Say it With Flowers

Questions of finance are exercising my mind... How am I going to eat and pay my bills and health insurance whilst I work full time on my book?

Photographer Jessica Jones is kindly offering a very special price on her sublime flower prints – a perfect mother’s day gift.

Fresh flowers epitomise the beauty of impermanence, but these delicate flower photographs will endure for a lifetime.

These are signed, archival giclée prints on fine art paper. Image size approximately 10"x12" on paper size approximately 12"x16".

Order now for the special price of only £50.

All proceeds will go to help keep the organic carrot juice, petrol and electric light flowing whilst I canter for the finishing line writing my book.

To order, please email: chemochic@o2.co.uk.

Here is your chance to give real practical support to Chemo Chic.

Blue Ranunculus

Pink Peony

White Ranunculus 1

Black Ranunculus

Brown Ranunculus 2

Bus Rozes

Stepping Through a Doorway

A long day is in prospect. I’m having the big scary bone scan.


Sitting on the bus I notice that I have forgotten to wear the opal ring that Miranda gave me for Christmas. I feel doomed.

9.30 - Princess Grace Hospital, Nottingham Place. I’m here for a bone densitometry scan. Confusingly, this has nothing to do with the bone scan. Rather, it is to see if I have any osteoporosis. It’s as well to be on the safe side. This scan involves lying on my back whilst low dose x-rays are wafted over my body.

10. 15 - The Harley Street Clinic. A radioactive isotope is injected from a lead cylinder into my vein. I leave after being given the usual warnings about steering clear of children and pregnant women. As if I’d fraternise with them anyway.

10.45 - Content Wellbeing. I rush in and pick up this week’s beauty product I can’t live without: Hurraw! raw, fair-trade, vegan, cold-pressed black cherry lip balm.

11.00 - Cocorino, Thayer Street. Tess meets me for coffee at this tiny Italian café. I order a huge serving of scrambled eggs with sun-dried tomatoes on sourdough toast and a soya latte. Well I am trying to gain four kilos. Tess has a more restrained bowl of granola. Tess was in hospital herself this week but she’s looking fabulous in her usual yoga-casual way. 

12.15 - LOC, Harley Street. I have a follow-up appointment with nutritionist Jane Clarke. She has asked me to keep a food diary for the past week. I rummage in my bag, pull out the diary and a can of Coke, pop the Coke and push the diary across the desk to her. “I feel that just keeping the diary has helped. I’ve drunk a lot more water and I have put on about a kilo already." As my friend Jimmy always says “What you stare at gets bigger,” – only he has a much more snappy and memorable way of putting it that I can’t remember right now. Do I imagine it or did Jane glance at the can in my hand?

“I’m drinking this for medical reasons,” I exclaim, “Jane Plant says that the phosphates in Coke leach calcium from your bones and help to flush out the radioactivity.”*

“I’m not proscriptive,” she replies. Jane’s non-judgemental approach raises her even further in my esteem. She flicks through my diary. “Gosh, you eat well.” I glow with pride. “There are two areas you need to focus on. The first is proteins – you need to eat at least two protein rich meals a day. For you, the best proteins are eggs; all kinds of seafood; lentils, chick peas and all kinds of beans – hummus on oatcakes is great - also nuts and nut butters on wholegrain toast. Second, load up on antioxidants. Drink a fresh juice every day and vary the colours – have a green juice one day, an orange one the next and a red one another day. Eat loads of salad with lots of raw stuff: add in avocado, sprouts, chicory, raw broccoli, ginger, fresh herbs, seeds or onions. Adding hummus, a boiled egg or a tahini dressing gives your salad a protein boost. Beta-carotene is important. You get that from red and orange vegetables. Interestingly, beta-carotene is more available if the vegetables are cooked – so roast tomatoes, beetroot and pumpkin and add them into your salads. Do eat your brown rice, quinoa and buckwheat pasta but don’t fill up on carbohydrates. You need to leave room to boost your protein and antioxidants. Your body is exhausted from all the chemo and emotional stress. It’s as if you’ve had you foot to the floor for the last year and a half. When you get this depleted, your body starts to break down its own muscles in order to get the amino acids it needs. For a sweet eat organic dark chocolate. Have some cake from time to time if you want. This isn’t an exercise in self-deprivation. But try to choose a cake that has lots of good stuff in it and isn’t just white flour, sugar and cream. Keep up the good work. I will see you again in two weeks.”

