Cancer doesn’t care that you want to go on holiday, it comes with you – and haunts you in paradise
The Sun Online's columnist wants to hear from you... the things cancer made you say, the good, the bad and the ugly
IS it too much to ask?
That for just two weeks my cancer could go on holiday?!
Lying in a French hospital at 3am staring at the same white wall I'd been staring at for the last 15 hours, I realised cancer couldn't give a flying f*** about my summer hols.
It's just 12 days, but clearly my chemo-infused body hasn't got to grips with the concept of a break.
Instead it seems to have gone nuts on the chance to pick up new bugs in a different environment.
Three months ago when doctors told me my cancer had progressed from stage 3 (not great) to stage 4 (definitely not great) I remember promising myself I would see the world.
I told my oncologist, if I was only going to live for 12 months, I wanted to make damn sure I travelled for half of it.
He politely chuckled, and told me "of course, we'll work around you".
It's only now I really understand what the chuckle REALLY meant.
Just like whiskey, chemo and holidays don't mix well either.
You’d have thought that a healthy dose of vitamin D would be just what the body ordered – but there are issues to contemplate before even leaving your front room.
When on chemo, you're at risk of something called neutropenia – no immune system to fight infection.
And so if you get an infection you might find yourself in a medical emergency and at risk of becoming septic.
There are rules that even I follow!
Lying in a French hospital at 3am staring at the same white wall I’d been staring at for the last 15 hours, I realised cancer couldn’t give a flying f*** about my summer hols
If you spike a temperature, you need to go into your nearest hospital and ensure your blood is OK.
Like all chemo patients, I carry a card that ensures there is no waiting and I get straight through into a room where my risk of further infection is reduced.
You don’t take a chance, you are admitted, pumped full of ‘"kill them all" antibiotics while waiting test results.
And even if you're blood is all OK, you're monitored to within an inch of your life.
Last Saturday night, my heart sank as my temperature crept up and up, reaching 39C.
I felt a bit feverish, but I felt OK.
We were five days into our summer hols and I knew the next few days at least would have to be put on hold for this "blip".
We chose the south of France for holiday because my husband speaks French, we have family nearby and there are lots of hospitals – with cancer experts on hand.
Yep, that last one now has to top my holiday wish list.
Having dumped the kids with their cousins, we headed to Toulon.
First impressions... French hospitals are white. Really white.
And clean and calm.
Everyone wears masks (a white one), to set off their, yep white, uniform.
We arrived, I "checked in", divulging all my personal details - mainly so they could bill me later.
I was then given a printed list of stickers and a mask to wear at ALL times, no matter how hot I get.
Having done that classic British thing of slightly shouting the fact I can't speak French, I was taken straight through for tests.
An hour later, and after some pidgin French from me, my husband Sebastien was allowed to come and talk to the doctor.
We were told: “Position vulnerable.
"Here until tomorrow minimum.
THINGS CANCER MADE ME SAY
"We take blood and cultures.
"You have antibiotics."
End of story, no questions or negotiation allowed.
I was then rigged up to drips, bloods taken and transported into a personal "box" – a large white room where any A&E patient who needs to stay overnight sleeps.
Everyone seems to get a private room here – and this is the NHS equivalent!
There seems a lot more nurses around than in the UK system and they work in twos for everything.
Vitals, bloods you name it.
They are highly skilled and highly professional and cleanliness is through the roof.
I could apparently have my chemo here in the South of France if I got permission from my consultant in England
Anyone who sees me (or any other patient), wears a mask, they take blood sterilising the skin so much before, it’s surreal.
The nurses can access my chemo port immaculately, and they all seem a lot less stressed.
It could also be that patients don’t ask questions because they trust the system.
I was put on hunger strike,or “St Tropez detox”, why I don’t know?
It’s not the culture to ask.
People just come, run tests, inject you, and you oblige.
With fluent speaking husband at my side, I ask a barrage of questions to my nurses ten hours into the ordeal:
- What’s the plan?
- Am I here overnight for sure?
- Do you have my bloods back yet?
- Am I neutropenic?
- What’s the antibiotic called I’m on?”
They stared at me as though I was mad – why on earth would I want to know my blood results?
After what felt like hours discussing it in broken French-English mix, we finally see the doctor.
He tells me it could take FIVE DAYS to clear, the thought of having to spend five days starring at the white walls almost tipped me over the edge.
Thankfully, it was just an overnight stay.
And discharge was the most efficient thing I've ever seen.
My notes read like a Formula One race analysis – unbeknown to me, despite the lack of communication and bed-side love – I have been through more than 40 tests and been reviewed (on paper) by ten doctors including bowel cancer specialists in last 24 hours.
As I leave, a kind nurse in pidgin English explains that I could apparently have my chemo here if I got permission from my consultant in England.
So we immediately drive home via a vineyard first to celebrate my release and then pop into the local estate agent.
Behind the Scars
Cancer is not sexy.
Your body undergoes a battering and at the worst of times you don’t recognise yourself when you look in the mirror.
I just want to share some fab photos with you this week from a project celebrating the beauty, stories and struggles behind our scars. #Bodypositive #behindthescars
#Cockoffcancer
Cancer really needs a bloody holiday this week – please get the memo, get my temperature under control, stop my cough and allow me to enjoy the Wilderness Festival this weekend!
Come Join the I’d love to hear from you about #thethingscancermademesay.
Tell me your journey, show off your scars, share what keeps you smiling, or how you are giving two fat fingers to cancer (or anything else for that matter!)
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