bit more interest in you. They can’t help it, you’re the exception to the rule. I was recently at a vascular appointment to see what the blood clots were up to and the registrar who was about my age asked, “How did you discover you were ill?” Quickly adding, “If you don’t mind me asking?” If I had a quid for every time a registrar had enquired about my illness or commented “but you’re so young,” I’d have, ooh…at least a fiver.
Once when I was waiting for a scan the doctor was called to try and get a vein. She inquired about all my ailments and commented, “Poor you.” Quite, now can you concentrate on putting that cannula in please?
“I’ll look out for your brain scan results” she joyfully called after me as I made a sharp exit. I know it was just a clumsy attempt to make small talk, but what good would that do me? I’d never see her again.
I used to get upset by it – it’s not easy to recount to a stranger that your life has taken an entirely different turn to what you had planned. They’ve read the notes (well at least they should have) so is it really necessary for me to explain it in person?
Those who suffer from cancer in their 20s and 30s are a relatively rare breed. There’s certainly not a whole lot of support out there specifically aimed at this group of people. I think there are only two occasions throughout my many chemo sessions that I’ve not been the youngest patient on the ward. You’re in your prime and your cells are meant to be top notch; they’re not meant to let you down and steal your dreams before you’ve even gotten started.
As my body receives wave after wave of toxic treatment to fight these cells I have had to come to terms with the fact that I won’t have children. Funnily enough, the thought of this upset me more when I was initially diagnosed and the chance of having children wasn’t entirely ruled out.
I have always wanted kids and having met the man that I want to spend the rest of my life with it seems like such a kick in the teeth to have that chance taken away; not just from me but from Tom also; I feel guilty, that I have let him down, that I can’t be the best for him.
Once my secondary diagnosis came the prospect of ever having children was well and truly scuppered. But when I found myself fighting for my life children didn’t seem as important any more; living as long as possible for myself and Tom became the focus.
I love children and am fortunate there are a fair few kiddiwinks in my life who I get to spend time with. Before my diagnosis I could only see the benefits of having kids but now I realise that life can be just as fulfilled without; when your life is threatened your priorities change. Don’t get me wrong, I would have tried for children if the secondaries hadn’t come along, but a long life with just Tom seems pretty attractive right now.
I’m lucky I have a great support system around me, with Tom and my friends always on hand. I can’t compliment Maggie’s enough on the emotional and practical support they’ve provided me with, but not everyone is lucky enough to live in a city or have friends and family nearby. Often someone in their 20s or 30s won’t have savings to fall back on if a cancer diagnosis comes. If they have to give up their job how will they afford to live? I’m sure there are many who retreat back to their family home, relinquishing their independence and the life they loved.
I miss work terribly. On a good day I could manage it but I can’t guarantee good days or when they’ll be. It can be disheartening to be stuck in the flat when you’ve worked hard to get to a certain point in your career. Your job becomes beating the cancer, and FYI it’s a shit job. Don’t ever willingly apply.
The benefit of having cancer in the Internet age is that your world is opened up to support services that you might not ordinarily have access to. Through Twitter and blogs I’ve learned of and met up with women who are going through a similar situation to me, which has helped me massively.
It’s refreshing to be able to discuss issues that you might not want to bring up with other friends through fear of upsetting them. Recently Fran, who I’d ‘met’ on Twitter came to visit me for the first time. The conversations took a natural cheery steer towards questions about death, brain metastasis and how our partners will cope without us. It sounds pretty macabre but if you heard the tone in which we were calmly discussing these topics you’d think we were sat talking about shoes, the latest episode of TOWIE and George Galloway’s victory in Blackburn…er sorry, I mean Bradford.
My case may be a rare one but it’s by no means a one-off, which is why I’d really rather not be treated as a curiosity when I’m going for one of my regular appointments. Save the medical marvel stuff for when I beat this shit!
Times to smile
15 Mar 2012 66 Comments
I just wanted to post a very quick update to let you have a look at what I’ve been up to over the past couple of weeks rather than write about it.