***

13.15 - The Harley Street Clinic - in the basement where they keep the big guns. I don the ghastly gown and lie down on the table. Here we go. June, the radiographer, chats away. “Would you like some music? We have classics: Puccini, Mozart; or some easy listening piano music; jazz – or Michael Bublé?” I remember the endless Elton John cds that Big Bruce and I listened to in the radiotherapy chamber. We were given no choice in the matter back then. “Do you have any Elton John?” I ask. June shakes her head. “Mozart then.”

“This is a new scanner,” June explains about this gigantic machine. The camera will come down very close to your face and then as it moves down it will actually touch you. Don’t panic. It is searching for the heat of your body”

“But what will happen,” I ask, panicking immediately, “if it just keeps coming down and then starts slowly crushing the life out of me, like in a James Bond film?”

“If that happens, shout really loud and we will rush in and save you.” June ties my feet together to be sure there's no possibility of escape, gives me a look and leaves the room.

I lie on the bench and try to concentrate on breathing. The big camera descends to within a couple of centimetres of my face. It begins its slow crawl along the length of my body. It lightly touches my collarbone. I glance down at the giant, beige head. I now understand what it feels like to be nuzzled by a dinosaur. A dinosaur with the word PHILIPS tattooed across its forehead. Mozart fiddles away. I become aware that the head is rising and falling, almost imperceptibly. It’s as if the dinosaur is breathing. Or am I imagining it? I take a deep breath. The big head lifts noticeably. I breathe out. It falls back. Oh my god - this creature is closely following every slight movement of my body.

There is a screen to the left of my head, showing images of what the camera is seeing. The screen is on the periphery of my vision. I strain to pull it into focus and make out two little ghostly figures, lit up and glowing from the abdomen to the top of the legs. This is the part of me that the creature is inspecting now. But I simply can’t hold the focus. I mentally recommit to getting my eyes lasered.

Some long time later an alarm sounds. I jump involuntarily. The gentle undulations of the machine and the soft strains of Mozart have lulled me into a trance. Radiographer Susan enters the room. I have often noticed that whenever I have anything like radiotherapy or an MRI or a CT scan, one radiographer walks out the door and a different one walks in at the end of the procedure. I wonder if it has anything to do with mutating qualities of the radiation?

“All done Lily. Take a seat in the waiting area and we’ll bring you the films.”

***

14.15 - A Japanese café on Marylebone High Street. I take a seat and carefully place the sealed A4 envelope containing the films on the table in front of me.

“Here is the sixty-four million dollar answer.”

“Let’s have a look then,“ says Flossie, “I’ve been watching lots of episodes of House lately so I’m sure I can figure it out a few scans.” 


I’m getting through the anxiety of this long day with a lot of help from my friends. It’s great to see Flossie. Over sushi we chat about cosmetics with a dash of discussion about love addiction and love avoidance. These are our two favourite topics.

15.15 - The Wallace Collection, Manchester Square. If you’re ever wandering about in the west end with an hour or two to kill before you discover whether or not you have cancer in your bones this is THE place to go. It’s an eclectic, almost eccentric bunch of paintings, furniture, ceramics, sculptures, miniatures, swords, daggers, medals, suits of armour, jewelled trinket boxes and the like that was collected by various Marquesses of Hertford and, most notably, Sir Richard Wallace – who lived in this house between about 1760 and 1890. There is room upon room of stuff and a lovely café in the glass-roofed courtyard. Today I spend time with the Rembrandts, the fascinating miniatures of Napoleon and Marie Antoinette’s Sèvres porcelain before relaxing in the courtyard with a fresh pineapple, melon and ginger juice. Top spot.

17.00 - LOC, Harley Street. Iris and Lily enter the building. “That’s a good new look,” I say, complimenting Iris on her ensemble of slim trousers, bias-cut grey t-shirt, long grey silk scarf and mushroom leather jacket.

“It’s very business class in here,” comments Iris as she plops her monochrome self into an oyster grey suedette armchair. I judge from her expression that 'business class' is not necessarily what we desire. Suzy Cleator tears in from another hospital down the road. These top consultants flit like butterflies from clinic to clinic up and down Harley Street. “Come on Lily.”  She bustles. Iris and I follow her slipstream into the lift.

Upstairs we sit in more oyster grey suedette armchairs whilst Suzy sits in a high-backed swivel chair behind a cherry wood desk. She peels open the envelope. I study a minimalist arrangement of magnolia buds on the empty sideboard.

