Katie Davidson, August 14 1984 – June 21, 2019

This Weltschmerz I referred to in the previous post likely also stems from a few other things I should fill you in on. One in particular…

Probably something I haven’t quite processed yet, on June 21 Canada Katie died. Only what, 2 months after Lucy? Some of you who have been here for a while might be surprised that it didn’t happen sooner, you probably thought I just didn’t mention it. But no, she had still been around, having thought she might not make it to Christmas so I guess you would say that’s good…

For those of you who don’t know of Canada Katie, I have written about her before.

She and I hadn’t been in direct contact for a while, understandably she was concentrating on her immediate realm of connections, but I had stayed in the loop through her amazing family members who accepted me into the clan. She said to me once ‘I can’t keep progression to myself until I’m at the end.’ And I knew that when she withdrew, it was because she was preparing. She didn’t want to drag more people through it step-by-step as it happened than she had to. I respected that, it was up to her to deal with it however she wanted to, and I knew that our love and connection was so much more than to worry about not hearing from her. In an entirely selfish way, it was hard. But I think should I be in the same circumstance I would likely do the same.

I got the message from her husband Keith that we were nearing the end. He took the time to let me know, with a wonderful amount of love and information. Early last year I hunted down my little cow Clarence’s brother and sent him to Katie. A little brown version of my little black and white Clarence. She named him Claxton, a British family name she had researched, and obviously related to my little cow’s name. She took him along to every appointment, he was holding her hand just as Clarence has held mine through so many things. I hope her husband won’t mind me saying, but when he messaged me in her final days, he let me know that Claxton was right there with her. I felt a rush of love in my heart for her, for him, for them all. She held Claxton as she was read her last rights. Keith even read out a message to her that I sent. I was also in contact with her sister in law. I felt like I was there, allowed into the inner sanctum, reaching out my hand to sit on top of hers as her chest rose and fell through her last few days of breaths.

It’s harder to process something like this when you hadn’t had daily contact with the person for a while, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been in my thoughts every day.

I wanted to share a couple of videos she made. Even while she was going through treatment for her metastatic breast cancer, she was doing these amazing projects – 100 days of Random Acts of Kindness, and 100 days of Gratitude, little Youtube videos where she spoke about things that she was grateful for and acts of kindness she had received. There are obviously a lot of them, but I thought I’d share the two she made about me:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuW9zFvqyLg&feature=youtu.be
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5dc3ccGyrE&feature=youtu.be

Watching them makes me smile. And cry (especially in the second one). But it’s amazing to have these videos to watch Katie and a little snippet of our lives together frozen in time.

She sent me things too. She sent me a book she was reading that I expressed interest in. She made little notes to me in it about her favourite bits and the parts that meant something to her. When I bought my flat, she got flowers delivered to me from my local florist to say congrats.

I was even organising a surprise with her husband for me to go and visit them. Katie and I had fun talking about what we would do and where she would take me. I told her it all sounded great but I would also just like to sit with her and exist together, depending on how she was feeling and what she was capable of. But that was when she found out that it had spread and the treatment options were not working and starting to look worryingly limited and unfortunately, it was never able to eventuate. Though discussing the possibilities of my trip was a fun distraction for us regardless and provided a bit of hope in some tough times.

I learned so much from her. And we talked about everything. We discussed things like if there was a point when you stop accepting treatment. We discussed how to tell people about bad news. This was something that plagued her, as she hated feeling like she had let people down as she got more ill. I remember talking to her as she got one lot of bad results, she was dreading that she was going to have to drop it on Keith when he got home from work. I’ll never forget the times she told me bits of bad news, far more worried about how it would affect me than how hard it was for her. She felt terrible thrusting me into a world where my friend was dying. I told her that I had thought long and hard about this (after our mutual friend Amy died) and it was a decision I was actively making to be there, that I couldn’t imagine a life where I hadn’t met her. She thought a lot about those she would be leaving behind.

‘Today I’ve thought about you processing my death. It is impossible not to feel responsible. I know it’s not my fault but I still am so sorry.’

I would write her little snippets of what it felt like from where I was when she got the next set of bad news:

‘I’ve been watching the world pass these last few days, watching everyone go about their daily life. On the bus, on the train, going to work, going to the gym, meeting up with friends, complaining about the weather, small talk at the sink, ‘how are you’ in passing… In such juxtaposition to how everything would have just stopped for you since Friday. In my mind there is a little bubble around you, and the whole outside world just keeps running around busily and here you are, trying to deal with the biggest news, everything slowing down as you are suspended in this world of not knowing what’s happening and not knowing how to manage with any of it. I feel like I’m looking in to this little bubble, peering into your little snow globe from the outside, like I can tap on the glass and watch, caught between time being stuck with you, and these people rushing around behind me, their lives just ticking by day to day, not knowing the gravity of the last few days, not understanding how in your little corner of Ottawa, everything has just stopped.’