Two attempts at inserting a PICC line failed; my veins are too small, but I still managed to start Gem/Carbo chemo on Tuesday. The nurse found a vein at the second attempt so not bad at all. I’m mostly feeling tired so if it continues like this I can’t complain – it’s the nausea I hate, but so far the drugs have kept that in check.
I’ve posted a link so you can see all the pictures of the charity head shave and a link to a video that Miffy’s boyfriend put together for us.
There are also a couple of pictures of Tom and I in Spain. We had a fantastic time, and I hope all of these links and photos go some way to explaining why I won’t be giving up easily in the fight for my life. They are a reminder to me that although there have been some very dark times of late, light can still shine through. It is possible to recover from the blows, to get out of that hospital bed, to gain strength and to laugh again. That’s what I’ll be trying to remember if the effects of the chemo take a turn for the worst. Enjoy….
http://www.client.francescamoore.co.uk/CharityHeadShave_WEB/index.html
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J4pN1PHx9wU
Tom and I enjoying breakfast
Sampling an orange freshly picked from a tree at the villa
Tom sneaking a pic while I was reading on the terrace
I take a size 7
07 Mar 2012 89 Comments
I’m writing this post from sunny southern Spain. Tom and I have been out here for a week now, staying in a villa that my friend Jess’s very generous parents have kindly let us have the run of, and we fly home later today.
To feel the sunshine on my skin and to get away from the grey of London was literally just what the doctor ordered. In our last consultation with Professor Hope he strongly urged us to take a holiday, as he has had to come up with yet another new plan and I shall soon be hit with an almighty chemo bomb. We’re rolling out the big guns because the cancer on my chest is starting to creep up towards my neck, stamping its vicious mark on my body for all to see and a couple of weeks ago I found a lump in my right breast.
Well, Professor Hope isn’t standing for it and I will be starting a large dose of Gemcitabine/Carboplatin. I’ll have to see how I go but from my research I’m sure this isn’t going to be pretty. “You’re ok with this?” The Prof asked, and to be honest, at the time I wasn’t. The chemos I’ve been on in the last few months have been totally doable; I’ve still led a relatively normal life, but I’m worried that this one will reduce me to a flat-bound depressive.
I doubted the Prof’s decision – why couldn’t he wait to see if the current tablet chemo I’m on is working first? But as each day of the holiday passed I knew he was right and I was foolish to question him. The cancer on my skin is a fierce red shade and it’s starting to hurt; it mocks me when I look in the mirror and I need to do all I can to stop it in its tracks, even if that means the possibility of signing my life away for the next few months. I read recently somewhere that finding the right chemotherapy is a lot like buying shoes – you have to try them on first before you know if they’ll work for you. I don’t care if it’s a Louboutin, a Blahnik or a Baratts special; I just need the perfect fit.
Now that we’re on the last day of our holiday I feel ready to take it on; the cancer has had free reign for too long and it’s time to get some results – we deserve them. The new drugs are IV so I will be getting a PICC line put in my arm. I’m going to need a truck load of Valium to get me through that procedure but I know that despite the scars (mental, not physical) from the port saga, I can do it.
The holiday has also provided time to reflect. I have shed a few tears but mostly we’ve just laughed and loved each other. Tom and I made a rule that for every hug we give each other a tumour shrinks – I reckon I’ll be cancer free by April!
Because it’s so unusual to have this disease at my age, it can feel very lonely at times. When you see friends progressing in their chosen careers, having children, travelling to foreign places without a second thought for the quality of hospitals and it’s difficult not to feel envious. Of course I’m not alone; many bright young women with so much to offer are fighting this hideous disease; Fran, Lisa and Kris I’m thinking of you in particular, but I know there are so many more out there.
The other day I was emailed by a woman I’d met online on the Breast Cancer Care Forum. Like me, she is triple negative and has cancer in several sites. She is in her thirties with a young child, and this week she was diagnosed with brain mets. I understand her fears because they are my fears too and at times I’ve found solace in reading the stories of others sharing my experience; providing support to others even though they are suffering themselves. Because that’s what you do isn’t it?