Suzy glances at the films and, quick as you like, says: “these are fine.”

There is a brief silence in the room and then the words pour out. “Oh that’s fantastic!” “What do you think is causing all the pains?”

“You have a slight scoliosis,” says Suzy.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a curvature of the spine, see?” She holds up the photographs. I can distinctly see a gentle S shape in the line of my backbones. “What causes that?” asks Iris.

“Usually you’re born with it.”

“And what is that? I ask, pointing to a noticeable black spot in the centre of my chest.

“It’s probably a tiny bit of arthritis.”

“In my spine? Should I be concerned about that?”

“Oh no, everyone has it. At your age. At our age,” Suzy corrects herself swiftly waving her hand about to include Iris and herself. “Everyone over thirty has it,” she concludes, limping across the finishing line.

***

Some days the greatest joy a person can have is to walk through a door and step back out into the world. Iris and I do just that.

“See?” says Iris, “I told you there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just old with a black heart.”

“That’s ok with me. I’m looking forward to getting a lot older, even if I do have to spend the rest of my newly granted existence with you.”


*In her book 'Your Life in Your Hands'. Scary huh?

Shock and Awe

Anxiety has been building for the last couple of weeks. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. On Friday I completely deconstructed my book and began at the beginning again – with two months to the deadline. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. This morning I woke up with an imaginary tiger clawing at my chest. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. I’ve meditated. I’ve been for walks. I’ve watched countless old episodes of CSI. But the more I try to distract myself the more I think about it: today I’m having my follow-up mammogram and ultrasound scans.

As I’m meditating away: breathe, one, breathe, two, breathe, three... the phone rings. I forgot to switch it off. Don’t answer it. Breathe, four... ring. Breathe five... ring! It’s May. May is coming to the hospital with me. One of the life skills that I’ve learned in the past fourteen months and twenty-two days is how to ask for help. The old Lily would have just toughed it out and gone to the hospital alone. That is what I did on the day I was diagnosed. I remember my feelings of bafflement as the ultrasound doctor said “There is a tumour here and in my opinion it could be malignant. I’m sorry...” and my confusion as I stumbled from the room. I sat alone on a plastic chair in the corridor and tears sprouted from my eyes. I tried not to look at the people passing by. I desperately wanted a hand to hold.

If I think about it I may have had some kind of unacknowledged notion that enduring the hard moments alone was somehow courageous. I now regard such bravado as foolish.

So I asked Iris and Flossie and Tessa and Wanda and May. I wasn’t discouraged when any of them said they couldn’t make it. I didn’t assume that nobody loves me. My friends have lives and commitments. I knew somebody would say “yes.” That somebody was May. And what woman wouldn’t want a talented artist and trainee Shaman like May by her side when visiting the breast clinic?

I leave May in charge of the car for a few minutes. “I’m just going to zip into Pret-a-Manger and get us some coffees. Here’s the key, in case a parking warden comes.”

“Is it difficult to drive?”

“No, it’s an automatic.”

As I’m standing in the queue at Pret my phone rings, “How do you get the car out of park?”

My tests today are being done at the Harley Street Breast Clinic. Confusingly, this is different to the Harley Street Clinic where I normally go. Meg and I are shown into a miniscule waiting room. There are two other women sitting on a sofa about eighteen inches away. We and they conduct our conversations in low tones, trying to pretend that we can’t overhear everything that the other pair are saying. A nurse comes in. “Please complete this form.” It’s the usual you agree to exonerate the clinic of any responsibility for everything and pay through the nose should your insurance company fail to cough up contract. I notice that the insurance pre-authorisation number is missing from the form. I fish out my iPhone and call Bupa.

“Hello, I’m just about to have my follow-up mammogram and ultrasound but the hospital don’t seem to have a note of the pre-authorisation number. Could you check it for me?”

“Have you been seen by our medical assessment team?”

“Eh? No. What are you talking about?”

“Please hold the line.”

I spend an uneventful five minutes listening to the annoying Bupa music. Radiographer Jane comes in. “We’re ready for you Miss Lily.”

“Won’t be a minute,” I mouth and point to the phone. Another five minutes passes. I feel my shoulders rising ever so slightly.

“Miss Lily, when were you diagnosed with breast cancer?”