She would take the time to lay out all the information that she’d been given from her oncologist for me, and we would discuss it at length, trying to make sense of it, validating each other’s concerns, then distracting ourselves with stories of other things. ‘Tell me something good’ she would say and I would regale her with stories of people I had met or places I had been.

As you all know, talking about the language used around cancer is so important to me, and Katie taught me a lot about why certain words and phrases bothered me so much. I guess she had been living with cancer for some time when I jumped on the scene, so she was my guide. And whenever talking about these things I now think not only about me and my situation, but Katie and others who are in totally different situations and how things might come across to them. She led the way in vulnerability and honesty.

But we didn’t just talk about cancer and progression. I’ve been reading back over our conversations since it all started with our first interaction when I was trying to be open minded about reiki: watching our lives unfold as we told each other more and more about ourselves, sharing photos, and many declarations of love as our friendship grew from people who interacted on twitter to proper, true friends who would tell each other any news we had and share in the experience, be it good or bad things. We wanted to know what each other was eating for dinner, what we were doing on the weekend, we lapped up details of each other’s lives.

In those last few days that she was dying, I got this overwhelming feeling of ripples spreading throughout the world as Keith let people know online and people started to realise, the twitter world were contacting me to say that they were thinking of me, having seen first hand the public snippets of our friendship. Even people I had never spoken to before reached out. They knew.

I think she worried about being forgotten. Don’t we all? That when we no longer breathe, the memory of us will die too. That we will leave no legacy. But I felt her legacy in those days. I had known it prior, but it wasn’t until then that I really felt it. I pictured the webs connecting point to point across the world, starting in Ottawa and moving outwards until they traversed the whole globe. The different ways we had all been connected through Katie.

I take Katie with me every day. I have since I first met her. She’s there in every thing I do, every conversation I have, the way I conduct myself through life, in the advice and support I give to others. And I still want to message her when something good or bad happens so we can chat about it. But I can’t. I don’t think that ever goes away. Though I can check in on her family. You never want to make a nuisance of yourself but I’ll just keep myself in the periphery. These people mean so much to me and I won’t leave them.

I’ll say one thing, selfishly, about knowing someone you know is going to die (I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again)… It gives you the chance to tell them how much they mean to you. Isn’t that a ridiculous thing to say? That you wait until someone is dying to tell them just how important they are? I like to think I tell my friends and family how much I appreciate them. Perhaps I’m more inclined to after a few drinks, but I have always made a point of telling people when they mean something to me. Even just if it’s just something small that I’ve appreciated. Don’t take for granted that the people you know will always be there. I told Katie regularly how much I love and appreciate her and how much she means to me so I have no regrets that she didn’t know how important she was or that there was anything left unsaid.

On her twitter bio she says ‘eternally on the brink of greatness’. But my dear Katie, you are not on the brink. You are eternally great. You were far too humble to ever really understand the effect you’ve had on the world, but I know you took great pride in everything you did because you were doing some fantastic work and there’s no denying that. I will love you forever and I will make sure people never stop hearing about you. You are and will always be a guiding light in my world.

The Lucy Effect

Through the whole cancer thing, we cling to the idea of options. As long as there are options, it’ll be fine. Things don’t necessarily go according to plan, which is something that is terrifying at the time because no one explains to you at the beginning that it’s common, and usually that’s fine, there are other options to try. You do tend to forget the true seriousness of this cancer malarky sometimes. Especially when you know so many people with it who look so ‘well’. And I talk a lot about how people are successfully living with cancer these days, or being treated, cured, and you start to forget just how serious it is. Then you get a harsh reminder.

I know so many people now with cancer. There was a point back around this time last year when a good friend of mine died (you might remember Amy?) and I sat myself down and said ‘ok, this is going to keep happening. Although everyone you know will eventually die, you are putting yourself in the line for making friends with people who are more likely to die sooner than others. Is this what you want to do?’ And I did think about it, I really did. Was it time to step away from the cancer community and my friends? It can be hard trying to get through this cancer thing yourself, let alone also losing friends along the way from the same (well, overall same, though there’s nothing same about all the different types of cancer) disease. It’s weird to think you are entering into relationships with people sometimes even knowing that they won’t be around much longer.

