Next stop for the medical travelator today, is day oncology for my first dose of chemotherapy.
Always great to have a bit of chemo to start your day, or ‘health nectar’ as I like to call it. Of course I’m a little, anxious and it seems surreal that I’m back here again.

The brave man is with me. He squeezes my hand and reminds me that this is my first day of getting better again. The troops are on their way in with fresh juice, magazines and coffee. Believe it or not, but it’s quite the social gathering. There’s nothing like a bit of a chin wag with your girlfriends whilst 2 litres of lethal chemicals are being transfused into your body.

As I see the familiar faces of the oncology nurses, I get lots of hugs and kind smiles my anxiety drifts away.

The troops arrive and it’s so lovely to catch up and feel the love and support around me. I’m so caught up in conversation that I don’t even feel Nurse Jo put the needle into my chest to hook me up.

As I watch Nurse Jo getting organised, I think to myself, “Isn’t it reassuring to see her holding the IV bag, (that’s about to be transfused into my body) wearing industrial goggles, rubber gloves and a lead lined apron. This stuff is one lethal weapon!”

Speaking of the nurses in oncology, who can only be described as amazing angels. They are so kind and gentle that they even make the word suppository sound like a calming Buddhist meditation. It takes an extraordinary person to be an oncology nurse.

So I was excited to have my little god daughter come to visit me. She’s only two and with eyes as big as saucers she stares at the goings on, so much to take in with the busy nurses, sick patients and the beeping machines. She sits on my lap quiet as a mouse, cuddly like a koala and warm as a wheat pack.

As I’m getting koala cuddles, a new face comes over. A nurse I hadn’t seen before looks adoringly at Dusty, “so…….… is this your granddaughter?”

Immediately I ask myself, “have I just had the chemo injected directly into my brain and did this woman just ask me what I thought she just asked me? Do I really look that old?“

Oh god, if she thinks I look old now, imagine what she’s going to say to me when my hair falls out?? She’ll see my brave man and commend him for turning up to visit his mum!

Suffice to say, she didn’t hang around for too long when she realised her faux pas. Note to self ….. Telling someone they look old when they’re having chemo is probably not the best way to make them feel better or boost their self-esteem!

After a few hours I’m done and back on the medical travelator for the next stop…… hospital for one more night then home.

I lie in bed and wait for the ‘health nectar’ to work its magic!

Just when I promised that I would grow ‘Princess Hair’ for her, I have to break the news that she’ll have to wait a little longer.

You just want to protect your child from everything bad in the world, but sometimes it’s impossible.

We’ve told her as much as she needs to know, reassurance is always the key.

Me: “So mummy has to have treatment again and her hair will fall out”

Sienna: “Ohhhh, “

Thinking….thinking….

Sienna: “What’s cancer”

Me: “It’s like a bug in your body, that makes you sick”

Sienna: “Is it the same bug the Tiffy swallowed when she did the half marathon”?

Me: “Um, no not that kind of bug”

Sienna: “Is it like the Lady Who Swallowed the Fly?”

Me: “Not that kind of bug either”

Sienna: “Why does your hair have to fall out?”

Me: “It’s just what this medicine does, but it will make mummy better”

Sienna: “Can I watch TV?”

Me thinking to myself…..

“I love normality”

So now for the plan. The hardest part is being ‘told’, once you have ‘the plan’ things start to get a little easier. My oncologist, a lovely man, not that you’d wish to have a close relationship with your Oncologist, as it can only mean one thing….. you are seeing him waaaayyy toooo much! Anyway, I like to refer to him as my ‘Health Stylist’, just doesn’t sound as scary as Oncologist plus it makes me sound groovy.

So let me introduce you to my ‘Health Stylist’, his name is Gary which of course is the same name as my ‘brave man’. The fact that they both share the same name, I feel, is a good omen. I look for anything positive these days, good luck charms, four leaf clovers, symbols of hope and signs of optimism.
Every time we go in for an appointment with my Health Stylist, I’m always armed with various good luck charms and good luck processes and procedures. And now that I have been coming for so long, I have quite the collection. Last visit I counted four bracelets for each wrist, including the one Sienna made me for Mother’s Day in ELC. Three lucky bunnies stuffed in my handbag, (handpicked by Sienna) the ‘brave man’s’ hand in mine and my lucky undies. Carrying all this, whilst not stepping on the cracks in the path and watching out for black cats, can be tricky.

It won’t be long and I’ll be turning up with a Coles trolley full of ‘lucky stuff’ and it will take me about three hours just to walk across the road. Great, now I’m developing some obsessive compulsive disorder as well as cancer, can it get any worse?

So my ‘Health Stylist’ tells me that the plan is chemo every three weeks for six months, he mentions a concoction of drugs which have longer names than some of the streets we walked down in Stockholm and about as easy to pronounce. Of course, one of the side effects is that my hair will fall out again. Ho Hum, no matter how many times it’s fallen out, I still can’t get used to the Uncle Fester look.

But he also says the words, “confident, treatable, you’ll be ok”. That’s all I want to hear, hair or no hair. I give him a hug and we get on with the plan!

I don’t know what he thought was more weird,   his hat or the fact I was taking his picture from under the bed clothes?

Once your told, all hell breaks loose, but in a calm methodical way. I know that sounds strange, but things just happen and you find yourself on the medical travellator to getting better.

This time of course, everything’s far too familiar.
Had my CT scan and couldn’t believe I said hello to Noel the radiographer and asked him how his girls were. Oh my god, I know his name and I’m asking about family, what’s next, “Will you be Sienna’s fairy god father?”
Thankfully most of the hospital staff don’t recognise me with hair, so there’s not a lot of those awkward moments of, “Ohhhummm you’re back.”

Today is my liver biopsy, someone mentioned that word “mutate”. They have to make sure I have the same cancer as before in order to start on the right treatment. I don’t know what I’m more horrified about, a different cancer, a liver biopsy or the word mutate. Can’t they use nice words like, the cancer might have “rainbowed” into a different type.
The brave man is allowed to come in with me while I have the biopsy, just looking at his reassuring eyes takes the pain away, that and the brain sedative the doctor gave me.
I know I’m sounding flippant, but it’s called coping mechanism.

Action stations aren’t just limited to medical staff. Faintly I hear the soft beeps of friends texting Gary, “What can I do”, “I’ll get Sienna”, “I’m doing lunches”, “Here’s some new nighties”. (No not for Gary)The troops are coming and I feel good.

How does a husband tell a wife the cancer has come back a third time?
I was sitting in my hospital bed, my husband walks in with his unwaivering look of fierce protection, he pulls the chair in close to me and holds my hand. I close my eyes. I know what he’s going to say, I squeeze his hand tighter. As I watch the tears fill his eyes, I think of my baby, my little fairy who’s spent most of her six years with a sick mum. I’m too scared to open my eyes because then I know it’s real. It’s happening again. The brave man tells me it’s going to be OK and I believe him.