“Fourteen months ago”

“You only joined Bupa in May so this is a pre-exisiting condition. I can’t authorise treatment at this time.”

In a strained voice I tell Valerie, that is her name, that I joined Bupa in 1989. I explain that I temporarily transferred my policy to Bupa Australia and then transferred it back on my return to the UK, in May. I note, through gritted teeth, that although Bupa guaranteed me that my cover would be continuous I have had several hiccups of this nature in the last few months and that on each occasion I have been assured that the problem would be fixed.

“Well you should have called us earlier for authorisation.”

“I did. I called you fourteen months ago and was given authorisation. I’m just calling you now to check the number.”

“I cannot authorise treatment at this time.”

Suddenly I am in melt-down: “Listen Valerie, do you appreciate that I am at this moment in the hospital? Whilst you have kept me on hold for ten minutes the radiographer called me in for my mammogram. So you’re not only keeping me waiting but also the radiographer and all the other patients. Now you’re telling me that the treatment that was authorised last year is no longer authorised, seemingly because Bupa, despite repeated requests, have failed to correct a mistake on my computer record. And what I and the radiographer and my friend May and the other patients are all waiting for is to find out whether or not I have breast cancer.  Do you have any idea HOW STRESSFUL THIS SITUATION IS FOR ME?”

The two women sitting on the sofa eighteen inches away look totally absorbed in their magazines.

“I’m sorry I don’t like your tone of voice. I may have to terminate this call.”

I terminate the call.

***

I stand before the mammogram machine, uncovered in more ways that one. No clothes. No medical insurance. Jane inspects my breast “Wow,” she says, “Where’s the scar? Who was your surgeon? You must be very pleased with it.”

Squash. “Ow!” “Don’t breathe.” Zap.

I rejoin May in the waiting room clutching my very own CD of my very own mammograms. The CD has a big fancy ‘H’ on the front of it, along with my name and hospital number. I wave it in front of May’s face: “Lily’s greatest tits.”

Next up is the ultrasound. By comparison it’s positively relaxing.

***

“Come along Lily.” May and I grab our coats, bags and empty coffee cups and follow in Mr Hadjiminas’ wake to his consulting room. Pictures of my breasts are already plastered all over his light box. Without any messing about he gets straight to the point. “Everything is fine.”

I’m not really taking it in.

Next he examines my back. “That’s settled down well.” Since the last steroid injection a month ago the swelling has not returned. All of my crossing of fingers and knocking on wood seems to have done the trick.

“So, come back and see Suzy Cleator in three months. We will do another ultrasound in six months and your next mammogram will be a year from now.”

Before I know what’s happened I’ve shaken hands with Mr H, kissed nurse Tara and May and I are out the door. I stare about me at the elegant town houses on Harley Street. My body begins to tremble. I start to laugh. Then to cry. “How do you feel?” asks May. “I kind of want to lie down here on the pavement,” I reply. “Lily, I think you’re in shock.”

***

Since there’s still half an hour left on the parking meter we leg it down to Being Content. “Hello,” says Imelda. “Imelda!” I say, “I’ve just come from the clinic I had my mammogram and ultrasound scans they’re ALL CLEAR I need some nail varnish remover and an eye pencil.”*

***

May and I are recovering with tea and tomatoes on toast at Lowry & Baker, my local cosy café. I text everyone I’ve ever known: All clear!

“You should mark this day Lily,” says May, wearing her Shaman hat, “Go out onto your balcony tonight and light a fire in a saucepan. Write down all the things you are now leaving behind and burn them. Then get three sticks to represent what you want for the future and put those on the fire too.”

“I will do that May.” As I speak I upend my plate, spraying olive oil and sliced tomatoes all over my famous breasts. “How big do the sticks need to be?” I ask, indicating sizes with my fingers. I lower my hands and they crash hard onto the table, upsetting the teacups. It seems that in the overwhelming shock and relief of learning that I’m not going to die I have lost the comprehension of where my body is in space.

“Actually Lily, I think maybe you should forget about the fire. You might burn your flat down.”

*Reviews to follow.

Trust

I apologise for my long absence. The difficulty I have been having is getting out of bed in the mornings. Left to my own devices I can sleep until lunchtime. I dread waking up and coming back to reality. My first waking thoughts are “How has my life gone so wrong?” followed closely by “What is going to go wrong next?”

Sheldon phones me at 9 a.m. every morning. “Lily, are you out of bed?” It’s a great help, not only because I sometimes actually get up but also because a quick conversation with a friend derails my negative train of thought.