But the answer I gave myself was yes, a resounding yes, my life is so much richer for having these people in it, that’s all there is to it.

Today the world has lost another bright light. And so bright it was. I’ve been friends with Lucy for a while, but our friendship really started around October 2018 when she got a WhatsApp group together of a whole lot of ‘badass babes’ who were in different stages of different cancers. We have become each other’s family, in contact almost every day since then, talking through absolutely everything we’ve been going through, finding solace in knowing we’re not alone.

I think about Lucy back in October, when she brought this group of girls together, I don’t think any of us would have believed that we would now be outliving her, that our biggest test as a group would be helping each other through her death. At the time she brought us together I think she was out the other side, the cancer gone. Little did we know we would go through that yet another time with her, and that now we would be here, shocked at the fact that she is not. We were there with her when she got good news and bad news, I remember her sitting in the car when she told us one of the bad bits, feeling like I was right there with her. In  my memories, I was. Each stage, as she found out that the treatments were working, or when she found out they weren’t, we were there, trying to comfort her, trying to remind her that options are good. But I suppose we all eventually come to a time in life where there are no more options.

Up until I met Lucy, I had learnt from other people with cancer that saying ‘I am so sorry’ as a response to their bad news was the best way to go. Lucy taught me to never use those words to her. I remember one blog post, when she got the latest of bad news at the time, she said ‘Once again, keep your ‘I’m sorry’s and your ’sympathies’ to yourself; they don’t help anything, especially not me!’
To everyone who has heard me ramble on about language before, here is such a prime example of how you just need to listen to someone in order to work out the right language to use for them. Don’t just say whatever you want to without a thought for what they might want or need to hear.

I think there was a time in my life where, like most people afraid to talk about or properly acknowledge death, I maybe would have spoken about her in the present tense, like she’s still here, like she never truly left. I know that isn’t the case, I know she’s gone. But also, in a way, she will never entirely be gone. In the wise words of philosophers Banksy and Macklemore – they say you die twice, once when they bury you in the grave, and the other time the last time someone mentions your name.

Thanks to Lucy, I have now taken up knitting. I now drink oat milk. She got us all into playing the Sims at some point. A lot of us have matching backpacks to her. She got me onto Jody Picoult, her favourite author. I am happy to know I have all of her books now to read, holding Lucy in my heart with every word. Lucy was very… persuasive without particularly trying to be. Maybe persuasive isn’t the word. She inspired us to do the things she did by the way she spoke about them.

I’m finding it hard to get the words to describe her, to talk about her. I find it hard in these situations when words fail me, because there are not words enough to describe Lucy or the effect she had on us. Or to fix this.

This also goes to show that even if you’re prepared for it, it comes as a shock. We knew things weren’t going well, we knew she was at the end of treatment and speaking ‘hospice’. We all knew in the back of our minds that it could mean the end was near, but none of us really believed it. Even Lucy herself said ‘I don’t know if I will come home but if I don’t I don’t I’ll be in the right place’. The hope that it would only be temporary ever present. I wonder if she said that for herself or for us. Did she believe it? Did we? Did we keep fooling ourselves up to the last minute that it wasn’t as serious as it was? Is that a bad thing if we did? I can’t imagine what it must be like to be at that stage. But even then she was looking forward to Hospice care to take the stress off her mum to actively look after her.

I have an audio clip saved on my phone of her singing ’The Reaper’ by Sia –
You came to take me away
So close I was to heaven’s gates
But no baby, no baby, not today
Oh, you tried to track me down
You followed me like the darkest cloud
But no baby, no baby, not today

I even got a mug made with the lyrics on it and sent it to her. A reminder, no Reaper, not today. When she told us a few days ago that she was out of options, I told her I was not going to start talking about her as it it were the end, I wouldn’t yet start going on about her ‘legacy’ just because she had bad news, I wasn’t going to talk about her like she was dead yet. I told her that I would write all those things down and send them to her (though when I did, it wouldn’t necessarily signify that the Reaper was imminently nigh). I sit writing this looking at that letter on the table next to me, in an envelope, addressed, ready to be sent along with a book I know she loved.

I’m sure she knew we loved her, but sitting next to me now are all the things I hadn’t said that I wanted to. Maybe I had said them all at some point along the way… It’s hard to find the balance between saying these things too early, or too late. I don’t think any of us thought that we would already be at the ’too late’ stage by now.

No I’m not crying, YOU’RE CRYING shhhhhhh!

