The Princess of Wales has finished cancer treatment and I imagine we’re all equally pleased about that. I mean, you don’t have to be a Royalist to be glad another human being doesn’t have cancer. But there’s been some speculation about whether this means she’s cancer free. Well, cancer isn’t that finite. If you’re lucky.

So, what happens when you stumble out of the tunnel and into the light? You might think they’ll be a parade in your honour. There isn’t. Or it’ll be like when Dorothy lands in Oz and suddenly life changes from grey tones to all singing and dancing technicolour. It’s not. It’s more like being pulled through a hedge backwards. But the hedge is 50 foot wide. Full of thorns. It’s on fire. And the other side of the hedge is an obstacle course. What I’m saying is, it doesn’t just end.

In May 2023, I sat in the same chair in the consultant’s office that I had sat in 9 months earlier when I was told I had cancer. Only this time I was told I was no longer showing any ‘evidence of disease’. Initially, I didn’t even understand that meant I was effectively cancer free. Realistically even if the Dallas Cowboys cheerleading squad had bowled into the room and spelled it out for me with glittering pom poms, I still not sure I would have understood it. Also, I felt inclined to disagree, being bald and with bags under my eyes big enough to hide the lost treasures of Lima in. But they assured me, any similarity to Uncle Fester was incidental, I was cancer free. But equally we weren’t done yet.

After 4 months of chemotherapy and 2 rounds of surgery, I was no longer cancerous but like a prism of light shifting seamlessly, the focus of treatment became about ensuring I wouldn’t be again. And the Cancer Express rolled onward into radiotherapy station, to blast any stray cells into oblivion. I had visions of ending up like the dog from Urban Legend but as usual, I was being a drama queen and the only thing it really made me was tired. Although I finally understood the idea of ‘you are what you eat’, having been microwaved daily like all those packets of Super noodles I ate as a student. 

I ended the physical sessions of being baked from the inside out in August 2023 but as it goes, you continue proving like an amateur loaf on Bake Off for several weeks. By which point, I had moved onto hormone suppression. For me, estrogen is bad. It feeds the mutating cancerous cells, so I was advised in no uncertain terms, that I don’t want it anymore. It was time to shut it down faster than Fyre festival. Of course, being a female, switching off the estrogen valves has repercussions.

Menopausal repercussions. After everything else, is that fair? No. But nothing about cancer is fair. It enters your life like a ham-fisted Mr. Blobby, knocking over anything in its path and leaving a trail of destruction, without the decency of providing good-hearted whimsy. But in for a penny and all that. Having chemotherapy felt like living on the periphery of vision. I was there but I felt like I had been removed from the main line of sight. Reduced to a blur on the side lines. I had no intention of returning to the middle distance. Afterall, I had been back to work for 3 months, I was on a roll.

So, Tamoxifen came first which is a relatively common drug used to modulate estrogen receptors in breast cancer sufferers and is therefore widely used.

I took this for several weeks with no side effects until I had an oncology review and Abemaciclib arrived in my life. And as it goes, I had to be medically approved to take Abema and I had to agree to take it. Why? Because it is a comparatively new drug, and you have to meet a threshold of criteria. My age, the aggressive nature of the initial tumour and the localised spread to my lymph nodes got me a Golden Ticket. However, the choice was still mine as the side effects are harsher. They include (but are not limited to) nausea, stomach pain, bleeding gums, headaches, joint pain, hair loss and rashes.

And the most common side effect? Diarrhea. Because of course. It’s never something like eating as much cheese as you like without gaining weight. 

But it could improve my percentage chance of remaining cancer free by 30%.

So, did I want it? 2 years of possible toilet-based inconveniences against a longer-life? In for a pound. Albeit with a tense flight to Tunisia in September 2023 where I had nightmares that I would effectively create a large flying Dutch oven if the chicken I had eaten in the terminal proved problematic. Lucky for the other travelers on flight 552, they were marked safe from me and my newly tricksy digestive system.

The sun continued to rise and set. I worked, I lost weight, my energy returned. My armpit stopped resembling Spam stuffed into a pocket. In May 2024, at a review with my surgical consultant I found out I have Oedema on my chest. I had kept the boob but lost the lymph nodes on the affected side, resulting in a less efficient lymphatic drainage. The fluid collects faster than money in Taylor Swift’s bank account, and I have to clear the area twice daily to relieve the swelling and encourage the fluid to the correct exit like an air stewardess of
my own anatomy.

I celebrate birthdays. I collect my medication every 28 days from the cancer clinic. I got promoted. I attend monthly blood tests. I travelled solo to Wales to visit my Aunt. I take an aromatase inhibitor daily and a booster infusion of bisphosphonates every 6 months.  I walk my dogs and spend time with my family.

I get an implant injected into my stomach every 4 weeks. I go to bottomless brunch with my girls. I set my phone alarms daily to remember all the pills and I ride the waves of side effects like Bodhi in Point Break.

And I’m certainly not moaning. I am thankful every day because I know people who didn’t get the chance to be. I am well-looked after by the NHS and the wonderful team at the Sandra Chapman clinic. I have annual mammograms, monthly and bi-annual checkups and the ability to contact a Macmillan nurse whenever there is a stabbing pain that concerns me. Best case scenario, I will be on medication for a decade.

So, I get it. Kate isn’t done. I measure my time in inches of hair, with my cancer life running parallel with my normal life, praying every day that down the line, those roads don’t converge. But living, always living. Just maybe don’t stand downwind of me.