Getting to sleep is equally problematic. To divert my attention from my own head I often listen to the radio. Last night, being Sunday, Radio 4 broadcast a quasi-spiritual-religious-philosophical programme called Something Understood. The topic was trust, or the lack of it. There was discussion of how, as a society, we have grown less trusting of one another. Yes, there are a lot of unscrupulous people out there and it is wise to take care. Only last week a friend of mine nearly fell victim to a rent deposit scam. But our own actions go a long way towards promoting this atmosphere of fear and suspicion. In our pursuit of a ‘me first’ life we seldom consider how our actions may be damaging those around us. Do we stop and think: is what I am about to do going to destroy another person’s trust? Yet trust is the cement that binds friends, families, couples, businesses and institutions together. Without it our society would disintegrate.

The presenter summarised: “Loss of trust is corrosive. It leads to despair.”

Anyway, this is all a long-winded way of explaining how I come to be teetering up the gangplank of a houseboat moored at Chelsea Reach on the river Thames. I have come to visit Suzanne Thomas, a highly recommended hypnotherapist and counsellor. I duck and enter her sanctum, minding not to hit my head on the ceiling. Once safely sitting down I tell Suzanne my story and the source of my despair. Having been so thoroughly let down, first by my body and then by the man I loved, I have lost trust in the world.

“This is not your fault Lily,” Suzanne reassures me, “You’ve experienced a huge shock and a terrible betrayal. Really cruel. Your ex-boyfriend sounds like a classic case of a man suffering from Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”

I have heard these very words from many different lips yet I still need to hear them again. And again.

Anxiety, Suzanne says, is living in the future, constantly obsessing about “What if...?” Depression, on the other hand, is living in the past. “If only...” To be healthy and happy, we can only operate in the present moment. What Eckhart Tolle calls the now.

But how do I do that? “Wiggle your toes,” says Suzanne. “When you’re anxious, trying to live in the future, or depressed, trying to live in the past, actually you’ve lost touch with your body. So wiggle your toes. It immediately drags you back into the present. Then notice all your senses one by one. See what you see, hear what you hear, touch what you touch, smell what you smell, taste what you taste. It will root you in the present. It’s a much less scary place to be. I can see that lamp. It’s orange with green bits. I can hear the traffic. I can feel my elbows resting on the cool arms of the chair, my hand holding this coffee cup. I can smell that the air is warm and fresh today. I can taste the coffee in my mouth.”

“Another rule to remember,” says Suzanne, “is that the true opposite of fear is love. The two things are mutually exclusive. You can’t have love where there is fear and you can’t have fear where there is love. So surrounding yourself with as much love as possible is a very good idea. Some people are in the middle of a circle of loving friends and family. That is fantastic though it’s got its definite drawbacks as well. But for many of us that is not the case. You may be doing this more or less by yourself but that doesn’t mean that you can’t receive love equally.”

Suzanne’s exercise to bring love into your life.

Sit in a chair. Imagine drawing around you at arm’s length a golden circle. Trace around and around that golden circle. Know that this is no ordinary golden circle. It’s a golden circle of love and protection. You’re in the centre of it.

As you trace around and around you notice that, high above the centre of your golden circle is the source of whatever you think of as your higher power. From that point golden light is pouring down on you. You are bathed in love and protection.

As you trace around and around your golden circle you see that there is a stream of blue, travelling in a clockwise direction, just inside your golden circle. Going around like a stream. Make any adjustments to the colour or the speed until you’re happy with it. That blue is drawing strength to you.

You remain in your golden circle, with golden light pouring down on you. You notice that if you look a little wider around you, you can see for miles, to the horizon, all the way around.

From every point on the horizon, figures are approaching. People. Animals. Maybe too far away to recognise at first. But as they get closer you begin to see who they are. Friends, family, animals you may know or have known. And the more they come the more they come.

There are people here who you haven’t seen for years. People who may have died. People who you’ve had serious and deep relationships with, other people, maybe an old lady at a bus stop who you once had a chat with or your best friend at primary school. And the more they come, the more they come.

They’re forming a circle around you. Not too close but close enough. And that circle is added to and added to. Now you are in the centre of your golden circle. You don’t need to do a thing. Your heart receives love all by itself. And love flows back to them. There’s nothing you need to do. Just let that happen.