Friends, if I can urge you to do one thing right now, it is to tell your loved ones that you love them, why you love them, and how much you love them. I know it’s cliché to say that, but write to the ones you love the most all the things you would say to them if they were no longer here – it seems we are better at sharing our feelings in hindsight – and show them, tell them, even mail it to them! If your loved ones are gone, do the same anyway.

It’s funny sitting here now, I realise how much she has leaked her way into my life in her own kind of way – not pushy, not loud, very unassumingly, but in a big, strong way. She planted so many seeds in my head that grew into beautiful, fractal trees. I say fractal trees to more embody who she was. Aside from being an amazing human, she was also a scientist. A conservationist. She cared about the environment – a girl after my own heart! She studied Conservation with birds, me with ants. In fact at one point back in February she was telling me that she was looking at PhD projects. The dreams of those who never get to fulfil them. I hope this can be a lesson to you all: never stop having dreams. There is hope in dreams, and where there is hope there is life, for however long you are blessed with it.

Every time I see a photo of her it feels like someone has stabbed me in the heart. I feel like I’ve been winded. So I put it to good use and wrote a song about/for her. Now to be able to play it through to the end without crying.

I can write this post, filled with love and an outpouring of gratitude, and just get back on with my life. As I said, she will always be with me, but I don’t have to deal with the daily reminder of her not being around quite like her family have to. Nothing can prepare you for losing a daughter, a sister, and my love goes out to her family. Their lives will eventually go on too, but the hole in their lives will feel insurmountable.

I love you Lucy. We love you. I still haven’t accepted this, I don’t know how you are supposed to go about processing this, but I feel you in my broken heart, and I hear you in all my thoughts. You were one of the good ones.

They say it’s my birthday…

So I turned 31. That’s a thing.

I remember when I was a teenager thinking 31 was positively ancient. In fact, I have friends in their twenties and they think 31 is old. ‘Oh but you don’t seem like you’re 31’ they’ll say. What does 31 seem like? I must admit I do tend to see (some) people in their early thirties and feel like they’re older than I am…

Though I feel like I have aged considerably due to the events of the past year – mentally, emotionally and physically. I think a lot of people feel like they ‘grew up’ quite a lot when they had to deal with something big. And let me tell you, chemo definitely prematurely ages you! (I just groaned when I sat down).

Birthdays have always been an important thing to me. Both mine and also other people’s. Why? Not sure. I just think everyone should get their day. And I just like bringing everyone together (to celebrate me, obvi). But this year I kind of wasn’t feeling it. My 30th was a bit of a non event last year. My parents were visiting and did their best to make the most of it, but I was at my worst point in the whole of my chemo. My lovely mum cooked me a roast which I threw up, I collapsed in the hallway trying to get to the living room, I went to bed super early, exhausted from the day (we did watch ‘The Commitments’ though which I love! And my housemate took the day off to hang with me – Love you Owen!), and since I had neutropenic sepsis (no white blood cells thanks to chemo) I ended up in the local hospital Emergency department the following day and had one of the worst and most painful weeks of my life in hospital. So. Much. Pain. Then shortly after that my boyfriend broke up with me out of the blue in a not very nice, pseudo gas-lighty way.

What was usually my favourite month of the year was by far the worst. (Though I must say I had a lovely Christmas with Ma and Da).

So I wasn’t super excited about it this year, like maybe my bubble had been burst. I wondered if at 30, the shine had just worn off. But that didn’t stop me having a bit of a party. And hey, December would need to work pretty damn hard to be worse than March/April were this year.

In the end I had a fantastic birthday and celebration. I went to my local pub with a few people I love. Those people really showed me how amazing my life is and how lucky I am to have them. And the amazing Shiri got there early and had decorated the area in the pub with balloons and banners and made me an amazing coffee cake. And the owners of my pub got me a lovely card and my first Colin the Caterpillar cake ever! And the pub cat patterned my arm with scratches when I tried to get cuddles… And we danced and we talked and we drank and we laughed. Perfect night, really!

And now it’s getting towards the end of the year… Wow. What a lot has happened in the last year. And in the last few years for that matter.

My hair has been long, short, and entirely gone. My eyebrows have been thick, thin and non-existent. I’ve been in relationships, I’ve been single. I’ve lived in different countries. I’ve travelled. I’ve had countless friends, some which have come and left and some (the important ones) which have stayed. What’s that quote? People come into your life for a reason, a season or a… Um.. Lifetime?