That’s why I was so disappointed to find out that someone on Twitter had been lying to me about having breast cancer. She was only 19, well that was how old she claimed to be, and she started to message me for help and advice while she was supposedly going through chemo. Despite being tired and ill from chemo myself I spent time sending her messages of support – she even asked for advice when she knew I was in hospital getting my port removed.
I have since found out that this was all a lie; she hasn’t got breast cancer, she’s not giving up uni to concentrate on ‘getting better’ and she certainly wasn’t admitted to hospital for a week when she said she was – her timeline on Twitter had her complaining about a traffic jam she was stuck in.
I’m not angry with her, though it is annoying that she had the cheek to appeal to me for wise words when she knew I was going through a hard time. Mostly I just feel sorry for her and think it’s a bit weird, but as my friend Matt said, for the thousands of lovely readers I get, one oddball isn’t bad going. And that reminds me – to all those who’ve left comments lately, I read every one and they always bring a smile to my face – please accept this heartfelt thank you.
Finally, talking of thank yous I’d like to say just that to one of the most amazing women I have ever met. My friend Miffy will be shaving her hair off next week for Professor Hope’s charity. Not only is this a massively brave and generous thing to do, it will also provide me with hair to use for a made-to-measure wig.
If I don’t end up with hair for the wedding the plan was to invest in a real-hair weave that would be stuck on; they look more realistic but it’s very expensive and quite difficult to source good hair. Because of Miffy’s amazingness I now have the hair, and once her locks are chopped off my good friend Julie (of eyebrow tattooing fame) will get the wig made. So thank you Crow – you’re one in a million.
If you’d like to donate please go to Miffy’s page, and it’s worth a visit because in doing so you’ll get to find out Prof Hope’s real name!
https://mydonate.bt.com/fundraisers/miffygrubb1
Hope Springs
23 Feb 2012 102 Comments
I may as well come out and say it straight away; the trial isn’t happening. One of the side effects of the trial drug is retinal detachment and as I already have a tiny bit of damage to my right eye from where I had a tumour (no longer there, thank you very much radiotherapy) the monitors of the trial ruled me out.
I can’t deny how much of a huge blow this was – and still is – especially coming so soon after five unnecessary days in hospital. My mum was with me when I received the call and was dumbstruck when I told her; neither of us could quite believe my recent run of bad luck.
I had started to find hope in the prospect of the trial; what if this really kicked the disease into touch? I was looking forward to my hair growing back and the prospect of having proper eyebrows and lashes for the wedding, but most of all I wanted to give my body a break from chemo, from all of my cells taking a battering in the hope that the cancer would come off worse.
But it wasn’t to be. The people at the trial centre had informed Professor Hope of the news on the same day, a Friday, and I took some comfort in knowing that he would have time to think of a new plan over the weekend. Monday came round and Prof Hope did indeed have a plan; I’m now taking a new tablet form of chemo once every two weeks. I could tell he was annoyed for me that the trial wasn’t going ahead, but he reassured me that there are still options out there.
Recently it feels like with each knock the positivity and hope I try so hard to hold onto evaporates. I have started bringing up the prospect of me dying with Tom. It’s hard not to have these thoughts when I can feel lumps on my chest getting bigger and what started out as a small red mark on my chest has now grown to what looks like a large burn.
I have to look at that every single day, a cruel reminder of the cancer literally eating away at my body and on which no medicine as yet has been able to make a real impact. Tears prick my eyes as I type this, thinking about how much I love Tom and how unbelievably heartbreaking it would be to lose what we have. I can’t help but think how desperately unfair the whole situation is, but equally how incredibly lucky we are to have ever met at all.
I look at my baby nephew and wonder how many birthdays I will see him reach. Will he even get the chance to remember me or will I simply become the aunt that died of cancer? I think of my family getting on with life without me; a new dynamic where my brother becomes the youngest.
I know Tom’s not keen on hearing such thoughts but he allows me to discuss them with him. As a reader I’m sure you want ‘Positive Ellie’ back and believe me I’m still here, but I refuse to deny the thoughts and fears that at times crowd my mind.