Once you do this exercise from time to time, you can start to recall it when you’re just chatting to people or waiting for the train. “Yes, I’m in my golden circle.” You can’t possibly feel stressed when you’re in it. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, you’re always in your golden circle. And that’s wonderful. You can just enjoy it.

Screaming in the Car

I am still wading, swimming, drowning in the pain of breaking up with Nick.

Throughout all the ghastly cancer treatments I held fast to love and to my dreams. I anticipated the day that Nick and I would be together in Australia, putting the past horrible months behind us: camping, lying on the beach, laughing, swimming, eating and getting stronger together. I invested all my hope in our holiday. Then, the day I landed in Sydney I discovered Nick deleting texts from his mobile phone. When I challenged him about it he told me that he had been seeing someone else. He told me that he was not in love with me. He told me that he had never been in love with me.

“I have never loved you Lily” Those were the cruellest words I have ever heard uttered.

So now, instead of eating in nice restaurants I am forking out $150 an hour for therapy. Instead of touring Tasmania in a camper van I am being driven slowly insane with grief. I am very far away from my friends. I feel so alone. Nick is icy cold and distant. The more I have tried to salvage our relationship, the more he has rejected me. Repetitive questions circle in my head, as monotonous as scratched cds: "Why did you tell me that you loved me? Why did you fly half way across the world to be with me? Why did you burst into tears when Mr H told you that I was safely out of surgery? Why did you beg me for a second chance? Why did you insist that my family go to visit you in Queensland when you were already seeing someone else and planning to break up with me? Why did you book flights and a camper van and make all those plans with me? Why did you tell me how excited your children were to meet me? Why did you lie to me from the very beginning? Why did you abandon me when I needed you so much? Why did you think it was ok to hurt me like that? why? why? why? why? why?"

And then I found a lump under my arm.

I made an appointment to see Dr Hargreaves, Sydney’s answer to Mr Hadjiminas. I spent a week waiting, barely able to eat or sleep. I didn’t tell anybody.

“How are you?” Dr Hargreaves enquired, beaming at me. Well he did ask. So I told him: about the lump, about Nick, about crying all the time. “Oh dear,” he frowned, “well the Tamoxifen will definitely be contributing to depression. Let’s have a look at you.” He examined my neck, chest, breasts and armpits. I have always maintained that Mr Hadjiminas’ hands are better than any mammogram. I get the impression that Dr Hargreaves has the same kind of magic fingers. After all, these top breast surgeons feel women up all day every day.

“It’s just scar tissue,” Dr Hargreaves proclaimed. I expelled a breath that I seemed to have been holding since the beginning of time. “After surgery and radiotherapy you will get these lumps and you are bound to freak out. You just have to get them checked up.”

This morning I am driving to see my therapist. It is rush hour and I’m in a slow crawl along Old South Head Road. I divert into a side-road to take a short cut. Ten minutes later I’m lost and hopelessly snarled in a gridlock situation. Then I begin to scream. It’s weird. I have never screamed in my life before, not even as a child. I feel as if I have grown two heads. One head is observing: “What is that extraordinary noise? Where is it coming from? How are you capable of producing it?” The other head is simply screaming: deep, loud and vibrating with horror, the sound fills the car. And it will not stop. It screams and it screams. The first head remembers a song, by an American folk singer, titled “Screaming in the Car”. She sings about being pulled over by the cops for “screaming in the car in a twenty-mile zone.” My screams convulse and bend into sobs of laughter.

Does anyone know that song or the name of the singer? I would love to get hold of a copy.

Anxiety Busters

I had hoped that the end of chemo would coincide with the end of my worries and cares. What with everyone going on about how radiotherapy is such “a walk in the park” and so on I had imagined myself and my slightly pink breast, bathed in rainbows, tiptoeing through the tulips hand-in-hand with Nick, pausing here and there only to pluck a fresh chocolate éclair from the trees.

So I’m a bit surprised to find myself regularly breaking down in tears with Nick having to calm my frenzied bouts of anxiety. Of course money is always a worry for anyone dealing with a serious illness. Those of us who are self-employed don’t even get sick pay. Social Security payments won’t cover the cost of organic groceries, let alone health insurance, home insurance, petrol, parking, new roofs, clothes, phones, broadband, Hermès scarves and a thousand other daily expenses. So, like many people, I’ve borrowed and gone into debt to get through. I am very lucky that my sister Miranda has been able and willing to bail me out.