I’m still not out of the woods with this cancer thing. Of all the people under 40 in the UK who were diagnosed with osteosarcoma on the day I was, only about half of us will survive the next five years. That says nothing about me or my case whatsoever, but it does make you think. What if I didn’t make it five years? If I died before I were 35, would I look back and think I were rehearsing for a main act that was yet to come?

Not for a minute. I don’t feel like I’ve wasted a year, a month, or  even a day (ok maybe a few hungover days have been spent bingeing on Netflix but hey, we all need rest days!)

I’m proud of the things I’ve done and the people I have brought along with me. In my adult life I’ve lived in 3 brand new places where I didn’t know anyone. I’ve had lots of different careers, trying things on for size and trading them in for new things. Two degrees, corporate jobs, government jobs, working in the airline industry. I’ve been a musician, a writer, an artist, a journalist, I’ve won horse riding competitions, I came 3rd in the NSW Novice fencing championship – a lesser known fact about me (btw that’s sword fighting. I know I’m from Australia but I wasn’t in a competition for building fences), I can salsa, I used to do rock climbing, and at school I was a swimmer. I’ve loved, I’ve lost. I’ve known when to walk away from things that don’t serve me, and I also haven’t. I’ve been good at things and bad at things (I’m learning how to play to my strengths). I’ve made new friends, I’ve lost old friends. I’ve helped people and I’ve hurt people. I’ve been selfless and I’ve been selfish. I’ve exercised religiously and I’ve gone long periods without doing any. I’ve drunk too much and professed my love for anyone near me (never any harm in professing love). And I don’t regret anything.

See this is why I love birthdays, I can just talk about me and you all have to listen! Jokes, that’s not what I’m getting at.

What’s that quote that life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans? No I don’t want to die in the next five years (please) but if my time were up, I don’t think you would say I hadn’t achieved much. But you know what? I haven’t ‘achieved much’ in the BIG sense of the word. I haven’t married the dream guy and had kids (thank goodness, not for me) – I’ve got friends who think they will have failed at life if they’re not married by my age. I’m not on track to be the CEO of a company. I’m not a published author (yet!). I’m not in a famous band. We’re always searching for something else. What’s with that? I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. And that’s fine. (Actually I kinda do these days, anyone want to pay me to be a writer? Kthanks).

Life is a big messy ball of uncontrollable energy (both potential and kinetic). Why are we striving for some unobtainable idea of perfection? Some pre-conceived, pre-determined mould that frankly, just doesn’t really fit? And if we got that job, car, wife, house, will that mean we’ve made it? Will we then be happy?

How many of you could look back on your life and think that you’ve really done the best you can? And if not… Do you maybe need to redefine your ideas of success? Because I think you’ll find you’re doing pretty well. Someone else might dream of your life. Or if you’re really not ok with it, it’s never too late to make a change. What’s that other other quote? (Someone should pay me to paraphrase quotes, like a slightly misguided inspirational quote generator with terrible referencing skills… ‘and she said she had two degrees’ I hear you exclaim): The time will pass whether you do the thing or not so just go do the thing! Sure we have to do things we don’t want to in life (that champagne won’t pay for itself) but are you being the best you that you can be? Can’t that be your measure of success?

It’s taken a long time to learn to be ok with myself. I’m getting there. I won’t use the word ‘love’, I’m not that self obsessed (she says in a post talking mostly about herself) but hey, let’s cut ourselves some slack. Life isn’t perfect and that’s beautiful. Makes us interesting. Our imperfections are something that set us apart from everyone else. And from robots too, for that matter! This is our humanity! Being different! NOT fitting into a mould!

Why do we look at getting older like it’s a bad thing? Did you know that studies in happiness have shown people to be at their happiest when they are in retirement. That’s like 65+ (or probably 80 by the time I get there!). So we’ve all got that to look forward to! Or to those of you who are already there, bloody good work, you’ve earned it.

I have friends who are unlikely to make it to 40, or even 35, or even… 30. How do you think they feel when people whine about getting a year older when they know their years are limited?

So can I really lament the passing of time and my youth when really it is an absolute gift that I am lucky to have?

I spent my whole twenties saying I was 21. Holding on to that age for some unknown reason, but I would MUCH rather be 31. I think every year gets better. I’ve never mourned past times or dwelled in the past. Always onwards. The best is always yet to come.

So at 31 I’m going to happily tell everyone that I’m twenty eleven… No, wait, THIRTY ONE! And be proud of what all those years have been, and what wonderful things being this age signifies. Every new year is a bonus, and a whole new world of opportunities to discover and memories to be made!

