‘I am a mummy. I am a step-mum “Emma”. I am a partner. I am a daughter and granddaughter. I am a Head of School. I am a masters student. I am a cancer patient.’ In this blog, Emma writes about her cervical cancer diagnosis and treatment as she reflects on her journey.

Diagnosis

The call came on Tuesday of October half term. James and I had assigned this day as ours. We sat on the sofa, musing over what takeaway to order for lunch and deciding what movie/ show we were going to devour in our 6 hours of uninterrupted bliss. I didn’t answer. It was an unknown number. Then I googled it and immediately called back: it was St Hilier hospital. It took a while to connect me with the right person and when I did they said “Emma, you have missed an appointment, can you come in today to discuss the results of your coloscopy? Will someone be with you?.” In that moment I knew.  

Mr. Ali, a lovely man with a manner most befitting for delivering bad news met with us. There was a specialist nurse in tow. I didn’t need to hear the words. I knew. I was told I had early stage cervical cancer also known as CIN3 with microaggressions. I was informed on the next steps. A LLETZ procedure performed within the next couple of weeks. The urgency with which Mr. Ali booked it in raised suspicions in my mind that all might not be as he said. He moved things around in his diary. I had become a priority. I was grateful and scared. 

The day of the LLETZ meant no food and no drink. Anyone who vaguely knows me, knows this in itself is a challenge. Various people headed in and out of surgery. I waited. I was told there was a delay. Someone wasn’t doing very well in surgery. I felt for them. I waited until 5pm, everyone else had left. A kind nurse came to confirm that they wouldn’t be performing my procedure today. But they would tomorrow. I was grateful and scared. 

The procedure went ahead. It was the first time I had been under anaesthetic. Mr. Ali was there when I woke up. My brain was a blur but the news was not. The cancer had spread. He was not able to remove the cells. There was a follow up MRI within a week. I was grateful and scared. The radiographers couldn’t give me eye contact once I emerged from the machine. I wanted to tell them I already knew. 

This wasn’t the only difficult thing going on in my life at the time, my beloved Grandad had passed away. When the day of my granddad’s funeral arrived I was to do a eulogy. I wanted to do it for him, inside I was broken. I was also getting anxious about some smelly discharge. The secrets we harbour when we don’t think we or those around us can take anymore, are profound.

It was an “ordinary” (most things had ceased to resemble ordinary by this point) Friday, I had dropped Ethan off at nursery and went to work. I had started bleeding. I didn’t think much of it until I started passing clots of blood and began changing pads every half an hour. I called 111. They arranged for my GP to call me back.  When the penny dropped she took immediate action. Prescribed me tranexamic acid to stop the bleeding. Called the gynaecology dept at St George’s, tried to get me an urgent appointment. They refused. I was to go to A&E. I arrived at A&E with blood dripping from me. My clothes were blood soaked. My boots stained by the lost blood; as they remain to this day as a permanent reminder.  

I was admitted and triaged relatively quickly although I was leaving pools of blood everywhere I went. The nurse wanted me to wait in the waiting room, I tried to protest, told her I had lost too much blood. I was sent anyway. Within 5 minutes I had the worse panic attack: I couldn’t feel my arms, my legs. My speech was slurred. I couldn’t keep my head up. James was there now. I kept telling him what to do if I died. 2 hours later someone from gynaecology came to see me. The bleeding was stopped. The next day I went home. Anaemic and weighed down with pills.

The next appointment with Mr. Ali confirmed a worsening prognosis. I was no longer a patient of St Hilier, I was going to be referred to the Royal Marsden. There had already been MDTs in my name. A funny coincidence as I regularly chair MDTs in my pupils’ names. I was grateful and terrified.

Treatment Plan

A very non- descript first meeting at the Royal Marsden was followed by a repeat MRI and my first PET scan. Nothing prepares you for the anxiety that having a PET scan evokes, a diagnosis tool that illuminates all your cancerous cells.

One week followed and the Consultant wanted to meet with me that day. I couldn’t, I needed James with me. I knew the news couldn’t be good. They were acting quickly, too quickly; they were fast tracking me. We met the following day, some poor Registrar who I’ve never seen since had to break the news that my cancer was aggressive, it was Stage 3, it had spread to my lymph nodes. I broke down. All I could think about was Ethan and not being there for him. I was broken. I was also angry. Angry I’d been waiting around since November for clarity, for a plan.  

The poor registrar, was replaced by Dr. Llandrolle, an international specialist in my type of cancer. She was everything and more. She offered reassurances where they had been lacking and explanations which are important to me; to any cancer patient. My cancer was still curable and there was a treatment plan to cure it. When you have a life worth living the side effects become white noise. But, boy was I taken through every possible side effect.

“We are going to move quickly now.” Were the words that stayed with me. They weren’t wrong. Before radiotherapy and chemotherapy there are a barrage of tests that you have to undergo: kidney function; CT contrast; tiny tattoos etched into you. I cried at every single appointment. I hated needles. I hated doctors. Now they were consuming my life.

Treatment

My plan: 5 x weeks of daily radiotherapy; 5 x sessions of chemotherapy weekly; 4 x sessions of brachytherapy.

Day 1 of chemotherapy fell in February half term. A nurse came over to introduce himself, “Hi, I’m Jake”, he said. My response “Hi, I’m terrified.” We weakly smiled together. He explained my chemo regime to us. It had many parts/IV bags. It would take approx 4-5 hours. Jake managed to canulate me the first time round. I didn’t really understand his jubilation until the following week, my veins no longer wanted to be canulated and it took 6 times to get a needle in. The vision of Barcaloungers and communal chemo is accurate. There we were 8 of us at a time. Chemo scared me. It still does. Talking about chemo still makes me cry. It makes me reflect on how ill I was and what I needed to do to get better.

Following chemotherapy was radiotherapy- everyday for 5 weeks- targeted lasers worked to blast away my cancer. Lying still for 15-20 mins at any one time with only your thoughts for company is a scary proposition. To do that every day for five weeks takes guts and courage. Towards the end the radiographers would make comments like: you’ve done really well. Doing well wasn’t an option. It was a life worth living. My life.

Five weeks into treatment I had some repeat scans. I called them progress scans but really they were preparation for the final part of treatment. Internal radiotherapy- also known as brachytherapy. The MRI revealed a once 5x3cm tumour was now down to 2×2 cm. I felt like I had become Dr Llandrolle’s A* pupil! She was elated at the progress and reported that my body had responded very well to treatment, better than predicted. I was elated too, but there was still cancer in my body.

I would do anything to forget the entire process of brachytherapy. I’m grateful but it was terrifying. It was an essential part of the treatment plan, the targeted radiotherapy to safeguard my future. It was entirely different to everything that had gone before. I was anaesthetised. I came around. I met the most incredible radiotherapist; she knew just the right thing to say and do to ease the rising panic. The beauty of brachytherapy was playing DJ; Stereophonics have been the soundtrack to my life and this was no different. Less than four Stereophonics songs equates to one brachytherapy session. I had four. That’s a nice amount of Kelly Jones. 

Most surreal moment award goes to: responding to a friend’s message “Can you email them, I have random tubes sticking out of my vagina.” Something we have since found highly amusing as she wanted confirmation of our holiday apartment details!

I am a mummy. I am a step-mum “Emma”. I am a partner. I am a daughter and granddaughter. I am a Head of School. I am a masters student.

I am a cancer patient.