Another source of anxiety is the prospect of long-term side effects of the various cancer treatments. A quick google will throw up endless opinions that both chemo and radiotherapy cause other illnesses. Many of these are simply scare stories. God only knows who originates them and for what possible reason. But then there are solid concerns too. Last week I read about long-term side effects of radiotherapy on the website of Cancer Research UK. Apparently it can cause fibrosis that leads to hardening and shrinking of the breast. It can also trigger Lymphoedema.

I was quite taken aback. I feel as though I had not been fully aware of these possibilities. I don’t know how commonly it happens. Tomorrow I will be seeing Dr Coulter, my temporary oncologist so I will be able to find out more and report back to you.

But it was enough to start the little hamster of anxiety running on its wheel. Pretty soon my mind has worked its way around to the big looming unknown: Tamoxifen. When it comes to this drug, opinions are polarised. According to Suzy Cleator, Tamoxifen is the most important treatment for Oestrogen Receptor positive breast tumours (the type that I had) after surgery. Many in the medical profession swear that it’s a wonder drug that has changed the outlook for breast cancer sufferers. According to many in the alternative camp it is a destructive and misogynistic treatment that wicked drug companies have sold to credible doctors for their own greedy ends.

The inescapable fact is that Tamoxifen is known to cause blood clots, strokes, cataracts, hot flashes, headaches, fatigue, nausea, vomiting, dryness of the vagina, itching skin, rashes and cancers of the uterus. I still have a lot to find out and a lot of questions to ask. But I sometimes feel that I will inevitably have to make a decision between a disease that may kill me and a drug that may kill me.

The thing that really gets to me sometimes is that a few months ago I was told that Mr Hadjiminas had completely removed the tumour from my breast. The more I learn the greater seem the risks associated with what I had understood to be a ‘belt and braces’ approach.

I’m telling you all of this because you too may be feeling anxious about chemotherapy, radiotherapy or Tamoxifen. You are not alone. I will write more on the matter in the future. But even those who have studied and researched for many years disagree. We simply must do our best to inform ourselves to a point where we feel comfortable with whatever decision we take and then embrace the unknown. In the end, there are no wrong decisions.

Although the situation is disquieting, indulging worry and fret makes no positive contribution. On the contrary, it increases our stress levels. Here is a roundup of all the different techniques I have used for alleviating anxiety.

Breathing. This is obviously a good idea, yet I forget to do it. When anxiety strikes I find myself all tangled up, holding my breath or breathing out when I should be breathing in and then gasping for air. Then I remember to take a minute or two just to calm myself with controlled breathing. Count slowly to four then breathe in for a count of four. Hold your breath for a count of two. Breathe out for a count of four. Hold your breath for a count for two. Breathe in for a count of four...

Singing. No need for talent, just grab a hairbrush and put on an Abba cd. Dance around the living room warbling, wailing and screeching your head off. It creates harmonious resonance in the body and floods the lungs with oxygen. Singing in the car is a fantastic stress buster.

Crying. Don’t hold it in. Go to see a weepy movie and have a good old cry. I always keep a pocket packet of tissues in my handbag these days.

Walking. Don your trainers, or socks-n-crocs if your toes are sore, then hit the streets. Walk slowly and with a rhythmic pace. As you walk try to simply release any thoughts that come into your head. Use this simple mantra: "let go". Think l-e-t as you breathe in. Think g-o as you breathe out.

Yoga Nidra. Put some dolphin music on if that’s what floats your boat. Or Mozart. I listen to a wild soundtrack called ‘Wind and Rain’. Lie on the floor in Savasana. That is on your back with your legs apart, your arms resting palms up at about 45 degrees from your body, your neck extended and your chin tucked in slightly. Savasana literally means ‘corpse pose’. Begin to breathe regularly from your diaphragm. Close your eyes and as you breathe bring your attention to your third eye, the place between your eyebrows. Now say your Sankalpa out loud, three times. Sankalpa is something like a positive affirmation. This is my Sankalpa: “I am happy. I am healthy. I am whole. I am sexy. I am prosperous. I am loving. I am loved. I am FREE.” Next scan your body, checking for any tension or contracted muscles. Start with each finger on your right hand, the palm, the back of your hand, the forearm, the elbow, the upper arm, the shoulder, the chest, the side, the waist, the hip. Repeat on the left side. Next scan each leg from the toes upward, in turn. Scan your spine, neck scalp, ears, face and throat. Relax any areas of tenseness that you feel. Next, imagine your body to be very cold, as if standing in the snow in bare feet, then feel your body to be warm, as if sitting on a sunny terrace. Then feel your body to be very heavy, sinking into the floor. Then light as a feather, hovering above the carpet. Next, imagine yourself walking in a lovely place – somewhere that is special to you. Feel the earth beneath your feet, the breeze on your face. See the sunshine, smell the flowers. Find a comfortable rock beneath a tree with a wonderful view of your world. Now repeat your Sankalpa three times again. Bring yourself back to now by wriggling your fingers and toes and then having a lovely stretch.