I’m starting this new year of my life with a few missing teeth and hopeful that I’ll end it with a whole new set in some capacity. I’m still building up strength and working out who I am and what I’m capable of. It’s like in movies when there’s an apocalypse and everyone hides underground and they come out after the storm to survey the damaged land that once was their life, and they face the overwhelming task of putting things back together and rebuilding and starting afresh (no I’m not likening one person getting cancer to the horrors of hurricanes, etc. just one of my silly analogies). But I’m looking forward to the future. But please don’t think I’m all merry and everything is perfect, I’m probably the most lost and confused than I’ve ever been and my anxiety is through the roof. But that doesn’t mean I’m not happy with who I am and where I am. Or at least that I’m working on it. Tough times will always be there but they’re just one part of life. I read a quote today (will it never end?!) saying that in 2018 I was living both my best life and my worst life simultaneously. I’ll take that.

So well done you for making it to your age. Think you look old? Think you seem old? Well in 10 years you will look back and sigh at how young and beautiful you were. Think your life is slipping away while you prepare for the main act? Well kick out the support band and start playing lead guitar in your own life. Or bass guitar, that’s fine too, I always liked being a bass player better. Keyboards is fun too… Or be the lead singer! You do you, in whatever imperfect and wonderful way that may be. And happy birthday for whenever your turn is! Celebrate it because one year older is one more wonderful year you’ve had on this earth, one more trip around the sun and one more year of being you. And that is something worth celebrating.

The joy of ongoing appointments

I was talking to someone the other day who was saying that going back to the Macmillan Cancer Centre for appointments is something she fears and finds upsetting. And I get it, there can be a certain sense of PTSD with these things, and constant reminders of the trauma isn’t necessarily what you want.

But my views could not be more different.

I remember the first time I walked into that building. Hanging from the ceiling in the foyer is a colourful art display of things picked up on beaches across the UK. From toy spades to flip flops to plastic straws to plastic crates and any other number of things. You could sit for hours gazing up at all the things hanging there, and collectively, I have.

I remember the first time I met all the smiling people who told me they would look after me. The oncologists who said they knew how to treat me. I remember the joy I felt at being in safe hands.

I remember going back every treatment week to catch up with everyone and start another session to cure me. All the people who were working together to give me the best chance at living. The laughs I had with my pharmacist, the smiles from Ambulatory care when I showed up for my chemo. We would debrief on our weekends.

I remember finishing chemo and being transferred over to my surgical team. The same building, but clinic was over the other side. You would think it would mirror the oncology clinic since it was the same floor but it didn’t. It was similar but not the same. But the pattern on the floor was the same – a colourful mosaic designed by the man who designed the Sgt Pepper Album cover. Can you imagine?

Even after surgery I didn’t feel on my own, despite being cast out into the big wide world – I had appointments to come back and see everyone. They still cared, they were still looking after me.

These days I get to come back for Oncology clinic every two months, and a chest xray to check it hasn’t spread to my lungs. I know some people would use that as an opportunity for anxiety that their cancer has come back and they will therefore soon die. I approach these appointments with excitement. I’m so glad and grateful that they keep monitoring me so closely and I quite enjoy getting told every couple of months that everything is ok. And if there is a day when it isn’t, well I couldn’t be more happy that they had kept checking.

The Macmillan Cancer Centre is also where I have access to my psychologist, as well as complimentary therapy (e.g. Massage and reiki *eye roll*). It’s where I can pop in to the ‘Living Room’ to make a cup of tea and probably make some new friends if I feel like it. It’s where I could attend support groups if I needed them.

This is the place that has taken me in, looked after me and hopefully saved my life. That keeps providing love and support, even now. That has somewhat been my second home over the past 18 months. That is filled with people who care about me and my well-being. What an amazing place to have! Why would I fear going back? Why would I get anxious each time they show they are still looking out for me? Why would I be angry at the smiling faces of people who’s job is to help me?

Every time I go back I am reminded of how lucky I am and I smile. I smile for all the good I have experienced over the 18 months, thanks to this very place.

Always in my thoughts, now more than ever…

Yesterday my dear friend Katie started whole brain radiation (Canada Katie – we shall refer to her as Canada Katie, as she is an entirely different person from my long time friend Katie who came to visit from Australia a couple of months ago and we don’t want to give that Katie cancer by way of me not distinguishing between the two).

Sorry, let’s just do that again.

Whole. Brain. Radiation.

Have you ever heard a more terrifying three words?

Though i suppose they are trumped by three more words…

Trying. To. Live.

