As luck would have it

When I was diagnosed with endometrial cancer, my surgeon told me, 'Well, if you have to get a gynae cancer, this is the one to have. It shows itself early and we can cure it if we catch it in time.' 

When I was undergoing radiotherapy, even though I saw a lot of women at the Cancer Care Unit and some of them told me about the brachytherapy they were having to undergo, it didn't occur to me that I had been very lucky indeed. In spite of the length of time it took me to get someone to believe there really was something very wrong, I only needed 'normal' radiotherapy and, as I keep saying, I'm still here! 

Yesterday, I heard about someone who hasn't been so lucky; her endometrial cancer didn't 'show itself early'; it was already far more advanced than mine by the time it made its presence felt. In spite of the swift action taken once it was recognised, there is no really happy ending in sight. Chemotherapy, radiotherapy, brachytherapy; all have been administered. The cancer has been removed, but it was already in the lymph nodes when it was identified, and the patient has been told it will probably return sometime in the next two years.

It's tales like this that make me realise I shouldn't be complacent, believing that 'my' cancer is always curable. It isn't - and this is a cancer that isn't 'glamorous', so the symptoms aren't as well known as cervical or ovarian cancer and are often mistaken for something else (as in my case). It shows, I think, the  importance of constant vigilance and an immediate visit to a doctor, should any signs appear. And then, if the doctor considers not endometrial cancer but something much less drastic - and we all want to hear that we haven't got cancer whatever this symptoms may be telling us - the importance of insisting on tests and (at least) a second opinion are highlighted, for me, by stories such as this one.

Views of cancer

Macmillan seems to be advertising a lot at the minute. It's good that they're raising the profile of what they do and of talking about cancer. However, for some reason, I find their ads really negative - I'd like to see something a bit more upbeat; people bursting into tears when they hear they have cancer, feeling they can't talk about it to anyone isn't a picture I find comforting. Now, if they could show people living full lives and being able to discuss their cancer openly, that would be a good thing. Maybe that's what they're working towards showing. I hope so.

A week to go

Usually, when I write the words, 'A week to go', I'm referring to an impending medical intrusion into my life. Now, though, with luck, that won't happen again. This time, my reference is to my forthcoming celebratory trip north to the Arctic. I am excited - even though my travel insurance company is still trying to sell me additional cover for cancer.


The celebrations can be followed at:


Two ladies go North.

Preparing to celebrate

Tomorrow it will be one year since my last hospital visit. How different January has been this year from last. No count down. No waking in the night and remembering what's coming. No wishing my life away to make the nightmare end.

As well as this, tomorrow is five years since my first post-operative hospital visit. This is the 'official' fifth year anniversary, the day I should have received my final discharge, the one I received last year instead. 

I swore that I would do something to celebrate if I made it to five years. At the beginning of February 2012, I'm heading to Finnish Lapland in the hope of seeing the aurora borealis. It would be really special to see those lights in the wilderness. I've seen a weak version near my home, but to see them in the far north would be amazing. Perhaps it won't happen, perhaps it will. I'm going to give it a good try - and if not this time, then I'll keep on trying!

One thing I've learned in the last five years is that life's too short...

What bliss

Although I've been saying since last year that it was wonderful not to have to think about going for a check-up at the hospital again, it's only in the last day or two that I've really come to terms with the fact that I don't have that hanging over me this year. Every January since 2005, I've had a hospital visit that's filled me with trepidation and sometimes left me in tears when I was treated as a piece of meat rather than a real person (both times, it was a consultant who had that effect - the nursing staff have always been terrific!)

This morning, the reality finally dawned on me - no hospital visit this month. I feel as though a door has opened and I'm able, at last, to walk through it.

Five years free

Today is the big one! It's the fifth anniversary of being cancer free.

On 27th December 2005, I was taken into theatre and emerged, 90 minutes later, without the tumour and without a significant part of my anatomy. 

What a shame that had they identified that I wasn't so much depressed as physically ill some weeks or months earlier when I kept returning to ask for further investigations, I would only have needed surgery and not follow-up radiotherapy.  This is a theme I keep returning to - it's hard not to feel bitter about it, particularly when I hear the same story from cancer patients over and over again. Mostly, I can now think of it as being 'one of those things', but sometimes I need to allow the anger to rise; without doing so, I think it would simply fester and become an unhealthy obsession and a monstrous elephant in the room. The only thing that cheers me up and helps me to get things in perspective when that anger begins to rise - apart from brisk walks or doing some hard, physical work - is the thought of Spike Milligan's epitaph: 'I told you I was ill'. (Thank you, Spike).

Is ignorance really bliss?

I regularly rage against the demonisation of cancer, of the lumping together of 'cancer' as one 'disease'. I am reminded of this yet again today when I read that a newspaper columnist has died 'after a long battle with cancer'. There's no information of what sort of cancer this was, at what stage it was discovered - issues that make a huge difference to survival rates. Again and again we see this refusal to talk about cancer. It really does make me angry - it's not going to go away just because you don't discuss it. Ignorance breeds terror and a belief that cancer is always a death sentence. It isn't - look at me! It was a nasty experience and one I'd rather not have had, but the first thing my surgeon said to me after telling me the results of my tests was, 'But this is one we can cure if we catch it soon enough', and it was those words, not 'You have cancer' that I carried with me through my treatment, along with the nurse's comment, 'You're someone who's had cancer. You don't have it now'. For goodness' sake, what is it about cancer that causes such secrecy, such terror? I've even heard of people who haven't told anyone they had cancer because they didn't think it was appropriate to do so. That makes me so angry! Why should anyone be made to feel that their illness has to be hidden? And, even more important, why won't people talk about it? It's only through talking and sharing our experiences that we can destroy the demon!