On the other end of the scale I’m most certainly not without hope. Hope for a complete cure? Of course, stranger things have happened. I wouldn’t be going ahead with treatment unless I believed that there is a chance something will work. When you’re as full of love for a person as I am it seems unthinkable to give up on yourself.
The good news is that my hair has started to grow back on this new chemo and although I won’t allow myself to get carried away I know there is a possibility that I could have hair for the wedding. I was at home in North Yorkshire recently and saw that the snowdrops are out; daffodils won’t be long in following. I can’t help but be cheered up at the prospect of springtime and warmer weather. It seems an appropriate season to have your hair grow back and maybe it’s time for some more of that hope too. See? I told you the ‘Positive Ellie’ is still in there somewhere.
I get knocked down…
09 Feb 2012 109 Comments
I’ll warn you in advance that this isn’t going to be the most positive of posts. I have recently come out of hospital after a five-night stay. The culprit this time? The port. It was becoming so painful that I asked the doctors at the research centre to have a look at it for me and they immediately booked me in for an ultrasound and chest X-ray. The tests revealed that I had a haematoma and a vein was blocked with a clot, so it was back to A&E for the second time in as many months. By the time the taxi pulled up outside the hospital it was so painful that I was in tears.
I was admitted to the oncology ward and it was decided that the port should be removed. This was not a pleasant experience. I was told it would be under general anaesthetic but when I got to the department for the procedure the surgeon told me it would be local. This caught me off guard and I started to panic; I tried not to cry but couldn’t help the tears running down my cheeks as the cut was made. I felt so vulnerable laid on that table, wide awake and with my chest exposed. But the anaesthetist held my hand and talked to me while the port was removed, and I was grateful for a comforting voice.
I couldn’t believe my bad luck; I’d never heard of this happening to anyone before. I was just about back on my feet from the previous hospital stay. I’d been feeling stronger and more positive and what happens? Life deals me another blow, leaving me asking how much of this bullshit can I realistically take.
The port was out but the problems didn’t stop there. It was decided not to give me any blood thinners on the Friday and to let the area settle down over the weekend, but by Monday I was told I now had clots in my right arm as well.
When I complained to the vascular doctor that I had pains running up the inside of my arm and had restricted movement he said he thought I had a frozen shoulder; the swelling from the clot meant that I couldn’t turn my neck and this was the result. I would need physio and any thought of me returning to yoga when I got home was quickly dashed. The doctor also informed me I’d probably be on Heprin, a blood thinner, for at least the next six months. I have to give myself this injection every day.
When I got back to my side room I was told I was being shipped out and moved onto a shared ward, which was probably one of the most traumatic experiences of the whole stay! I know that sounds dramatic but being on a shared hospital ward is like taking part in the most miserable version of Big Brother imaginable. Throw in the fact that you all have a life-threatening illness into the mix and you arrive at ward D for depressing. A poor woman in her eighties in the bed opposite me was vomiting almost constantly from 12am to 4am and another lady who looked close to death was just a bed away. Psychologically, hospitals are the absolute worst places to be when you’re unwell.
Tom was amazing as usual and spent as much time with me as possible and my mum travelled down from up north to be by my side when Tom couldn’t be.
I’m back home now and feeling very fragile. Mum and I watched Call the Midwife last night and one of the storylines was of a man whose young wife died in the final weeks of her pregnancy. They had been so in love and were looking forward to a future together. By the time she passed away near to the end of the episode I was heaving empathetic sobs.
That’s the thing you see, when I get a setback I start thinking negatively. I’m pissed off this happened to me and wish I’d never had the port fitted; I’m worried that the trial will be delayed because I might be deemed not fit enough to take part. I know I’ve been here before I just didn’t think it would be so soon to be feeling like this again.
I was meant to be travelling to see my sister and nephew in Bratislava this week but that had to be cancelled, much like trips to Israel and New York were scrapped when I found out I had brain mets, and of course our New Year’s celebrations were shat on from high above with a case of neutropenic sepsis. I’m not going to apologise for moaning because at the moment I feel like it’s so terribly unfair, but I’m learning life keeps happening no matter what. There’s no such thing as your fair share of bad luck, so you’ve just got to pick yourself back up and have faith that it will change.