And at 34, she has a lot more living to do, despite terminal breast cancer doing its best to stop her. Once you get metastatic breast cancer (i.e. spread) you never get rid of it. The intention is to survive as long as possible, but you will never be cured. I know a lot of people living with their metastatic cancer. It is possible.

From this absolutely hectic treatment, she will lose her hair once again, and suffer all the horrible side effects like nausea, fatigue, memory and cognitive issues and months of recovery. This obviously bothers her somewhat.

We had a chat a little while ago when she first found out it had spread upwards, about where the point is that you stop opting for the ridiculously quality-of-life altering treatments like this. It’s not now for her, thank goodness, and hopefully we’re a long way from that point. But I can only imagine what it must feel like to keep going through this. To be facing another round of treatment and knowing what a toll it will have on her body and her life.

Her brain is still fine but the cancer has spread to her cranium. The plan is to ‘radiate the hell’ out of her head (in her words), which will hopefully zap the skull guy, relieve the pain and pressure, then we can go back to managing the cancer in her liver.

Big sigh.

I say ‘we’ because she and I are such a team. I mean obviously this is all on her, unfortunately she is the one struggling through this, and if I could take some of it for her, I would.

Sometimes I feel like a broken record, going on and on to her about how much I love her but oh well! This girl has helped me through some hard times and celebrated with me through the good.

My dear (Canada) Katie, I just want to say a few things to you.

You have changed my life.
You have changed the way I think.
You have given me so much courage.
You have helped me know what to say at difficult times.
You don’t know how often I think WWKD (or should I say WWCKD).
I am so proud of you.
My life is so enriched by you being in it.
I am always here for you.
You are a testament to how people should live their lives.
There is a lot that people can learn from you.

To everyone else out there, she could do with all your thoughts right now so if you don’t mind shooting them all over to Canada to hover all around her while she goes through this radiation treatment over the next week, it would be much appreciated. I’m glad Clarence’s brother is over there looking after her too.

So while you’re getting ready for work or starting your weekend and have a thought that at least it’s Friday and you’ve got two days of freedom ahead of you, or that you’re exhausted from a hard work week… Just spare a thought for Canada Katie. And for that matter for anyone suffering, for whom a weekend is not an escape from much at all right now, or who would give anything for their biggest problem to be that their boss yelled at them or their colleague was being a dickhead.

That’s not to say that every day problems are not legitimate problems, if I was ranting to her about an every day issue in my life, she wouldn’t for a second not want to hear about it because it’s not as dire as her problems. She is happy to hear my good news even if her news is bad, etc. We can compartmentalise these things. We still want to hear about you even if we’re going through a bit worse at the moment. (Though while I’ll absolutely sympathise about how much your finger must hurt after shutting it in a door, please don’t tell me that your nail falling off is the worst thing that you could think of, and how will you possibly survive if it doesn’t grow back looking normal… Even if it is the finger your engagement ring goes on… I’m sure you’ll find a way.)

So please spare a thought for Canada Katie. Love you girl, I’m here for you all the way.

Happy 70th birthday NHS

It is the 70th birthday of the NHS.

Where to start? I suppose with something that’s obviously close to me.

Looking at cancer alone – 50% of people get cancer. That means you, and your mum. Or your partner and your dad. Or your sister and your best friend. I know of people in the US who couldn’t afford treatment, or who have gone into hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. I wouldn’t be able to afford that, would you? Even in Australia, when my father got an MRI checking his prostate cancer, he had to pay $600/go and that’s on top of private health care.

Even just looking at MRIs… I have to have one every 2 months. No way could I afford like £400 2 months, and that’s just for maintenance scans! Who even knows how much everything else would (have) cost.

Thanks to the NHS, I’m not forced to go into ridiculous amounts of debt just to have a chance of staying alive. The beauty of us all paying that bit of tax to the NHS means that anyone can get the treatment they need regardless of whether they manage to have a job that gives them lots of money. Their fate will not be sealed by their pay check. And it’s there for when the rest of you need it.

And I haven’t had to settle for a sub-par surgeon or someone who isn’t a specialist in my area, I’ve been able to get the surgeon I need, in fact one of the best.

When I was diagnosed, some people asked me if I would move back to Australia for treatment. This confused me a lot. Why would I decide to leave my life and the country I want to live in just because I have cancer? There’s no need to necessarily give up on life just because you have cancer (not for me anyway, I know everyone’s cancer is different)! What a depressing thought that I would suddenly quit everything of the life I have built and want to live.