Oh, there are lots of strategies but I’m tired now. That should be enough calming measures to keep you and I both sane for today. More later.

Shocks from the System

As I’m chatting to Mum on the ‘phone I am also opening my post. I stare at the letter. “Mum I’ll have to call you back. There’s something I have to deal with.”

It’s a claim notification from Bupa. Of a bill for £1,492 they have paid only £200.

I must take a moment to tell you that Bupa have been fantastic. Claim notifications arrive in my letterbox almost every day. They just pay everything and, so far, have caused me almost nil stress.

I ring Bupa up, pronto. After a long conversation and a lot of time on hold they inform me that it’s all a big mistake and that they will be paying the bill. I inform them that I have enough to do recovering from cancer without them trying to give me a heart attack as well.

Action Stations

Since Mr P so generously offered to buy my airfare to Australia I’ve started having anxiety about everything related to the possibility of actually going. Will I be able to get there for Christmas? How will I get travel insurance? Should I rent out my flat whilst I’m away? What will I do with my car? What if I never work again? Will the earth inevitably be swallowed up by a black hole?

My phone bleeps. A text from Meg:

Dear Lily I am on shamanic course. The north who’s spirit is condor, eagle. I asked my teacher, of course about the feather. And she said that this is a gift from eagle , your healed piece yr healed self, a blueprint for u 2 hold. How great is that. She was in awe. In american indian , great steps follow when an eagle feather comes . Lvx xx

That sounds like an exceptionally positive outlook to me, whatever it means. I Skype Nick in Sydney. “Honey, I’m coming home. Book tickets to Hobart and we’ll go down to visit my mum.”

After days of lethargy, suddenly I’m all action. Suddenly I'm facing the future, not the past.

I call Trailfinders. Everything is booked up but they can get me on a flight on Christmas Day. I’ll take it. I send an email to Mr P.

I hope he hasn’t changed his mind.

Free Floating Anxiety

Only four more chemos to go now.

When this all started I was overwhelmed with anxiety. “What is going to happen to me?” “How will I cope on my own?” “What will I do for money?” “Will Nick leave me if my hair all falls out?”

And, as you have read, what has happened has happened. There have been good days and dark days but I’m still here, my family and friends are still with me, Nick is still hanging in there and the world keeps on turning.

Over the years I have learned that all resentment is in the past and all fear is in the future. Right now everything is just fine.

Well, that’s the theory. It takes me a great deal of introspection and using techniques like meditation, gratitude lists, yoga and positive thinking to keep myself cognisant of right now and not spending all my time dwelling in the past and the future.

Like I said, I now have four more weeks of chemotherapy, then a month break and then three weeks of radiotherapy. In other words, I’m halfway through my treatment. So now I’ve started tormenting myself with a new set of anxieties. “How am I going to get my life back together?” “Will I ever work again?” ”How will I repay all the money I’ve borrowed?” “What if the cancer comes back?” “Will Nick and I have grown too far apart after not having seen one another for seven months?” Before I know it I find myself old and alone, surrounded by piles of unread newspapers, opening a tin of cat-food for dinner.

I take some deep breaths.* The crazy voice in my head insists that, because I don’t know what is going to happen in the future it will inevitably be the worst possible scenario. I think it through. So I want to know what is going to happen tomorrow. And I want to know what is going to happen next month. And I want to know what is going to happen in three months time. If I follow that through to it’s logical conclusion then I will need to know what is going to happen every day for the rest of my life in order to feel secure.

That’s just nuts.

* Here is a simple technique that you can do anywhere. Cross your hands over the centre of your chest, between your breasts. Breathe slowly and regularly in and out through your nose. Close your eyes and imagine the breath filling your heart. Just take a few minutes until you feel a gentle smile creep across your face.