But that aside, why would I want to go back to a country where you’re not looked after? Where you have to fend for yourself and if you’re not rich you must go into a lot of debt to have a chance of life? I say this with not a lot of knowledge how it would be to have my cancer in Australia, maybe you can get some funding to help and maybe Medicare can help with some. But going off my dad’s experience, it is no NHS.

And the people who work for the NHS… they are the most heroic people. The doctors and surgeons are making miracles happen, the physios, anaesthetists, radiographers, therapists (ok, I’m not going to go on naming all the types of professions in the NHS, if you’re one, you are the best) are irreplaceable, the nurses are absolute angels, even the people cleaning my room when I was in hospital brought me so much joy.

Sure I’ve had moments where things haven’t been great. I’ve had blood work lost, I’ve waited in a room in A&E until 3am waiting for a bed in a ward whilst in the absolute worst of my neutropenia and illness during chemo (but they did manage to find me a private room eventually), I’ve had dentists ignore my cancer (though to be fair they were NHS but made me go on private to get an appointment quickly), I’ve had doctors forget to come around and discharge me from hospital, I’ve had doctors in hospital causing me unnecessary pain and discomfort when they thought they were doing the right thing but didn’t take a moment to think… but it takes time to go through my memory to find bad moments, and they are only a small handful of thousands of fantastic ones.

I feel like people who complain about the NHS are those who haven’t needed it yet. Or even if not, I know there can be bad experiences in anything. But the amount of people I know who the NHS has saved…

The NHS makes me proud to be British. Growing up in Australia, I never felt Australian, I knew I was British. And from the first time I stepped off that plane in London 3 years ago, I knew I was home. I don’t feel like I could ever leave. There are many things that make me proud to be British, and a few things that don’t, but above everything is the NHS. This is something so important, special, necessary to our lives here. It underpins everything, looks after us, and it’s something we’ve helped create. What a fantastic thing. I know it struggles, I know more needs to he done to help it out, I have no suggestions of how to help it, I wish someone did. But I do know we need to protect it, to keep it alive.

Happy birthday NHS. I think everyone who has ever worked for the NHS in any capacity can really take this as their own personal celebration too. From the people who used to drive blood donations around from the donor to the receiver whenever needed before refrigeration existed, to the clinical trials which ended up saving lives, to the doctors working long shifts to make sure everyone gets seen and we all live.

We thank you all. So many of us are here because of what you’ve done over the years.

Happy birthday. Have a champagne, NHS, you deserve it. But don’t let your hair down too much, because we need you, every second of every day.

The kindness of strangers

I want to take you back to the Friday before I went in to surgery. I had been at work that day and as the day was drawing to a close, my friend said ‘so… Pub…?’. It was just us three close friends left in the office and it turned out we all had a free night so we finished what we were doing and headed to the local for a few drinks. It was my last day at work for a while and the last time I would see my two friends for some time. We drank wine, we laughed, we forgot everything serious and we were just three friends having some drinks after work on a Friday. It was perfect.

After a few drinks it was time to head home and we had our hugs and goodbyes and I told them I would see them again on the other side. We all went off our own separate ways.

I took my way down to the tube station, a spring in my step. I was tired so I sat while I waited for the train to turn up. A lady sat down next to me. I was playing on my phone like a good millenial does. And my useless neuropathy hands did their usual thing of throwing my phone on the ground. The lady next to me was kind enough to pick it up for me. ‘Sorry’ I said ‘my chemo hands are useless’.

She asked me more about my chemo and cancer and I said that I was going into surgery on the Monday to cut out half my face and rebuild it. I said it was scary but I was keen to be moving forward.

She then reached into her bag and pulled out a little wooden cross. She said it was given to her by an Israeli. She said it had brought her luck over the last few years and now it was time to pass it on to someone else who needed it: me.

I asked her if she was sure and thanked her profusely. And at that moment my train turned up and I had to run. I told her how much it meant to me and thanked her once again as I ran off. I regret my brevity but sometimes moments are fleeting.

I am not religious. In fact I am quite strongly against religion. But the thoughtfulness behind this action absolutely overwhelmed me. I cherish this little cross. And it came with me to hospital and sat on my table next to me for those two weeks. It now sits at my bedside.

These moments of the kindness of strangers are just amazing. I will keep it close by, I think for the next 5 years. I.e. Until I find out the cancer is gone. Then I shall let it choose its next owner and pass on the luck it will have brought me.

Sometimes I feel like I’m in a movie. Life is constantly proving to me how crazy and remarkable it can be.

So no, I’m not religious, spiritual or superstitious, but I believe in people. People never cease to amaze me or make me feel special.